by B. K. Dell
“As cases of backlash continue to escalate across the US, the FBI is investigating whether an act of vandalism was purely random, or yet another incident in the continued saga. An unidentified party threw a brick through the window of the home of a woman rocking her young child to sleep.”
Teflon froze mid-stroke. Every muscle in his body tightened.
“She and her daughter suffered a few cuts, but escaped any major injuries. They were alone in the house at the time.”
Teflon began to tremble.
“The homeowner, who lives in the sleepy suburb of Goosefoot, Alabama, is the wife of one of the Marines involved in the cover-up. Investigators refuse to speculate on the motivation for the attack.”
Blood ran down Teflon’s cheek from the spot where he did not realize the blade had cut him. He drew his trembling razor away from his face. He looked into his own eyes, yet to wipe off the blood, oblivious to the fact that it was even there. His fist shot out in a burst of unfocused anger and shattered the mirror before him. Profanities flew out of his mouth and he grabbed the sink to rip it out of the wall. He groaned in pain, but could not budge it. He turned to kick the wall. He pounded it with his boot soles mercilessly, as if it had been the brick thrower’s face. He stepped with long strides back into the hooch, his fingers ran over his hair and he held both sides of his skull, only hoping his arms were strong enough to keep it from exploding. Blood from where the mirror cut his fist was transferred gruesomely to his head. So much rage filled his chest that he had no recourse but to continue his loud cussing. Several Marines swarmed the scene, each trying to question and comfort him in words that he could not hear. He moved back and forth furiously looking for something to destroy, someplace to channel his rage, while the true target was about seventy-five hundred miles away and unknown.
The other Marines all flinched when he turned to their direction. They took a huge step away from him, fearing what he might do. His sporadic pacing suddenly seemed purposeful as he made an about-face and stepped over to his gear. Withdrawing his pistol, he held it angrily in his hands. “Whoa,” the room called out and several Marines stepped closer, but not too close. Teflon had nothing to kill. He looked literally insane as he gritted his teeth hissing, with small globs of spittle flying free. His arms quivered as spasms of adrenaline and hatred searched for a way out from his chest and into the world. The thought of putting the weapon to his own head only remained real in his mind for a split second. He lowered the gun, pointing at the ground. He saw the Marines all circling him. They had their hands up, palms forward, gently pumping, placating, like they were all trying to pat out an invisible fire.
There was a moment of calm as they could feel the tension leaving the room. Teflon’s eyes were red from corner to iris. They were ravenous for revenge and wet with tears. “Give us the gun, Teflon,” his buddies asked. Teflon’s chest rose, then fell. Teflon had seventy-three days left on his deployment, seventy-three days until he could see his wife and daughter again, seventy-three days before he would be able to protect them. Suddenly, he put the muzzle of his gun to his leg – “No!” – and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through the chipboard floor as his buddies were able to grab and redirect his arm in time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The paint can slipped out of Stacy’s hand. He was too drunk to hold onto it. There was only one letter left to write on the garage door that currently read “BIGO.” Martin was sober so he knew the sound of the hollow spray can hitting the driveway cement was loud enough to wake a light sleeper.
“Be more careful,” whispered Martin nervously, then added, “I think we need to get out of here.”
“Well, I can’t leave it at BIGO. He’ll think I meant it as a compliment,” Stacy laughed at his own attempt at humor, the type that Caleb used to – a long time ago – refer to as Stacy humor.
Martin shushed him again.
“Don’t shush me,” said Stacy.
“He’ll wake up,” whispered Martin.
“I don’t care,” said Stacy in a voice that was intentionally louder, “I’m not afraid of him.” But Stacy must have been a little afraid because his boastful volume really wasn’t that loud.
Martin looked back up at the small two story house just outside Redding, California. He was concerned about the upstairs window overlooking the parking lot. He knew the two of them had been there for too long. He knew that the window must have provided a perfectly clear view of everything they were doing. The street lamp produced a glare on the window and made it hard to see anything on the other side of the glass. Martin continued to stare at it, but saw nothing.
