“Mister Gustin, let’s get down to business. I want to know why you believe you were justified in killing all those people. We’ve heard your story about the first two you killed, but now I’d like to talk about the next thing you did. You could have surrendered, but instead you sought out more patrol cars and killed some of the officers driving them.”
“Do you happen to recall what happened when I tried to surrender at the roadblock incident?”
“That was after you had openly declared war. Before you did that, you could have driven to another jurisdiction to surrender if you feared being shot on sight in Forest Hill. So what made you feel you had a right to declare war instead?”
“They committed the first act of war in their attack against me. I merely reciprocated.”
“You’re talking about the act of one officer, two at most.”
“You can’t separate them. Every time an officer does something like this, they’re backed by every other officer, even when everyone knows they’re guilty. After the first incident, the rest of them were coming after me, but they weren’t coming after the ones who attacked me. Like it or not, they were all in this together.”
“So you feel that gave you a right to shoot anyone with a police uniform, is that correct?”
“When a foreign army attacks, we don’t deal with them case-by-case. We shoot anyone who wears the wrong uniform. Police all wear the same uniform, they’re all under the same command, and they’re all on the same side. Against us.”
“So your position is that because of one man’s actions, that the Forest Hill Police Department became an attacking army?”
“My position is this. There is, in fact, a war between citizens and police going on. It’s a shooting war, and it wasn’t started by us. The only thing I did differently was to treat it like one.”
“It sounds as if it’s become pretty easy for you to think of them all as monsters. Do you really think we’d be better off without them?”
“I think that police are a necessary evil that’s becoming more evil and less necessary all the time. But let’s try an experiment to see if I’m wrong.” Randy motioned toward the large group of police officers sitting in the rows behind the prosecutor’s table. “I will recant my case and change my plea to guilty if just one of the officers in this room will do one thing, and that is to stand up and state, as their opinion, that Troy Meade is a murderer. This is a serious offer, and it’s not a hard position to justify. The Snohomish County Prosecutor even said so.”
Randy waited, and all the spectators in the room looked toward the contingent of officers. But none of them stood to take him up on his offer, including Robin.
“The reason none of them will take me up on this is because, in their minds, there’s no such thing as an unjustified shooting of a citizen by a cop,” Randy said. “But don’t say I never made you an offer.”
The prosecutor fired back his retort. “No offer would be necessary if you had only stopped shooting officers after defending yourself, assuming it really happened that way.”
“Therein lies problem number two. You see, you’re on their side, not mine. And the same system that lets murdering cops off the hook will screw over a citizen who shoots one however it has to.”
“Really? Did you forget that Troy Meade was charged with murder?”
“No, I didn’t forget, but recall the chronology of what happened. At first, after the killing of Niles Meservey, the prosecutor in Snohomish County wasn’t going to charge him with anything. The public reaction to that was ‘what the hell?’ Then the prosecutor charged him with manslaughter. The public reaction to that was, ‘excuse me, manslaughter?’ After that he finally filed a charge of second degree murder.”
“And that doesn’t please you?”
“Well, we know from that course of events that he wasn’t excited about charging Meade to begin with. So the next question is, how hard would it be for a friendly prosecutor to help stack the jury in favor of the defense, or otherwise botch his own case?”
“And your point is?”
“My point is that justice and accountability only apply to citizens. Cops get a free pass no matter what they do, even when people die, and there’s always some kind of way to make that happen.”
“You forget that Meade was fired from his job.”
“That’s correct, he was fired. Ian Birk lost his job too. I’ve been there, and I feel for them. You see, I myself was once fired, so I know what it’s like. But I was fired for misreading a blueprint. To think that I could get a job as a cop, needlessly end somebody’s life with a gun, and get exactly the same penalty. Tell me, is that what would have happened to Zachary Simmons if he’d succeeded in murdering me? Would my wife have had to accept that as justice, like the families of Niles Meservey and John T. Williams did? This is how it happens when a cop commits murder. The family gets a settlement, the cop possibly gets fired, but criminal liability is out of the question because in your eyes, the right of a cop to gun down a citizen must always be vindicated.”
“And what has this to do with how you yourself are being treated by the system?”
“Not a thing. You’ve pulled all the stops out to make sure I go to the chair, like I always knew you would. Losing a job or paying a settlement isn’t going to be accepted as justice in my case, is it?”
“It most assuredly is not.”
“And there we have it. So what exactly would be the point of surrendering, when I can opt to go out making a nice loud statement about who’s right and who’s wrong?”
“For one, you’d live.”
“Assuming I didn’t go to the chair for defending myself, yes, I’d live. As your favorite zoo animal either until I die, or I’m too old to ever be a threat again. If you want people in my shoes to surrender, you’ll have to do better.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do better for someone who considered himself to be at war with us.”
“I’ve got news for you. Right at this moment, I’m giving the system a fair chance to get this right. But as soon as it fails to do so, which I know it will, then we’re still at war.”
