In the Case of Al Capone

(Regarding the trial of Alphonse "Scarface Al" Capone from a fictional character's perspective.)

October 5, 1961

8:47 PM

Federal Courthouse Parking Lot

Downtown Chicago

"Not guilty . . ." Miles Pember muttered to himself for the hundredth time that day, not quite believing the words. He ran his clammy fingers through his slicked, grayed-brown hair, disheveling the smoothed bangs and furthering his anxiety. He let his arm drop back to his side. "Not guilty . . ."

A few cars in the courthouse parking lot started up, headlights gleaming on the paved concrete. They drove past without hesitation. They had no idea. No worldly idea.

Grimacing, Miles Pember sunk deeper into his vehicle's leather seat, trying to ease his mind's turmoil. "Al . . . he's . . ." Guilty. Undeniably, unfathomably guilty. The man's blue eyes nearly popped from their sockets, the shock of the storm. A bolt of terror forced him to grip the steering wheel for purchase. His heart was racing. "Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty . . ."

Someone's insistent rapping on his window startled Miles into a choking halt. He didn't have a gun on him anymore. I-it's the Five Points — Outfit — they know — he knows I-I — I'm done for! The secretly predetermined jury member whipped his head to face the leering gaze of the dangerous gangster peering through his glass . . . to face the concerned expression of a police officer instead. Another tremor failed to subside.

"S-sir," the driver managed once he laboriously rolled down the barrier using his trembling limb, "can I do you anything?"

The uniformed male gave him an unimpressed smile. "That's my line. Visitors are prohibited from loitering. Get out or get in; you've been sitting in this car for over half an hour."

There was no way he would be able to drive in his state. Was it really that long? "Sorry, sir; I'm sorry. I-I'll do that. S-sorry." His hands found the wheel again, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles paled. He wasn't sure if he could move his legs properly.

"Is something wrong with you?" said the officer, furrowing his brows. "What's your name?"

"Mi-miles . . ." he responded with reluctance. "Miles Pember, sir. I swear; I don't mean to loiter. I'm a bit shaken, is all. I mean — I'll be fine, sir. T-thank you."

Chuckling lowly, the professional gave him a sly grin. "Ah, you're one of the new guys for the jury. Most of your lot is acting a trifle different. Not that stoked for Al's slamming, are you, Pember?"

Miles felt his blood run cold, thoughts threatening to spill out in a tsunami once more. "I . . . have the right to remain silent." He might as well have been silent considering how weak his words were. One confession from me is all it takes. To ruin, to . . . to redeem. I can't blow it.

"Until the evidence is on the table, you mean," the policeman said and nodded. "Even without the trial, we all know what Al Capone's capable of. Don't you worry, Pember. Tell the truth out there. He won't be running off this time."

"I should be going, sir . . ."

He cackled, a knowing hint on his features. "If you stayed any longer, I'd need to check your identification. Be safe, Pember. A good night to you."

Miles Pember waited until the other removed himself from his parking spot before he attempted to start up his car. His brain threatened to drop him into panic again, but he withheld, set on forgetting about the past and inevitable future and instead pushed it to the furthest part of his mind.

Once he began driving, he didn't even think about the cause of his worries.

Not until he arrived at his hotel.

Al Capone was all over the news.

October 6, 1961

7:48 AM

Federal Courthouse Lobby

Downtown Chicago

Miles Pember didn't think it were possible for so many people to share in his struggle. He barely thought it at all when he was sitting in the car, catching his breath, and he certainly didn't think it now.

He was resting in the courthouse's lobby, a hand over his chest and eyes dark with dread. The night before was filled with a raging guilt and fear. He mentally went over the entire event against his will, over and over and over again.

In the year of 1929, Chicago felt the brunt of the Outfit's forces. Led by Al Capone, the gang ravaged away the lives of seven men by gunshot, one after another in a bloody strike of anti-love. It was gang versus gang, pitted hatred in the event of a last Valentine's message, sent without a greeting card.

Miles Pember didn't know for sure what caused him to visit the massacre at the time of its happening. The commotion could have been enticing in the face of his measly ten-year-old life. The crime might have awoken in him a desire to follow along in his father's footsteps as a reporter. Or the screams and gunshots might have resembled the carefree sounds of exploding fireworks over an excited crowd.

Anyway, all that mattered was that his feet had moved and his eyes had seen what he would never have the hope to forget.

February 14, 1929

Around 11:30 AM

Lincoln Park Warehouse

Chicago

The police were swarming still, an hour after the unleashed horrors began to unfold. Members of the Chicago Outfit were spotted acting as the police themselves, barging into the Dickens and Clark warehouse and sentencing its temporary inhabitants to a horrid fate by unjust hands.

