The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey)

by Wells, Tobin

  His dream was to mimic the great Irish pub traditions where beer, song, and friendships flourished. If there was to be a third place after work and home, Geoff wanted the Holy Mother to be it. Where most coffee shops served police officers in uniform without charge, Geoff, in keeping with his faith, did the same for priests. Halloween and Fat Tuesday were the only times when he found it difficult to discern a true man of the cloth from a reveler. But Geoff knew most of the priests in the diocese, and only a few drank with women dressed as sexy nurses.

  That his establishment profited on the sin of drunkenness did not bother Geoff. "All things in moderation," he would often say when challenged by his more conservative friends as to how he justified his work. "God gave us hops, barley, and grapes. I celebrate what our Lord has gifted us with. If others abuse His good gifts, that is on their conscience, not mine." But more frequently than he would admit, Geoff had evangelized his drunk patrons; telling them about the peace found through Christ and not at the bottom of a bottle. However, in twenty years, he could only count two sinners who had listened and closed their tabs.

  Geoff had taken Porter to Mass many mornings and had even hired him on occasion as an off-the-books driver for food pickups of his customers’ favorites, or for home deliveries of hard to acquire, top shelf alcohol. This bond allowed Porter entry into the bar from age 16 and the occasional drink since 18.

  Now 22, Porter frequented the Mother several nights a week to people watch. As a quasi-employee, he had unrestricted access to the bar and perched himself on a stool against the emergency fire door exit. The tv screens

  full of soccer, basketball, and hockey were only background noise for most of the patrons who were there to find companionship on this Thursday night; much to Geoff's chagrin. Porter cared for none of it. He was locked in on the eyes of a jealous boyfriend.

  Porter knew that observing the subtle changes in life separates those who are really alive from those who are merely passing through life. Only eight years removed from the hills, Porter still retained his keen sense of observation. Tonight, Porter sensed something peculiar about the couple's interaction. A subtle meekness and fear in the woman. A domineering presence in the man. Nothing especially detectable, yet there.

  The man appeared to be in the trades, but likely in a lower level management position. His attire was neater, longer sleeved, and less wrinkled than the average Joe who put a Bears jersey on and came in looking for a hook-up. But he lacked the look of an actual professional whose day consisted of constant interaction with others dressed in $1,000 outfits. His suit was the untailored, off-the-rack variety from Sears, or JCPenney at best, and his watch was the $25 variety. The tie, still securely fixed to his neck was the sure tell that he was a poser. Porter knew any self-respecting professional loosens his tie after 10 hours; especially when headed to the bar. That act was as much for comfort as a sign to others that he was a real pro.

  Porter knew the professional look well as his days were filled getting barked at and running orders for sweaty, caffeinated, and cocaine driven assholes on the floor of the Chicago Board of Exchange. During the day, their clothes were a close second to profit as the most important thing to them. All of life was a competition with the traders. Most never associated with one another outside of the CBOE, so wearing the finest functional tailored suit during the trading hours was how the money men measured who was the top dog.

  The woman had a quiet beauty and her attire displayed an elegance which showed she took pride in her appearance. Porter surmised she was a professional of sorts, possibly an accountant or lawyer, able to afford what she wanted. But her beauty showed signs of fatigue. Worry lines were beginning to extend from her eyes and were premature for a woman in her late twenties.

  As Porter continued his observation, he noticed the man make quick glances down and across the bar to the young bucks who were saddled up for a few rounds. Porter sensed the man's agitation building as he noticed several of them paying particular attention to his companion. The woman noticed and appreciated the acts of interest and kept eye contact a bit longer than was acceptable to her man.

  In the next moment, Porter caught what no one else did. Presuming the loud environment would keep others from focusing on them, the man dealt his girlfriend a rabbit punch to the ribs. She winced and bent at the waist to catch her breath. But as quickly as she had doubled over, she regained her composure and sat up again as if nothing happened. Her short quick breaths told Porter she was hurting; her fast recovery told him this was not the first time she had felt his fists.

