Little Beasts

by Matthew McGevna

  He looked over at another photo—a vertical shot just to the left of the fence opening. He focused on a small paper bag lying in the sand. Candy wrappers were strewn just inches from it.

  David hadn’t remembered such a detail for the cops, but his mind drew a fresh replay of that day. Yes, James had tossed a brown bag to the side before he ran. Naturally it was still there, captured in the photo, the candy bars melted in their packages, nestled in the sand.

  David took the photo by the corner. He could make out the distinct wrapper of a Charleston Chew. He couldn’t possibly know, yet he sensed that the Charleston Chew was intended for Dallas. The feeling hit him like a slow wave, starting at the downward corners of his mouth and moving to his throat to the point that he had to bury his chin into his chest to keep breathing. His bottom lip trembled and he hoped Barry wouldn’t notice. He himself had been eight years old not that long ago. He could still know the mounting anticipation, the joy, of holding something like a candy bar until you were ready to rip it open. He had taken that away. He had stolen those joys that people like himself and Dallas, and his parents, and all of Turnbull, even, had come to believe were pure and attainable.

  He nearly dropped the photo. He shut his eyes and drew the image of his father coming home from work, always carrying a bag of groceries, courtesy of the night shift at the supermarket where he worked.

  Sitting in his dad’s worn-out La-Z-Boy, David would crane his neck as his father made his way down the hall to the living room. His father would sometimes yawn and just wave to David. But always, he would reach into a bag and pull out a frozen Milky Way. Toss it to his son, who would be squirming his way off the La-Z-Boy. He’d suffer at the side of his dad’s chair through the news, or sometimes, when he could tell there was nothing to talk about during commercials, David would retreat to his bedroom with his Milky Way. It prolonged his bedtime, David remembered, defrosting the chocolate bar in his mouth. They were the most spectacular candy bars he’d eaten in his entire life.

  Then one day his father stopped bringing them home. He’d said something about a new boss coming in and making them pay for everything. Or was it just that his dad grew tired of bringing home bags all the time? It didn’t matter then; it mattered now. An uneaten candy bar, an empty seat at graduation, the absence of laughter in the Darwins’ home, an unfinished college degree, a canceled wedding, an empty crib. He hadn’t just robbed the child of the pleasure of eating a candy bar; he had murdered joy itself. David turned the photo over and pushed it away.

  “They probably won’t get premeditated, but they’re definitely going to want you for second degree,” Barry said, as he gathered the photos together.

  Barry’s words pulled David from his thoughts. “I can’t have my day in court? I want to have my say,” he mumbled shakily.

  “No way in hell,” Barry said. “Defendants don’t say anything. You show up, you wear a suit; you listen to the judge when he tells you to do something and you keep your trap shut. Don’t make faces, and you don’t make eye contact with the jury.”

  “But I want to clear up all this stuff, this crap in the newspaper about me,” David said.

  “Right now you don’t even have that option. I have to see if the DA will even consider a plea bargain, so knock on wood, you’re in for a bumpy ride, pal.” Barry gathered his papers into his briefcase while David seemed to crumple in on himself on the opposite side of the table. Barry latched his briefcase shut and rubbed his eyes in tired circles.

  “It should only be oak,” David said, as Barry stopped rubbing and stared back at him. “In Native American culture the oak stood for strength and power, and children who played tree tag would only be safe if they touched an oak tree. So in America, when you knock on wood for good luck, it should only be oak.”

  Barry nodded and tried to smile but his face was tight. In the buzzing lights, David looked like a little boy waiting in the principal’s office. The way he held his arms and leaned back in his chair. The immediate trouble likely foremost on his mind, but lurking just behind the frown, a deeper misery seemed to gnaw at the corner of his thoughts. The look reminded Barry to explain about his birthday.

  “I can’t get you anything for your sixteenth,” he said. “They won’t let me pass anything to you. But for what it’s worth, happy birthday.”