Ridley Holt was on the other side, watching every move they made.
“I don’t care,” Stacy repeated, “I have a knife.” He pulled out a small pocket knife and displayed it proudly to Martin, who was unimpressed.
Rider put his fingers on both sides of the window latch and waited. He knew that they would be unable to see him. He knew he could bide his time. He watched the drunk one gesticulating wildly as he walked over to Rider’s car. Rider recognized him from television: Stacy Oliver. Rider had heard about what happened to Teflon’s home. Rider had heard about all the incidents of white powder in the mail. Every move that Stacy made was a taunt in the Marine’s face, although Stacy did not know it. He used his pocket knife to stab a gash into Rider’s tire. The wind whistling through the tear made just enough noise to cover the sound of the window springs as Rider opened the window a few inches.
“Someone has to teach this bigot a lesson,” Stacy was ranting. He was completely oblivious that Rider’s hunting rifle had just slipped silently through the crack in the window. “Someone has to make him pay,” Stacy sneered. Rider flipped up his scope.
The two of them seemed to be arguing when Rider found them through his scope. He moved the cross hairs over their faces, from the sober one, to the drunk one, then back to the sober. He knew it would be more tactically wise to kill the sober one first. The drunk one had less of a chance to retaliate or escape after his friend’s head exploded right in front of him, yet Rider really just wanted to kill the drunk first. He wanted to be the man who killed Stacy Oliver. He moved the cross hairs back over the face of the drunk. He knew that he could destroy both targets without any problem. He had been taught never to underestimate his enemy, but did it really apply to these clowns? Stacy’s head was swerving wildly, bobbing and weaving as his argument with Martin became more animated. Rider adjusted his aim for center mass. Stacy owned a wide variety of protest t-shirts – he also had twenty-three bumper stickers on the back of his car – so it was just coincidence that when Rider looked through his rifle sight he saw the words, Violence never solved anything. Rider placed the crosshairs right over the l in Violence.
He placed his finger on the trigger. He steadied his breathing. Every sound faded as the sight through the scope was all he perceived.
Martin turned to looked over his shoulder again, paranoid. “The window is open,” he turned to whisper frantically to Stacy, then turned back again. In the dim light Martin tried to make out what he saw. A quick flash of light reflected off the glass of the scope and Martin knew.
Everything that happened next took the span of only one second.
Rider knew he had been spotted and could not waste another moment. Martin’s head happened to move into the line of sight and Rider could not get a clear shot of Stacy, then it moved, as if in slow motion, completely clear. He had an open shot. Rider watched as Stacy’s entire t-shirt turned bright red, then blue, then red again. Martin was turning back toward the window for a glimpse of what he believed was the last sight he would ever see, but it was gone. The window was closed.
The two of them were forced to squint and raised their hands to shield their eyes when the search light on the police cruiser was aimed directly at them.
“Oh great, the pigs are here,” Stacy said, unaware that they had just saved his life.
Police Officer Baker stepped out of h
is car and shined his flashlight on Stacy. He said, “Sir, I am going to need you to drop your weapon.”
“Why? Because I am a gay man in America?”
“Drop you weapon!” commanded the cop.
“Do you have any idea who I am?”
Officer Baker reached for his hip and unsnapped his tazer. Stacy quickly dropped the knife.
“Okay, I need you to hold your hands up and get down on the ground.”
“Yeah, your momma needs to get down on the ground.”
The radio on the officer’s shoulder rattled some unintelligible noise. The officer pressed the button and said into it. “I have a gentleman here; he is not cooperating. Go ahead and send backup.”
By the time more officers arrived, Stacy was still bickering with the first one, accusing him of homophobia, insulting his mother, insinuating that he was too important to be questioned by a mere police officer. He said things like, “You don’t know who you are messing with. I am going to make you famous,” and, “You are part of a system that works to keep people oppressed.” Martin was already on the ground with his hands up in the air.