  What is it with abused women, Porter thought. Why do they stay? Was this guy her first and now she feels loyal to him? There were no rings on their fingers, so marriage wasn’t keeping her in it. Was he loaded and giving her a lifestyle she could otherwise not afford? Doubtful, he thought. Instinctively, Porter leaned over the bar where Geoff was pouring a pint of Guinness. Coming closer in order to hear him over the noise, Geoff asked, "What's up?"

  "Hey, do you know the couple just over your left shoulder?"

  "Sort of," said Geoff as he glanced back to see the pair. "Beth Hall comes in here about once a week. Jim is her boyfriend, but he's only here once a month or so. Probably after he gets paid. Why? Something going on?"

  "No," Porter said quickly. "I have just seen her a good bit, but never him. Just asking."

  With a smile, Geoff said, "Just asking, huh?"

  "Yes," answered Porter, understanding Geoff's implication. "Just asking."

  Porter had grown into the frame of his father. At six feet one inch tall and 205 pounds, his physique was enough to deter those on either side of that height from choosing him as an easy target. Due to the early high school ass-kickings he had received, Porter resolved to improve his self-defense. His sophomore geometry classmate, Arnie Goldberg introduced him to the discipline of Krav Maga at his father's gym, and for the past seven years, Porter had dedicated six days a week to a regimen of cardio, weights, yoga, and at least three days of Krav Maga. Sunday was reserved for sleeping, the occasional Mass, and joining in the soccer games with the Hispanic population in Lincoln Park. This information would have been helpful to the unsuspecting Jim.

  The rib punch had eroded the night’s joy for Beth. Last call was the extinguisher of Jim’s. Beth paid their tab while Jim made a pit stop at the restroom. Unsure of his next move, Porter sprinted to his car just outside the bar where he retrieved his lead pipe and waited in the shadows for them to exit. When they did, Porter kept a twenty yard buffer, as the couple walked towards the parking deck.

  As Beth approached the rear of the car on the ground floor level, Jim positioned himself a few steps behind her. Without warning, Jim opened his right palm, drew his arm back as though it were a baseball bat and swung at the back of Beth's head. The unexpected impact caused Beth to lose her balance. As she stumbled to the ground, Jim glanced around to see if others were looking, and pulled his foot back for a kick. Just as he was unleashing his leg towards Beth, Jim caught sight of Porter and stopped its forward progress. A menacing grin covered Porter’s face.

  “What exactly were you going to do there?” Porter asked rhetorically. “What’d she do? Steal something? Kill your cat?” he said with a smile; unsure why he had tried to inject humor into the encounter.

  Clearly frustrated that he had been unable to finish what he started, Jim retorted “Don’t worry about it,” and then to Beth he snapped, “Get in the car!” Beth stood slowly keeping her head low and avoiding eye contact with either man.

  “You okay ma’am?” Porter asked sincerely.

  “Hey, I said don’t worry about it,” barked Jim more impassioned than the first time.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Porter as he now stood within ten feet of the couple, his pipe tucked in the back of his pants. “See, what it looks like to me is that you’ve got some sort of control over this beautiful young lady. What is it? Are you her sugar daddy?" Porter chuckled in disbelief at what he had just sai
d. "No, probably not. The way you’re dressed, I'm guessing she's yours.”

  "Get in the car Beth," Jim said, even angrier than before, but now with a hint of panic.

  Tapping his right temple with his index finger in a show of understanding, Porter said, “I got it now. You’re one of those insecure types who poured on just enough charm to earn her trust. Then somehow got her to sleep with you, God knows she could do better, and now she feels like she’d be a failure if she quit the relationship. But she’s better than you. You know it. And it’s driving you crazy.”

  “Fuck you, asshole!” responded Jim, who did not move closer to Porter or to his car. “You don’t know shit. So just fuckin' leave!”

  “Is that what you want Beth?” Porter asked, startling the woman with the use of her name. But she offered no response except for alternating looks between Porter and Jim.