  David hadn’t forgotten his birthday, but he’d lost track of the usual buildup. Those few days beforehand that inch closer with anticipation. Without those days, his birthday had suddenly arrived without warning. It was just a day. Sixteen, David thought. And only a year away from driving. He wished Barry hadn’t said anything.

  * * *

  The days were only short gaps between sleep, and before he knew it, he was tightening the knot of his tie for his court appearance. It was the first time since his father had visited him that he’d be seeing people from his community, civilians on the outside. He could only imagine the protestors and shouts, and all the angry faces in the crowd. What was that line in that book? he thought to himself, trying to remember his ninth grade English class when he’d read about some guy who’d shot a Hindu or something. On a beach. Before his execution the man thought, I hope they meet me with “howling wails of hate,” or something like that. Only David didn’t hope that at all.

  He pulled on Barry’s suit jacket. The lawyer had explained the whole proceeding to David. Gave him a whole list of do’s and don’ts, but David had already forgotten them. His hands shook. He paced about his jail cell for a few minutes before a buzz rang out and a voice echoed: “Prisoner Westwood, for transfer!”

  * * *

  When David was escorted into the courtroom in cuffs, he immediately looked up at the crowd that had packed themselves on the prosecution’s side of the room. He glanced at his side. Mostly empty seats. A few faces and some reporters.

  He saw Mr. Hopkins. He was sitting there, straight-backed and proper, his fingers joined in his lap, as though he were waiting for his soup to come. David wished he could go to him. Tell him something interesting he’d remembered while sitting in jail. The month of May had begun on a Sunday. Any month that begins that way will always have a Friday the thirteenth. But he couldn’t even whisper it to him. He was seated about a dozen rows away. Another thing incarceration had changed for David: space was extreme. A cell, when the door slammed, felt like a coffin, and the mere twenty feet between himself and Mr. Hopkins was like a day’s journey.

  He couldn’t see it in that moment, but the rows of benches bolted across the expanse were like ripples of time flowing outward into the future. Mr. Hopkins would come to visit him in prison. He would read him sections of David Copperfield, The Count of Monte Cristo. The Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times. David would ask him if these new artists were any good. He’d make Mr. Hopkins promise to go to the museums and report back. Never much of a sports fan before, he would later close his eyes and listen to every word ever written on Bill Buckner and the ’86 Red Sox. He would shake his head about the death threats. Other inmates would get to know the old man and look upon David with envious eyes, and catcall Mr. Hopkins, calling him “Hop.” He would wave back at them and shake his head. He would have a habit of calling everything he laid eyes on, including David, a “shame.” In short, he would close the distance. Make those twenty feet of benches seem like a laughable crack on time’s roadway.

  But for now, they were bolted, and David could only return the tacit nod Mr. Hopkins had given him from his quiet seat in the back of the courtroom. He scanned the benches for his parents. They were not there. A lump rose in his throat. His spine tingled, and his joints ached at the prickly realization that all eyes were on him.

  The bailiff escorted him to his seat behind a table and pushed him down into the chair. Barry took a seat next to him. David looked back over his right shoulder to scan the crowd. His heart jumped. Behind the prosecutor’s desk sat a row of parents, and the two little boys who were with Dallas that day. He suddenly remembered the gun he’d
held on the smaller one, James. He noticed how much cleaner the kid looked since the last time he’d seen him, caked with blood and dirt. How small he is, David thought. The other boy, Felix, appeared huskier and stared straight ahead, scowling. David’s eyes wandered along to Bob Cassidy. He felt a pulse of fear in his chest. Bob stared at him as though he were wishing to be locked in a room with David, just the two of them—one-on-one. David turned away. Barry noticed.

  “What did I tell you?” he whispered. “Concentrate on your own side.”

