The judge set the bail at $110,000 which meant eleven thousand bail bond which was far too high for my family of course. We are not rich people.
The prosecutor had argued for no bail. Saying that Brendon Schrank had shot an unarmed minor for reasons of racism at no provocation and was a flight risk. Saying that Brendon Schrank had demonstrated “depraved indifference to human life” and could be considered dangerous in the community. My lawyer had argued to the judge that Brendon Schrank had lived all of his twenty-nine years in Glassboro, New Jersey, and had close ties to his mother, his uncle (Lieutenant Trevor Schrank, Glassboro PD, retired), as well as other relatives in southern Jersey; though not working at the present due to the recession he had been employed by Toms River Contracting for seven years and his employer there indicated faith in him as a “reliable and responsible” citizen as did the minister of the Glassboro Church of Christ to which he and his mother belonged. Especially, the lawyer argued that Brandon Schrank was not a flight risk for he was “devoted” to his mother who owned property in Glassboro and was currently undergoing chemotherapy at Ocean County Memorial Hospital and so, the son would never flee Glassboro County and leave his mother.
It is not possible to know what a judge is thinking. But following my lawyer’s argument the judge granted bail against the prosecutor’s wishes, of $110,000; and following this, there began to be donations sent to me in care of my lawyer and the Public Defender’s Office my defense fund—which was a total surprise to me.
These were small-denomination bills, that came with some of the letters. And there were citizens in Glassboro who came forward to donate money including some prominent citizens (who wished to remain anonymous). And members of our church group gathered donations. Until at last eleven thousand dollars was collected and I was released from Detention where I’d been made to feel like a common criminal.
They are saying that I shot and killed an unarmed black boy for no reason except race hatred. God knows the truth, that I did not know he was a boy or black and there were others with him shouting and threatening me and I was in fear of my life.
It is told to me that each day there are more threats against my life. Calls come to the Glassboro courthouse as well as to relatives of mine and to others in south Jersey who share my name or a name resembling it. Both my mother and my Uncle T. (who is Mother’s brother-in-law) have disconnected their land phones and have only cell phones now.
There are lawyers at the Public Defenders Office who receive death-threats calls who have nothing to do with my case!
Since my release from Detention, I have lived in several different places through the arrangements of my “legal team.” My whereabouts are a secret to the media but must be known at all times to the Glassboro County prosecutor’s office.
Of course, I no longer live with my mother on Eagle Street, Glassboro, or in any residence belonging to any relatives. This has been announced repeatedly in the media to protect my family.
I did not always get along so well with my relatives. On my father’s side of the family, after my father died. But the Schranks are supporting me now. They are all supporting me and some of them (like Uncle T.) have said publicly that they are “God-damned” proud of me.
It is true, one of the charges filed against me is that I did not/do not have a permit to carry a handgun for that is a concealed weapon illegal in the State of New Jersey. And it is true, the gun was not/is not registered in my name but in my uncle T.’s name. And it is true, Uncle T. did not know that I’d taken his gun from the house until he received a telephone call that night from the Glassboro PD informing him that his nephew had been arrested and that he, in whose name the gun was registered, was requested to come to police headquarters immediately.
Poor Uncle T.! Having to drive to the precinct where he’d been a police officer for thirty-seven years and where many officers knew him!
When Uncle T. retired from the PD for medical reasons at age fifty-nine he was required to surrender his .45 caliber police service revolver to his precinct captain, which he did. But Uncle T. had other firearms, and among these was a privately purchased .45 caliber police service revolver for which Uncle T. had a homeowner’s permit. In his house Uncle T. has also a short-range deer rifle and a double-barreled shotgun from the time when he used to hunt and would take me and my cousins with him.
Along the Chautauqua River on this side of the river was Uncle T.’s favorite place for hunting. My father was not so interested as he was not interested in fishing either. And so, my father’s older brother we called Uncle T. who had no children of his own took us hunting and fishing and all those years we were growing up none of us would ever have thought that our uncle would lose interest in such things like we’d never have thought he would retire from the PD.
For years my Uncle T’s .45 caliber revolver was not touched. I am pretty sure that this is so. I don’t even think that Uncle T. cleaned it anymore—which is surprising since (Uncle T. used to say) cleaning a gun is your duty to your firearm, and your responsibility. Cleaning his gun was something Uncle T. would do at the kitchen table in his house, Saturday mornings. And he’d let us kids help him, which we liked doing. And he’d say to me, you can pick it up, Brandon—but don’t ever aim it at anyone even if it’s not loaded like it is now.
And so, the smell of the gun oil and the weight of the gun in my hand was something I would always remember, with a shiver. And just the feel of the gun—the smooth nickel finish in my hands . . .
If you are sweating there’s a smell of the gun on the palms of your hands. It is a smell hard to describe but unmistakable.
(The smell is on my hands now. I have washed and washed my hands but the smell never goes away. In my sleep I smell it.)