The police arrested Stacy. Martin received a ticket and was let go.
***
Stacy had been in the holding cell for two hours when word came that he was free to go. When Martin called Jerald Schaefer, Schaefer placed some phone calls and had Stacy bailed out.
Stacy stood in the jail’s foyer. A sheet of bulletproof glass separated him from the officer who had just released him. Stacy was still rubbing his wrists at the spot where they’d put the handcuffs. “You didn’t have to put the cuffs on so tight,” Stacy complained, “if I get carpal tunnel, I am suing this whole department.”
The officer just kept his head down. Filling out the paperwork for Stacy’s release was the hardest thing he ever had to do as a cop – and he had once told a mother that her child was dead.
“You should have a separate holding tank for homosexuals. I could have been killed in there with all those homophobes. I could have been killed,” Stacy said.
The officer silently lifted a small door to slide Stacy his personal effects – a pack of smokes, a matchbook from Planet Hollywood, and a worn out ticket stub from the movie Titanic, that for the past fourteen years Stacy believed brought him good luck.
It was then that they heard the distant chanting. The voices were unintelligible due to the fact that not all of the mob could decide on the same chant. Some of them were chanting, “We’re here, we’re queer, get over it,” while others formed a new chant from the title of Stacy’s book, “I’m gay, don’t shoot,” while the heterosexuals in the crowd did not feel comfortable with either of those and by default went with, “Give peace a chance.”
“Am I free to go now?” Stacy snapped. The officer said nothing, but sadly nodded his head. Stacy tore off to the officer’s left, adding extra sass to his defiant strut. He pressed hard on both doors intending to force them out wide like a burst of energy, revealing himself in all the glory and splendor of a man who is free.
But they were locked.
“You just came from there,” the officer sighed. “It’s on the right, stupid.”
Stacy was extra furious when he stepped outside to greet the throngs of media and protestors. There were at least five hundred people there and they were carrying signs that read “Christianity equals hatred” and “All cops judge prematurely.” Stacy walked straight up to the microphones and said with a fist raised, “The only thing I am guilty of is being gay in someone’s front yard.” The crowd let out a raucous cheer. This really encouraged him so he continued. “Well, if it’s a crime to be gay in someone’s yard then I am guilty!” The crowd cheered again. “But, they can’t stop me! I am going to keep being gay in people’s yards until I get what I want. I will be gay in my yard; I will be gay in your yard; I will be gay in the cop’s yard and then I will be gay in the yard of the White House!” Stacy hadn’t planned out anything further than the first two applause lines, and he’d had a long night.
Martin walked up and handed Stacy a note.
A reporter asked him. “Can you describe the arrest?”
Stacy took a second to read the note, then shoved it into his pocket. He became very animated. He formed his fingers into an imaginary gun and said, “The first thing the cop said to me was ‘Hey stupid, drop the knife, stupid.’ I mean nobody calls me stupid, okay?” Immediately Stacy began to cry. He said, “That is all I can tell you now, I am just too shaken up.”
The note in his pocket said, “Jerald Schaefer said not to talk to the press for free. Have them bid for an exclusive.”
Jackson was watching live. He had been trying to avoid the news lately, but he had been glued to the screen ever since Brit called him and said, “Turn on your television, Rider’s in the news again.”
After a few more seconds of having to see Stacy pretending to cry, Mitch McCarty and Veronica Cisneros cut back in.
“That is the scene in front of the Shasta County jail tonight,” she said.
“I was struck, Veronica, by how the police had referred to him as stupid. Let’s go to our expert, Dr. Weiss. Can you tell us – is that normal for an officer of the law to belittle people like that?”
“Well, Mitch, I can tell you that it is not normal, but I am afraid today that it is just not surprising.”
“We all want to obey police officers, but what are the limits? Is a citizen required to be cooperative with a policeman that is just not being cooperative with them?”