  David glanced over his left shoulder. His eyes fell on Darryl Knight, who had his arm draped across the back of the bench and was slouched down, as if visiting the ducks at the park. He grinned and nodded to David. One kid’s on my side and it’s him, David thought, remembering the night of the party. Had David been any judge of character at all? He couldn’t help but cast his mind back to all the terrible things he’d thought about Darryl, and yet, seeing him sitting leisurely on the bench while droves of people walked into the courtroom scowling, David realized this bravery of Darryl’s completely betrayed the narrative David had given him. Another miscalculation. Darryl was running toward the fire, while most in David’s life had fled. The moment was too immense and he felt ashamed. His eyes filled with tears and he looked away.

  Suddenly a loud, rakish laugh rang out on the other side of the courtroom. David watched an old man with brown tufts of hair sticking up on each side of an otherwise bald head, maneuvering his way toward the first few benches. He was carrying a pad, and he seemed to know everybody in the room. He wore a tweed suit jacket over a brown pin-striped shirt. Loose flesh gathered in rolls at his fat yellow necktie. He sat down between two officers of the court. They shook hands, and shared something. Another loud laugh rang out. The big laugh didn’t match the man’s stout body, David thought. The man acted like he was settling in at the drive-in, with popcorn on the way—chatting away with the people around him; occasionally jotting something down on his pad. He licked his pencil tip before he wrote. A person would whisper something to him, and he’d throw his head back with another booming laugh. Some people were still filing in.

  “Well, there’s your man,” whispered Barry, nudging David on the arm. “That’s Elijah Fennecker.”

  A tall man came up behind Fennecker and tapped him on the shoulder. The journalist leaned back, took the man’s hand, and laughed. His eyes finally fell on David, and when he noticed the boy staring, his smile dropped.

  The judge entered and everybody stood. He was a nerdy-looking man with brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He shuffled some papers and spoke to a woman from behind the bench.

  David listened to the charges against him, read out by the prosecutor in quick, violent barks. He stared at the prosecutor, sizing him up. David figured he must have seen a hundred murder cases, and here he was facing the judge and ringing off these charges as if for the first time in his career. Exaggerating his outrage, David thought. As if he needed to exaggerate. It made him sick to his stomach. The prosecutor went into some details of the murder and a whimper came from the other side of the room. The judge warned against emotional outbursts. The prosecutor replayed the animosity between the defendant and Bob Cassidy, one of those listed on the prosecutor’s witness list. David scanned the courtroom again. Some gave him hateful glares; Fennecker’s articles had done their damage. He wanted his sketchbook back.

  David’s mind raced. He wanted to have his say. Pleading guilty was equal to admitting the town had defeated him. He knew they hated him, but he wanted them to at least hear his voice.

  The prosecutor read the exhibits. David’s own statements while in custody. Then he itemized the witness list.

  “Matthew Milton was present at the scene and will testify that he told the defendant to let the Darwin boy go free.”

  Before or after he beat the other kid to a pulp? David thought, and shook his head. Barry leaned over and told him not to make faces.

  “Nick Darcy and Krystal Richards were also present and will verify the statements of Matthew Milton. Mr. Robert Cassidy,” the prosecutor continued, “will testify to his confrontation with the defendant the night before the murder took place. Mr. Philip Massa was present on the night of this altercation and will testify that the defendant lashed out violently at him, to seek revenge on Mr. Cassidy for the incident.”

  David heard the judge mumble something to the prosecutor. “Yes your honor,” he answered. “Character witnesses will testify to the violent and antisocial nature of the defendant. Mr. James Levgrin, a classmate of the defendant.”

  “Who?” asked David in a whisper that reached across the courtroom. Some people turned. Barry put a finger to his lips to shush him.

  “Mr. Arnold Polinski, another classmate of the defendant.”

  David looked around the room almost frantically. “I never even heard of these goddamn people, Barry,” he whispered.

  “It’s okay, just shhhh,” Barry said.

  “Mr. Albert Sigorsky is a classmate of the defendant who was present the night of the altercation with Mr. Cassidy.” Finally, a name David was familiar with. He remembered Albert at Darryl’s party. Both his hands up a freshman’s skirt.