Ten-year-old Miles was witness to the chilling sight, having found a spot in the bushes to peer into a crack in the wall. Every man was lined up in submission, standing with their backs turned, hands in the air as each of them was shot right down again. A scream, a splat, a smash, a blood-curdling mixture of all three, followed by the occasional cold-hearted comment or macabre laugh.

Miles had crumpled into a shivering ball on his knees, echoes of the Outfit's unbearable cruelty possessing his innocent mind far into the rest of that hour. He didn't move from the spot. He hadn't since.

Now the real police couldn't keep their composure after facing the lingering destruction. Scarlet streaks puddled underneath limp heads, chairs tossed aside in a fear-driven haste, bodies strewn along the paved floor like morbid dominos, the lackadaisical details of a true performance of depravity.

When the first officer found him hiding and dragged him to his feet, Miles was sobbing and yelling for mercy. There was no energy left for anything else than to plead.

He had known that they were not the same police that attacked the members inside, but his instinct left him to the whims of his trauma. Unluckily, the inspecting force decided to take his name that day before escorting him home.

October 6, 1961

8:09 AM

Federal Courthouse Lobby

Downtown Chicago

At the age of forty-two, knowing the crimes of Bugs Moran's Northside gang and the less than complimentary actions of Al Capone's own Southside, Miles Pember hadn't an ounce of satisfaction. What Al Capone did after knowing the outcome of his mission enacted worse things upon his reputation and shattered the rest of Miles Pember's hope.

The name that the police took from him leaked. Someone told Al Capone that Miles saw the Saint Valentine's massacre all those years ago. They found him in such a quick increment of time that his family was forced to pay ransom for Miles' and their safety.

When Miles Pember's father found out what had happened to connect his son to Al Capone's gang, he was devastated. The seasoned reporter found no way to stop the constant blackmailing that didn't involve a very graphic second massacre, and so he threw Miles into the streets to fend for himself once the boy's age was ripe enough for him to survive.

You'll be safer on your own, his father had told him. And we've held you dear for long enough.

He was given nothing but the clothes on his back and a one-way ticket to a train heading for Massachusetts. But that was about the same feeling as being sent to the streets.

From what Miles knew, the Outfit didn't bother his birth family after that. In fact, after Miles found a job and a small place to live in the city of his choice, the gangsters seemed to have forgotten about him.

Miles Pember lived away from Chicago, distanced from everything he had ever known but his memories. His dream of becoming a reporter like his dad was crushed with his ruined past. He turned to working as a humble clerk at a Boston bookstore, exchanging stories without voicing Al Capone's precarious game.

He used to get lost in the worlds authors created, worlds separate from his life. And for the lengthiest few years, the only reminder of his severed childhood came when a news article depicted Al Capone as Public Enemy Number One.

Or whenever he lied alone at night and remembered the way his mother used to hold him.

Despite his supposed disappearance from Chicago when he was eighteen, the Outfit visited Miles' apartment once Al Capone's tax evasion case came into play. After everything the man had done, the most the government could do was place a legal strike on Capone for something so simple as not paying income tax. Justice was well overdue.

Considering even that, Al Capone managed to provide his inexcusable lackeys with enough planned instruction that specified jurors were pulled from the city, each with ties to the gang or a bendable will. He heard that some evaded their imposed duty or managed to leave Chicago without a traceable route. After his tedious effort, Miles Pember was among the unlucky few that didn't.

How did you find me?

The Outfit members were harsh, smiling at his ignorance. We've been watching you since you watched us. Ya' think you're smart, huh? Trains have eyes! We have eyes. Al's gonna have you and your Chicago fam' torn to bits real soon.

No! P-please! What do you want? I haven't done anything, I swear! I'll k-keep my mouth shut!

Sure ya' will, if you wanna live. Hear 'bout the trial?

Y-yes.

Al Capone's goin' to have his case opened. We've got too much evidence to take care of and you're on his hit list, get it?

I won't testify against him! I-I won't even go to Chicago!

Shut your trap, boy. You'll get what's comin' to ya'. The man then slugged Miles across the cheek.

Miles remembered crying. In the courthouse lobby, people began staring at him while he held back the memory of those tears. Glancing up at an analogue clock on the wall, he released the tension in his jaw. He had been grinding his teeth.

October 6, 1961

8:23 AM

Federal Courthouse Lobby

Downtown Chicago

The male sighed, rubbing his temples. A pressure churned heavily in his chest, a bogging weight, so he stood to relieve himself before he and the other jurors were admitted into the courtroom. Everyone he passed either looked dull, stressed, or profusely demented. Miles was able to relate.