  Porter then foretold her future, “You know Beth, he’s just going to keep doing this. You’ll be stuck with this dipshit who’ll get worse as he gets older. In a couple of years you’ll have two kids and then you’ll really be in too deep to leave him. But how long will it be until these small beatings turn in to real blood baths? And if he’ll do it to you, you know your kids are gonna get it.”

  At this, her countenance changed. Beth's eyes were now more focused, as if her mind was processing something it knew, but had not wanted to recognize as truth. She stood a little taller and backed away from her car door.

  Jim exploded. “Beth, get in the fucking car! This punk doesn’t know us.” When she didn’t move, he turned his rage to Porter. Like the high school bullies Porter had encountered, Jim moved slowly but aggressively toward him thinking this would back him down. Porter did not move.

  As Jim approached, Porter consumed the light and his environment, attempting to inform his senses of all that he could use to his advantage. The car’s bumper was just over Jim’s left shoulder. The wall of the parking garage was to his left about five feet away, and a three foot traffic pole was just to Porter’s right.

  “Beth, when I’m done with your boy here, we’ll take your car, pack your stuff, and get you safe.” With his head slightly turned up and a new sense of bravado, Porter looked at Jim and baited him with one last quip. “This shouldn't take long...Jim's not been in a real fight since his sister kicked his ass."

  Jim bellowed a battle cry and lunged at Porter with one step. Beth screamed. Neither phased Porter. His world had slowed down and his eyes never left Jim's torso. As if he could sense each move before it happened, Porter began his assault.

  Porter stepped back one pace and let Jim's momentum throw his center of gravity forward. With a quick left step forward, Porter swung his right elbow in a round house fashion and met Jim’s nose, instantly shattering it. Crumpled on the ground and wailing in agony, Porter watched as blood flowed down and over Jim's mouth and neck. Beth wept, but did not come to Jim's aid.

  It can’t be this easy, thought Porter. I didn’t even get to use my pipe. One punch had landed his foe on the deck. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of real struggle?

  The struggle would be moving Jim, who was writhing in pain directly behind Beth's car. Assured that Jim was debilitated, Porter bent over him and said, “Ok Jim, I need you to move ‘cause I’ve gotta drive Beth home. So get up or roll over there,” pointing to his left against the garage wall.

  Anticipating no resistance from Jim, Porter was wholly surprised when Jim’s left foot connected with his ball sack. The excruciating pain provided Porter his opportunity to writhe on the deck. Fortunately for Porter, the kick was Jim's one last attempt to salvage his pride and nothing more.

  Feeling like his balls were lodged in his rib cage and struggling to not throw up, Porter rolled over several times, willing himself to get up. That’s when he saw Beth, completely distraught at what had just happened in front of her. The man she loved, or so she thought, and the man who had come to rescue her, both on the ground because of her.

  Porter struggled to his feet, then promptly doubled over and threw up. Jim still lay on the ground not able to focus as the searing pain from his shattered nose blurred his vision. Beth moved in and said sweetly, “Jim, honey, I need you to move.” Jim looked up with a look of resignation and moved to the wall. Porter slowly limped his way to the driver’s side door and slid in.

  *****

  Except for the occasional instruction on where to turn, Beth and Porter were silent on the drive to her house. Both were processing what had happened and what the future now held. Beth was living the complex internal torment abused women often feel; a sense of despair at what a life without Jim would be, and anguish for allowing herself to have been abused for so long.

  Porter, aside from his testicular discomfort, felt exhilarated. Purpose like he had longed for but never known filled every aspect of his being. While looking out the driver's window, he smiled and said, "Remember who you are."

  As the car stopped in front of Beth’s apartment, Porter put the car in park and looked at the distraught woman. “Look, I know this has to be awful for you, but you know it’s the right thing to do. Right?”

  Meekly, she whispered, “I know.”

  “Then let’s get what’s yours and get you out of here. When Jim collects himself, I doubt he will be in a repentant mood. He won’t be sobered up and his pride is gonna be so wounded that he could be dangerous. I have a good friend who will for sure take you in for whatever time you need to get yourself set up with your own place.”