“I think that you have put your finger on it; in a perfect world we’d like to expect that although a police officer has some sort of technical authority over citizens, he would still treat them with an acceptable degree of tolerance and respect.”
“Well, it’s obviously not a perfect world.” Mitch McCarty looked at his notes. “Now we have learned that Stacy was in the process of vandalizing a Marine’s house, and we know he shouldn’t be doing that-”
“Yeah, no one is excusing him for that.”
“-but, we shouldn’t let that distract us from what the bigger picture is here. Doctor, with our limited information, is there any reason to suspect that Officer Baker acted out of anti-homosexual bigotry?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt, Mitch. I mean, I can’t see into the man’s heart, but it’s obvious that he clearly has a problem with homosexuals.”
Jackson turned off the TV.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“I have a gentleman here; he is not cooperating,” Joey said into the phone to McCarty’s producer up in New York. It was a reference to the amount of trouble Stacy had given Officer Baker. The transcript of the officer’s radio transmission had just been released to the press and Joey thought the producer would get the reference and maybe understand that he was having a harder time dealing with Stacy than even Officer Baker did.
Joey was helping to set up a live satellite feed in Jerald Schaefer’s enormous California home. Stacy’s exclusive was scheduled the week of Jackson’s trial – the last blow to be landed before the court of public opinion was forced to hand the trial over to the actual courts. Stacy had already changed his mind about the back drop three times. At first he wanted to do it in front of Jerald’s floor to ceiling windows. He demanded that the camera crew make all the difficult lighting adjustments to accommodate the glare from the glass, but as soon as they were finished the sun had gone down and Stacy decided that the view just wasn’t as impressive at night. Stacy had then moved them to the study. He said that he would look more intellectual if he was shot with books behind him.
Jerald Schaefer – who was usually an attention hog – sat deep in a chair in the corner of the room, out of everyone’s way. Joey could swear that the only movement Jerald had made since the moment the news crew showed up was to lift his pipe to his lips, take a few puffs, then lean his elbow back on the arm of his chair. If it is possible for a man to roll his eyes without changing his face, Joey saw Jerald doing it several times.
“I will have him ready by airtime,” Joey said assuredly into the phone. The intonation of his voice had more confidence than he did in his heart. His head panned the room for Stacy, and finally spotted him. “I’m gonna’ have to let you go,” he said abruptly and hung up the phone.
Joey quickly walked over to break up a squabble. Stacy and one of the stage hands were both playing tug-of-war with a bottle of Boon’s Fuzzy Navel. “Don’t you think that you have had enough? You’re about to be on live television,” reasoned the stage hand.
“Uh-uh, don’t you judge me. My boyfriend just died defending your freedom!” sassed Stacy.
When the stage hand saw Joey in his peripheral, he turned to appeal to his authority on the set, but did not let go of the bottle. “This guy is already pretty hammered. If he keeps it up, there’s not even going to be an interview,” he said as his head bobbed from Stacy’s hard tug.
“I don’t need to put up with this,” said Stacy.
The two still had both their hands gripping every inch of the bottle. They looked like basketball players struggling for the ball. Joey wondered if he should just throw the bottle up in the air and see which one could tip it first. He said, “Stacy,” his voice was conciliatory and very respectful, “can we get you to stop drinking, just until after the interview.”
“I’m not a drunk, okay,” Stacy thrust the bottle free. “I get nervous on camera. I need a drink to settle my nerves.”
“Okay, what was wrong with all the drinks you have already had?”
“I need a drink in my hand. I won’t even drink it, okay?”
“Like a security blanket?” snapped the irritated stage hand.
Stacy shot him a look. Joey tried to think fast and he ran to grab the glass of water left for Stacy on set. He dumped it down the sink and said, “Okay, how about this? We can fill this glass up with ice, and then fill it with Vodka. That way when our primetime viewers – and their children – tune in, it will just look like you are drinking water.” He filled the glass up with Vodka from a bottle on Jerald Schaefer’s counter. “Harmless, primetime, water.”