* * *
The time came for closing arguments. The prosecutor stood first and approached the jury. He went on much as Randy had expected, calling him delusional in his views and justifications, and pouring it on about how he had brought the whole situation about himself. He finished with photo handouts of all the officers Randy had killed, and their caskets.
When Randy’s turn came, he told the jury about Arnold McCaslin, and how any of them or any of their loved ones could be the next such person. He then read to them the names of all the people who had been killed by law enforcement over recent years, naming only the people whom most would agree the cops had no business shooting. Then Randy pointed out that even if all of his own shootings were unjustified, the cops were still way ahead in that department.
The jury retired and spent close to four days deliberating. It was a torturous time for Elena, who worried and wrung her hands nonstop. Randy was quite a bit more assured of the outcome. He wasn’t happy about it, but he saw no reason for fretting.
Finally they were all called back into court for the verdict. They began with the two charges for the killings of Zachary Simmons and Sylvester Frawley, and Randy almost fell out of his chair when they announced he was not guilty of murdering those two. In the chair behind him, Elena clapped and was giddy with hope. Randy knew better though, and he was right. The jury found him guilty of murder for each of the other twenty-seven officers who were killed, and the maiming of Robin Frisk. Elena began to crumple as she listened, but Randy only turned and gave her a smile. We already knew this, that smile said.
The judge set a date for sentencing and adjourned the court. The deputy who was escorting Randy began to wheel him toward the side exit, as everyone else began to filter toward the main entrance. Another deputy was wheeling Robin Frisk toward the front entrance, and Randy and Robin traded a solemn glance on the way past
each other. .
Near the doors, the media people clamored with questions for people. Most of the cops they spoke to expressed something along the line of an intent to celebrate.
On the way out, Robin came before the horde of reporters, and she held up her hand to be stopped. They peppered her with questions. How do you feel about the verdict? Will you be able to move on from here? Is this vindication for your department?
Robin didn’t even hear the questions. She was fighting back tears as she prepared herself for what had to be said. Her voice was broken, and sounded anything but eloquent, but her words hit the courtroom like a bomb.
“It’s my opinion,” she began, “that Troy Meade is a murderer.” The clamor was immediate and intense. The reporters hovering over her were fumbling for good follow-up questions, but she waved for her escort to push her on out the door. The cops in the room stared after her in shock, knowing perfectly well that what she had said was true, but wishing it hadn’t been spoken aloud by someone in uniform. Especially at this time.
Near the side exit, Randy heard what she said along with everyone else, and he watched the scene intently. The deputy escorting him asked, “What you thinking right now?”
Randy had heard the pain in Robin’s voice as she had said those words. This had been some very hard-won progress, but that’s what it was. Progress.
“I’m thinking, just maybe this wasn’t all for nothing,” he replied.
Chapter 19
Of Endings And New Beginnings
Death row didn’t seem like such a bad place once you got used to it. There wasn’t a whole lot to do, but at least it was relatively quiet, compared to the rest of the prison anyhow.
After his sentencing, (death, as if there had ever been any question) Randy had gone to the state prison in Monroe, which was only about a ten-mile drive north from Forest Hill. That was pretty fortunate for Elena. They had checked him in, given him his prison clothes, and taken him to the capital punishment wing, aka Death Row. There he was introduced to Captain Earl Foster, the man who ran that wing. Foster was an older man, with short white hair and a white moustache, but he was pretty built for his age too. He was a pleasant enough man, but businesslike. He brought Randy into his office at the end of the cell block, and had the guards wait outside.
“Please have a seat,” he told Randy, and they sat down for what Randy assumed would be his Bridge On The River Kwai welcome speech. “My name is Earl Foster, and I’m the commanding officer of this section of the prison. You’re not the first celebrity we’ve had here.” That was a fact. “I want you to know that your reasons for being here will not affect how you are treated. We get the worst of the worst, and accepting that is part of our job. The odds are that you and our staff here are going to be acquainted for a long time while your case goes through the appeal process, so we want to get things off on the right foot.”
“There won’t be any appeals,” Randy said.
“People win on appeal all the time. You sure about that?”
“One day in court is all I wanted.”
“Well, that is between you and the courts. But to finish what I was saying, we like things quiet and calm here. As a professional courtesy, I want you to know that our staff will not treat you badly. They will do their part to make your stay comfortable, and all we ask in return is that you do your part not to make their jobs troublesome.”
Randy nodded. The man had a likeable personality that was hard to say no to. But at the same time, his business was not yet concluded. “Sir, I’m grateful for the welcome. But at the same time, you are no doubt aware that I suspended my hostilities against the system in order to give it a chance to fix the things it did wrong. It failed to do so. You’re part of the same system, and your purpose here is finish the job of putting me to sleep, so let’s not pretend to be friends. As a professional courtesy, I need to inform you that hostilities have resumed.”
Earl’s face showed clear disappointment. This wasn’t how he wanted things to be, but that’s what he had to work with. “Very well Mister Gustin, we can do it that way too. Violent inmates are something we have a lot of practice contending with.” He pushed a button on his desk, and two enormous prison guards stepped inside the door.