  "Ok," Beth said. "Most of my stuff is already packed."

  "Really?" asked Porter, quite shocked.

  "Yeah. I've been thinking about leaving for a long time. Just never had the courage to do it."

  Porter followed her up two flights of stairs and into her apartment. They dumped her remaining belongings into a duffel bag, picked up those already packed, and in twenty minutes were back on the road.

  As they drove to Connie’s place, Beth whispered to herself. Porter wondered what was moving from her mind to her lips. Prayers for guidance, he thought. Freedom from Jim's control would not mean immediate healing. His silent prayer was that some decent guy would enter her life and show her how a real man loves a woman.

  In the quiet, 30-minute drive, Porter had time to reflect. What did I just do? Why did I intervene? All he had seen was a guy getting rough with his girl. He had passed up dozens of street fights where one guy was beating the hell out of the other and did nothing. Why was this time different? Was it because a woman was involved? Probably, he thought.

  How many more are out there like this one, he thought. If this douche bag was controlling Beth, who was able to remove herself whenever she wanted, yet chose to stay, how many others who are more dependent, are being completely manipulated? Saint Paul’s Damascus road conversion was now in Porter's mind. As Paul's sudden blindness had been used by God to give him his life’s true purpose, Porter's bruised groin had opened his eyes to his life's work. Now to refine the edges, thought Porter, as he offered a word of thanks to his maker.

  As expected, Connie immediately welcomed Beth into her home. Over the next few weeks, Porter continued to see Beth at The Holy Mother. She would always smile sweetly and buy his first pint of Black and Tan. After a few months though, Beth no longer showed. When he asked Connie about her, all he got was that she had "met someone." He prayed she was in a good relationship and that the beneficiary of his first rescue would have good reason to trust again, and just maybe intervene on behalf of those in similar trouble. She would.

  Chapter 6

  Drinking with the Devil

  November 2011

  Porter’s instincts drove him to Building 1 in the heart of the State Capitol complex. Despite their perpetual economic challenges, the West Virginia beauracrats allowed the limestone, marble, and gold domed Capitol building to showcase their ability to misappropriate funds. The near replica of the U.S. Capitol could not match the power that its larger, but shorter D.C. cousin emanated
. Still, Porter felt his senses absorb the control which radiated from the complex.

  The Friday before Thanksgiving week brought holiday engaged pedestrians and bus loads of civic-minded students to 1900 Kanawha Boulevard East for their annual history lesson on how incompetent state governments work. Ever cognizant of surveillance, Porter used the ample crowds to cover his reconnaissance. He knew the fight would not start here, but understanding his enemy’s camp would provide options if so needed.

  As he casually strolled the Capitol halls, Porter located room 26-E with the placard boldly stating, James Holland, Office of the West Virginia Attorney General. Those words abruptly halted his desultory manner as a cold sweat ran down his back. Fighting the urge to flee, Porter steadied himself. Although he knew the appearance of the state’s top law enforcement officer very well, this field trip was designed to take the abrasive edge off of his first personal encounter by acclimating himself to Holland’s scent, gait, and aura.

  When the clock tolled five bells, the Capitol police gave notice to all visitors that the government buildings would be closing in one hour. As they finished their announcement, the conference room doors to Porter’s left opened and a gaggle of staffers filed out. Following behind in an Armani suit far beyond the means of any state employee, walked a supremely confident James Holland. The cold sweat once again journeyed down his back as Porter alternated glances between his smart phone and Holland’s sunken blue eyes, chemically aided blond hair, and long, sauntering strides. Waves of expensive cologne stayed in Porter’s nostrils long after Holland passed by him and entered his office.

  *****

  Holland was collected by his driver at the rear of the complex at 8:30 p.m. As he tailed the people's attorney, Porter was careful to keep three cars between him and Holland’s black SUV as it made its way down Washington Street, crossed the Kanawha City Bridge, and continued southeast on Kanawha Avenue. At 3.7 miles from the Capitol, Porter slowly drove past Holland's riverfront home just as his guards were welcoming him.