  “Ms. Hanna D’Amico witnessed the altercation as well, and was in one of David’s classes this past school year.” David remembered the whole argument he’d had with her about Russia and the coming nuclear war. He turned around and saw Hanna sitting a few rows behind Bob Cassidy.

  “Mr. Nunzio Bartalemeo owns a local delicatessen the defendant often frequented, and in fact the murder took place just behind his establishment. He saw the defendant only moments before the crime.

  “Ms. Julia Dawson,” the prosecutor announced, and took off his glasses to clean them. David’s heart stopped. “She is the ex-girlfriend of the defendant. She will testify to the defendant’s erratic behavior, his mood swings, his violent temper . . .”

  David wheeled around to look for her and caught a shimmer of her hair in the far back corner of the courtroom. She was there beside her father, who sat with his arm around her and glanced at David with a slight scowl. Mr. Dawson looked as if he didn’t understand how this had all transpired right under his nose. He stared up at the judge, back at his daughter, and held her tightly against his side. His knee was bouncing up and down. David hoped for Julia to make some sort of eye contact, but she didn’t.

  His breathing became labored again. His eyes blurred with tears. The prosecutor moved on to the next name on the list. But David stopped listening. He tugged on Barry Levin’s arm until he got his attention.

  “I want to change my plea to guilty,” he said. “If you can get it for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  BARRY VISITED DAVID the night before his sentencing, to once again review the plea deal he’d reached with the DA. David sat in cold silence. Eight years minimum, and he’d be transferred after his eighteenth birthday to an upstate facility. He asked Barry if his parents had been told. Barry said he’d sent notice.

  “Did my father say if he’d come to the sentencing?” David asked.

  Barry took a deep breath. “The important thing for you to understand, David, is that you’ve been given a second chance to do something positive with your life. Don’t focus on all these details. Stay out of trouble when you get inside, and keep going with your education. Finish high school. Get a college degree while you’re in, so you can get a jump start on your life after prison.”

  The word “prison” sent a chill through David’s body. Barry took silent note of this, and continued: “Use these years to find yourself. Prove to the world that you’re not the person they think you are. Through your actions, not by getting on a stand and telling them. They’ve arranged for you to receive counseling while you’re in there. Take advantage of it and listen to what they have to say. This doesn’t have to be the end of your life.” The lawyer leaned back in his chair.

  David nodded solemnly. “You got the paper today?” he asked.
r />   “Don’t . . . It’s not good to read that stuff, David.”

  “I want to read the paper, did you bring it?”

  Barry took the paper out of his briefcase and slid it across to him. Then he stood up from his chair and banged on the door for the guards to lead him out. He turned when David called his name.

  “In the 1300s, a pig in France was publicly hanged for the murder of a child.”

  “You are a fount of useless information,” Barry said and smiled at him. “Look sharp for the judge. Don’t say anything. Let him speak his mind. Do this thing with dignity. I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

  The guards opened the door and Barry was gone.

  * * *

  What is this about? wrote Elijah Fennecker, after spelling out the details of what would happen in the courtroom, now just a few hours away. David sat on his low bed and read the next few sentences, licking his lips.

  This is about teenagers engaging in destructive behavior without any emotional attachment. Our young are being led to the slaughter in this country, because fear is no longer in them. The fear of consequences, the fear of God, even the fear of prison no longer keeps them pointed in the right direction.

  More conclusions, David thought, looking over the stacked inches of sentences, all conclusions about his emotional state. Led to the slaughter, yes, but who holds the bolt gun? Wasn’t it fear that caused all this in the first place?

  More and more in our society they become desensitized to violence. They see the wily coyote get up time after time after being dropped, shot, burned to a crisp. They see the evening news. Violence wraps them like a blanket.

  David could hardly read through it all. Fennecker’s lecture to parents. His pleas for them to teach kids nonviolence. The violence he’d committed made it impossible for him to imagine his parents could have stopped it, and he died a little each time he thought about it.