“I’ll promise to be peaceful until I’m shown to my cell,” Randy said. “After that, keep your guard up.” The way he struggled to his feet with the help of his walker made that warning look a little on the empty side. But at the same time, Earl noted, he said it like he meant it.
* * *
That had been many months ago. Since then things had settled into a more or less comfortable routine, and there were even things to look forward to. For one, Elena was coming today, as she did every week. That kept Randy from seriously considering trying to make good on the promise he had made when he arrived. Losing Elena’s visits would be losing the very last thing he had to live for, so he played it civil. Up to a point anyhow.
Randy was trying to get some writing done, and it wasn’t easy. Pens and paper were for Stone Age people. He’d have sold his soul for a keyboard and a screen to work with, anything at all. This manually-applied-font nonsense was just plain barbarism, but he had to make do. There was still work to be accomplished.
He wasn’t sure what it was he was working on, at least not precisely. He knew that he still had some things to say to the world, so he put those ideas down, and tried to keep some order to them. He’d know what to do with them when the time came.
Dale Arbogast came to the door of Randy’s cell with his lunch. He was perhaps the beefiest guard in the prison. One of the beefiest guys Randy had ever seen, to tell the truth. “Lunch, mister Gustin,” he said as he set the tray on the shelf in the cell door. Randy said nothing. He’d eat the food because he had to eat, and he’d wear the clothes because he had to wear something, but he wouldn’t so much as talk to them unnecessarily. They were still enemies.
“What’cha working on? Still won’t tell me?” Dale showed the professional courtesy that was required of him, but underneath it seemed like he was always waiting for the chance to bust somebody’s chops. “Should I maybe come in and see for myself?”
That got a reaction, as much of one as they could get from Randy anyhow. He stared out the door at the man with a simple look that said Buddy, I wouldn’t. Dale cracked a smile in return, one that said I could if I wanted to. And you couldn’t stop me.
Randy knew he could only get one more of them at best. He had an idea that when the time came to make good on his promise, he knew who to call on.
* * *
“I don’t want to seem like I don’t appreciate all they’ve done,” Elena said through the phone, from the other side of the glass in the visiting booth. “They’ve done so much to help. Vince has been especially great. He’s fixed everything the cops broke, and a bunch of other stuff that’s broke since then too.”
Elena was talking about their circle of friends, most of whom coagulated at Bourbon Street. They had all been very concerned about Elena’s ability to handle life on her own with no one looking after her, so they had been taking turns staying in their motor home on the property, so she wouldn’t be left alone there. Their willingness to keep an eye on her had been a tremendous source of relief for Randy.
“So what’s the matter then?” he asked her.
“They’re not really helping anymore. I’ve got it all under control, and the motor home has pretty much turned into the neighborhood party house. I kind of want the place to myself again.”
Randy was still nervous about her being alone there. He had always feared that after the life she had suffered through before meeting him, she would never really achieve independence. But she wanted it now, and he could never stop worrying until she had it.
“Vince is coming by tomorrow,” he told her. “I’ll talk to him, and let him do the evicting so you don’t have to.”
“No, I can do it,” she replied. “I don’t want to seem like I’m not really grateful.” R
andy began to feel that his task of saving her might really be completed now. “So how they treating you here? That dickhead guard still giving you trouble?”
“It’s not that bad. Just the old game of keeping the inmates in their place. But that Veronica chick is a slightly different matter. I think she’s one of those twisted bitches who’s turned on by the idea of fucking people who are about to die.” Randy was referring to the one female guard who worked this wing. She was a dark-haired fortysomething who looked her age, but in a perfectly doable kind of way.
Elena didn’t see the humor in that at all. She started seething. “I swear to fucking God if she touches you…”
“Calm yourself!” Randy mentally kicked himself for not knowing better than to make a crack like that. One of those traits shared by most or all Spanish women was completely insane levels of jealousy. “I promise you, she knows better than to walk in here by herself. They all do,” he told her.
“Would you really do it?”
Randy shrugged. “They’re getting ready to kill me, aren’t they?”
* * *
Before she left, Elena dropped off some writing supplies for Randy at the front desk. She had asked Randy why he wanted her to pick them up for him, since they gave inmates writing supplies for free. His answer was simply that he wanted nothing from them. Being in conflict as they were, there would be no favors asked. And when the time came, none given. Before they finished him off, he fully intended to get one more.
That was where he stood in principle at least. He was pretty familiar now with how it felt to have lost his own life, and his desire to inflict that feeling on others wasn’t what it used to be. Randy wasn’t dead yet, but this was certainly no life. He worked on his writings, he traded barbs with the guards, and he waited for Elena’s visits. She was his only real link to the life he once had. She told him about that life when she came to visit. It was still there, just a short drive away. The home, the cats, the job, and the friends. All that was missing from the scene was him, because he was here in this place. Everything was gone but the visits, and the news.
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