Where Uncle T. kept the .45 caliber revolver was in a drawer in the kitchen of his house where he lived alone after my aunt Maude passed away. Not a drawer that was used often where you’d find loose nails, thumbtacks, old rolls of tape, old grocery coupons, Caesar’s last dog-tag (Caesar was Uncle T.’s boxer, he’d loved like crazy who’d died ten years ago) and other junk. Like Uncle T. had just shoved the gun in the back of the drawer and forgot it, never opened the drawer so he never saw the gun to remind him of when he’d been a police officer all those years until he got into some trouble and it ended fast—his Captain turning against him, and no friends in the PD he’d thought he had had. Plus medical problems, that would get worse every year. Which made us feel bad for there’ve been times Uncle T. has forgotten other things, once left his car at the garage to be serviced but forgot and thought somebody’d stolen it from the driveway, called 911 to report a car theft, and a recent time he’d started a fire in his kitchen when a dish towel caught fire on the gas stove and Uncle T. ran out into the street in underwear in freezing snow and scariest of all he has confused me with my father who has been deceased twelve years.
Uncle T. was not happy with me, that I had taken his gun from his kitchen drawer without his knowledge or permission. A stream of pretty nasty swear-words came out of Uncle T.’s mouth when the opportunity arose but since then Uncle T. has said he is “one hundred percent” behind me.
It is true about the gun, and I have pleaded guilty to that charge. Concealed hand weapon, unlawful possession of weapon, bringing of weapon onto U.S. federal property (post office). These charges, I have pleaded guilty following my lawyer’s advice.
My lawyer is determined that I will be acquitted of the charge of second-degree murder. Then, she is sure that the judge will give me a suspended sentence for the gun charges.
My lawyer tells me how fortunate we are, the prosecution can’t argue for a change of venue which would mean that the trial might be held in a city with a sizable black and Hispanic population, like Trenton or New Brunswick. Or Newark. “In Glassboro, you’re a hero. The jurors will reflect that sentiment. And we only need one.”
Do not seek out your name onlin
e. Do not engage in any online communication. This could be very dangerous, Brandon—there are many people who hate you.
In Detention it was not allowed that any of the inmates could use a computer as we had no personal use of cell phones or iPads. But now that I am living in a “safe house”—(a farmhouse owned by a relative of my lawyer in Pine Barren which is eighteen miles south of Glassboro)—and when my lawyer is not here, and there is no one to observe, I can log on to the computer here and type Brandon Schrank into Google. And there are 17,433 results!
It is like when you are little and you spin around and around and become very dizzy. And when you stop spinning, you open your eyes wide and see that things keep spinning around you. It is scary but makes you want to laugh—Jesus! I am famous.
But it is not so good, to see what has been posted about Brandon Schrank.
A helpless feeling, to see the pictures of me, that I had not ever seen before. Pictures of my face that somebody took with a camera or an iPhone without my knowing or giving permission.
Racist. Murderer.
Guilty verdict expected & deserved.
Too bad there is no capital punishment in N.J. In Texas or Florida this racist-murderer would get lethal injection.
My heart is beating hard, there is the ringing in my ears that comes with dizziness. I know that I should not be seeing such things, it is what my lawyer has warned against.
“It was not that way. I did not ‘murder’ anyone. I was in fear of my life and had no choice”—these words of protest come to my lips, I have uttered many times.
In the upstairs room, I shouted and shouted. My throat was raw with shouting, and my eyes brimmed with tears of hurt and indignation.
“The only one who knows is—him. The one who attacked me and wanted to kill me and instead—the gun went off, and I killed him.”
Sometimes I am so agitated, I feel faint and sick and have to sit on the floor. Sometimes so weak, I lie flat on my back on the floor, as the room spins.
When my lawyer’s brother-in-law (who is a social worker in Pine Barren County) returns home he finds me on the floor upstairs, in a corner of the room where I have crawled. Managed to sit up with my legs spread like a rag doll that has been tossed down. He checks the computer screen with a little whistle and he understands what has happened.
“If you go fishing in a cesspool you will get shit on your hands, Brandon. Leave that to us, OK? We’re pros.”
It is like a nightmare. It is like a room of bright blinding lights where whenever you open the door the same words are being uttered over and over.
Did you see the face of the boy you shot, Bran-don?
You claim that he was not a boy but a man, Bran-don—did you know Nelson Herrara was sixteen years old?
You told police officers at the scene that there were five men who attacked you—but why has no one else ever seen the other four?
You claim that you did not recognize that Nelson Herrara was black, Bran-don? You expect us to believe that?
You claim that you did not see “any color of any skin,” Bran-don? You expect us to believe such bullshit?
Of six shots fired all but two were fired downward into the boy’s body at a sharp angle yet you claim, Nelson Herrara was taller than you and “standing over” you swinging an iron rod—how is that possible, Bran-don?
This iron rod—why are there no fingerprints on it, Bran-don? Why weren’t you hit with it even once, if you were in fear of your life?
People who knew you at Glassboro High, Bran-don, said how some of the black students harassed you, and chased you, scared the shit out of you—d’you remember, Bran-don? No?
Well maybe it was a long time ago—like, twelve years—is that it, Bran-don? Maybe you just forgot.
And all I can say is what I have said. And what I will say to the last day of my life.