Click. The restroom door locked in front of him, barely a foot away. In his musings, the man missed seeing someone else go in.

You'll go to Chicago, alright. And when ya' do, you'll tell 'em all in court how Al's a good payin' man. You make 'em believe ya'.

What . . .? Ah! Smack. Miles was shoved against the wall of his makeshift home, his heart pounding, sweat beading, eyes growing wide and wider.

Miles leaned up against the wall of the courthouse's lobby, relentlessly tapping his foot beside the occupied restroom door. Somebody turned on a fan beside their seat beyond the hall. His breathing became unsteady. His mind wouldn't stop.

You're set to join the jury next week, ya' mutt. We'll be watchin'. If ya' slip, we've got some insurance, hear?

His family was in danger.

His family is still in danger.

Scarface wants ya' there, boy. Get yourself o'er there.

He was over there. Over here.

"Sir?"

Miles flinched, gasping at the man standing before him.

"Uh, pardon!" said the juror. "I . . . finished, that's all."

"Oh. Oh . . ." he responded, glancing at the open stall. "Thank you very much."

October 6, 1961

8:35 AM

Federal Courtroom

Downtown Chicago

Al Capone was sitting at the defence, hair primped, expensive suit without a speck of dirt to sully his image. He was so close that Miles could walk over and touch him if he wanted to.

And if his legs would work. For the unnumbered time that week, Miles found himself incompetent of doing anything but processing his oxygen. That on its own was extremely difficult.

The seats in the jury's portion were filled with a tensed crowd of over thirty predetermined figures, each with a prepared story or undying loyalty to the idea of Al's impossible innocence.

Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty . . .

The judge had yet to arrive. Words were exchanged lowly by the people around him.

Al Capone is not guilty of murder, of illegal trading, of cruelty, of tax evasion . . .

Licking his lips, the defendant smirked evilly at the gathering, easily confident with his unspoken fortune.

. . . of threatening the innocent, of stealing, o-of . . . guilty . . .

The doors to the courtroom swung open suddenly. Everyone turned.

"It's Judge Wilkerson," the member next to Miles muttered.

Likewise, the judge made his way up to his bench. The courtroom went immediately quiet. Wilkerson was composed and natural, looking over the packed scene with a general ease.

He ordered the bailiff over.

Then he said, "Judge Edwards has another trial commencing today. Go to his courtroom and bring me his entire panel of jurors; take my entire panel to Judge Edwards."

What? Miles couldn't believe his ears. He didn't dare smile. After all this? Are we really leaving?

Al Capone appeared absolutely helpless. The criminal's visage took on the embodiment of consternation and wrath, mixed in a little awe.

The bailiff began escorting the rows out of the courtroom, brilliant justice shining in his dual orbs. This was no joke. We're being saved.

Miles discovered that his legs couldn't move faster. He happily traversed the path into the lobby, freedom taking his spirits high. He didn't care one bit that they would be attending another trial. He didn't care that Al Capone's trial would last more than one day.

After finding out what Judge Wilkerson evidently did, there was no way any of them would be allowed to testify for Al Capone. They were safe.

Safe.

October 24, 1961

6:42 PM

Pember Household

Chicago

"'I'm not through fighting yet!' he says!" Miles' father laughed, patting his son heartily from behind.

Miles Pember laughed with him, beaming as he handled the newspaper in his hands. The headlines were nonstop talking about Capone's sentencing. Judge Wilkerson exacted eleven years of imprisonment to guilty Scarface Al. It was the longest term for tax evasion ever inflicted on anyone in the United States.

"Yeah right!" the elder guffawed warmly. "It's about time he learn his lesson."

"I heard he's getting put in Atlanta. Better in Alcatraz. It's practically his namesake," Miles said, tipping his head at his mother, who was tearfully cooking them a meal.

"My dear Miles, you have no idea how much this means to us now that you've returned," she gushed, sniffling slightly. "We've missed you . . . It hurt me every day knowing that my son was out there alone. But that bad man left us with no choice . . . you had to disappear."

"I know, ma," he told her, folding the paper. "I understand. I was just so afraid . . . but now I don't have to be. He can't hurt us and hopefully the Outfit will disband without Al to lead them. Though I doubt it."

Miles' father's mouth stretched into a thin line. "What makes you say that?"

"It's the way of crime, pa. Evil will be here as long as there are people."

"You've become wise, son."

The younger shrugged. "I worked at a bookstore in Boston. It was inevitable."

"You know, Miles . . . it's not too late to change your occupation."

The ex-juror stared at his parent, that long familiar spark of hope igniting in him once again. "You mean . . .?"

"Miles Pember, you were born to tell stories. Don't you even think of giving that up."