God guided my hand, except for God I would be dead now.
My head would be broken, my brains and blood splattered on the concrete rubble in the old Sears lot. And they would’ve run away, and nobody would know who had killed me. And nobody in their neighborhood who knew them would talk for fear they would kill them for that part of Glassboro, the east side, is their territory. And after a while, nobody would care except my mother and a few others that I had died.
Except God guided my hand, and my hand went into my pocket and there was Uncle T.’s gun, it was like Uncle T. was an instrument of God to save me. And so my life was saved.
Yes this is my sworn testimony. Yes so help me God.
For here is the injustice: only if you are killed, are you “innocent.” If you fight for your life, you are “guilty.”
Dear Brandon,
Believe me there are many of us are sick to heart, you are unjustly persecuted. You are not a Murderer but in defense of your life. I have seen your face on TV, your face is not the face of a Murderer. You are a young boy like my own son who gave his life in Iraq. We are praying for you for you are Innocent in defense of your life. God bless you & set you free as you deserve.
In this envelope, which I am not supposed to see, but have found in the lawyer’s station wagon, there are three twenty-dollar bills!
And in another envelope with a postmark from Barnegat, New Jersey, I am shocked to see—a hundred-dollar bill!
It is the first time that I have seen and touched a hundred-dollar bill with the face of Benjamin Franklin on it—I think he is one of the U.S. presidents of a long time ago.
Each day, the defense fund is growing. Since news of the trial was released nationally more than fourteen thousand dollars has accumulated some of it in small bills and some in large bills and some in checks.
The largest donations are checks.
In the night when there is no one to observe I type Brandon Schrank into the search engine and see that there are now 42,676 results!
Uncle T. has told me This country is at war. But it is not a war that is declared and so we can’t protect ourselves against our enemies.
Sunday morning I accompany Mother to church. Our Glassboro Church of Christ is located on the Barren Pike Road just outside town. I am aware of excited eyes moving on us as I walk beside Mother and she leans on my arm, breathing quickly and quietly as she does, in that way of hers like a small animal panting. Since April Mother’s life has been a nightmare as she says, yet it is thrilling to her, that she is the mother of Brandon Schrank who is a hero in many eyes. Yet, Mother must have chemotherapy every two weeks in the aftermath of breast cancer surgery at the Ocean County Hospital, and I am no longer able to drive her.
Inside the church more eyes fix upon us. They are friendly eyes—I believe. This is our congregation, Mother is well-liked here and there are no black faces here, no one to judge harshly and unfairly.
My “legal team” would not approve of my attending Sunday services here, and so I have not told them.
In the fifth pew, near the center aisle of the church, Mother and I take our places. It has been a while since I have been here but Mother comes most Sundays if there is someone to bring her. Those weeks I was in Detention many of the members of the congregation came to her, she said, and took her hand to comfort her—Mrs. Schrank, it is so unjust, to arrest a man for defending his own life!
And—We are praying for your son. We have faith God will set him free.
At the pulpit Reverend Baumann reads from the Bible to us, and speaks of the meek that shall inherit the earth, and our Savior who brings not peace but a sword. He speaks of the many “trials and tribulations” that are the lot of humankind, that we must bear without complaint for it is the will of God. And if there is a “global warming” it is a sign that God is displeased with humankind, for there is growing atheism, and hatred of Christ, and our political leaders have forsaken us in pursuing the ways of Satan.
I am hoping that Reverend Baumann will not cal
l attention to my presence in the congregation as he has sometimes called attention to the presence of war veterans of whom some have been seriously injured—I am hoping that he will not speak of “hero”—“heroism”—for this would be embarrassing to me, though I know that Mother would be thrilled.
I am feeling very strange. My skin is prickling. I am thinking—No, please. No.
As he is about to leave the pulpit Reverend Baumann glances in my direction, and a flicker of approval comes over his face, a small smile of welcome, and support. It is very fast—fleeting. And I smile just a little and nod my head in acknowledgment of this recognition that is so subtle, many in the congregation will not notice. But Mother has noticed, and others in the pews close about us.
We are all so proud of you son!
Then, a sudden burst of sound—an explosion of organ music—for a moment I am cringing hunched in the pew thinking that there is some sort of attack on the church, aimed at Brandon Schrank; but it is just the (female) organist playing a hymn, one of those I’ve been hearing all my life without listening to the words—Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee.
The congregation sings. The congregation sings loudly, and happily. It is a happy time—singing hymns. Even Mother sings, though her voice is very weak. And my heart is beating hard and I am thinking—He will take me in and hide me. The cleft will open for me.
For it was like that when God guided my hand inside my jacket. Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me, all the days of my life.
After the service there is a feeling of uplift and exhilaration. The organist is playing loudly as the congregation leaves the church—“Onward Christian Soldiers.”
Mother looks forward to such times when she can linger with her church-women friends who are women like herself older and widowed. Several of these are accompanied by their (unmarried) sons.
I am not so comfortable now. I would like to wait for Mother in the car but do not want to seem unfriendly, or rude to Mother.
The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror Page 4