Dark Days

by D. Randall Blythe

  It’s impossible for me to accurately express how incredibly unnerving it was to be asked to suddenly recall a fairly nondescript day on tour from more than two years ago, shortly after being informed I had killed a fan of my band, while knowing my bare-bones recollection could have an immensely significant impact on whether or not I would be spending the next ten years of my life behind bars in a foreign country.

  Looking at the copy of my testimony now, well over a year and a half after it was given, I see I did a pretty good job of laying out exactly what I remembered in a chronological order. I didn’t jump all over the place, and I was precise. I told the truth. I also stressed what I instinctively knew would be a few critical details—that the stage was small and that until we were playing, I had not been on or near it. That there was no security to my knowledge on or in front of the stage, and that this was highly irregular. That I had removed my glasses and thus my vision was impaired. That I had made it clear that audience members were not allowed on stage, yet one in particular repeatedly ignored that fact. That until two days before, neither myself nor my band had been made aware that an audience member had been injured, much less died. I also explained what stage diving was, because I assumed (correctly) that the authorities would have absolutely zero understanding of what happens at a metal concert, including the seemingly senseless act of flinging one’s body through the air in the hope that a bunch of sweaty strangers will be kind enough to break your fall. Reading this takes me back to that disheveled room, and I can see myself sitting in front of that chintzy cluttered desk, trying to speak evenly through the sweating trepidation, over the heart that was doing its best to beat itself right out of my chest. Reading this shows me that I was doing the best that I could in that moment. Reading this, I know now I didn’t let myself down.

  Reading this I also now definitely know that poor Antonio is not destined to go down in history as the hero of future translator lore, the paradigm all men and women in the multi-lingual clarification biz aspire to. I do not wish the reader to think I disliked Antonio; in fact I felt quite the opposite (hence his pseudonym—I’d hate to damage his reputation). He was the very model of bonhomie who seemed to honestly feel sorry for me. But . . . let’s just say that if this book ever gets translated into Czech, I hope he’s not the one who gets the gig.

  Perhaps I am being a bit hard on Antonio, as I am currently reading the copy of my interrogation statement (bear with me—this gets a little convoluted) that the superlative translator I hired during my court case, Rudy (who also happens to be an attorney and a hell of a nice guy), translated from the Czech version of my statement that Lucie typed up however she saw fit based on whatever Antonio managed to intermittently translate in real time from my nervous but plainly spoken layman’s English. There were far too many moving parts to this equation, and it makes my temples throb just remembering the fear and fierce frustration I felt as I swiftly realized that my future status as a free man was riding on what was, in essence, a high-stakes Slavic game of Chinese whispers. My transcript of the whole interrogation shows a pretty mangled transmogrification of the words I actually spoke, which would be pretty damn funny except for the fact that a single lost or mistranslated word could have (and did in some places) have a very large impact on what I was trying to convey—the truth, which I was certain held the key to my innocence. The fact that the subtle nuances of tone and inflection of the English language simply do not translate into the corresponding but even subtler nuances of tone and inflection of the fiendishly difficult Czech language did nothing to further my cause as well. Regardless of the whos, hows, and whys of the whole thing, I could see that I was going to go through some linguistically hard times for however long it took to see my legal problem to its end.

  After I had said my piece (it must have taken me somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half to relate what I could have told a native English speaker in fifteen or twenty minutes), Antonio began translating questions; first eleven queries from Lucie, then three by Mr. Radvan, then finally a round of alternating final questions from both of them. I felt like a pawn on a verbal chess board; but one being used by both opponents in a bizarre and chaotic Czech version of the game I could only guess the rules of. Lucie asked me what time we had played, how long our set was, if we had taken any breaks during the performance, and how many people were in attendance at the gig. I answered the best I could by approximating times and the amount of people at the gig, numbers that change every night and from tour to tour in varying amounts. After relaying in one of my answers how bad my band and crew had thought the club sucked, she wanted to know why we thought it was such a bad club, making me wonder if she was offended by my judgment of Czech rock venues. She asked if I had drank any alcohol during or right before our performance. I replied honestly that if I had had anything to drink, it would have been a single beer during our performance, as I would be too busy singing to drink much more. I also informed her that I mostly drink water onstage, and half the time I just dump it over my head to cool myself off, which makes the stage pretty slick and dangerous sometimes (incredibly enough, the fact that I move a lot and rapidly, sweat profusely, and douse myself with water to cool off onstage would repeatedly come up in witnesses’ testimonies as evidence that I was acting extremely strange, even evil, thus indicating that I was obviously on drugs of some sort—I suppose the Czechs, being a land-locked people, consider public wetness unseemly?). Martin asked me if I did any body building exercises (while I realize my hulking physique could easily lead someone to believe I am a Mr. Universe contestant, I am just way too slack to lift weights with any sort of regularity), if people are normally allowed to get on stage (absolutely not), and if anyone had approached me after the concert with any sort of health complaint (nope). About midway through the questioning, Lucie asked me about the young man that I pinned down onstage, and a thorough dissection of this incident began.

  There is a scientific hypothesis known as the Ebbinghaus Forgetting Curve that deals with the exponential decay of human memory over time. The forgetting curve illustrates that information that is not consciously reviewed through active recall, thereby strengthening its retention, is lost very rapidly. (This is why we have to study for exams instead of just reading a textbook through once, then acing a final without breaking a sweat.) The strength of a memory depends on several factors, one of which is its importance to an individual; for example most people of this era will certainly remember where they were when they first heard news of the World Trade Center being hit by terrorist-hijacked planes on September 11, 2001. That was a big event, and the surroundings of a person as they learned of it are more than likely seared into their memories along with the awful images of the towers collapsing—I know I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news (walking into a restaurant kitchen to start work). But where I was the previous day at 3:00 p.m. (the time I showed up for my shift on 9/11—I slept late that day), I have absolutely no clue—maybe at work? Maybe at the river fishing? Maybe at the bar having a drink? To my knowledge, nothing unusual or important happened that day. My memory of September 10, 2001, is lost.

  My memory of the show we played on May 24, 2010 was slightly better than my recollection of 3:00 p.m. on September 10, 2001, but not by much. The only reason I remembered any details at all of that show, or the day surrounding it, was because it was my first time in the Czech Republic. I always remember my first time in a new country. My friend Paul died that day as well—obviously most people will remember where they were when they hear a friend or relative has passed away. I probably would have forgotten the annoying young man I had to wrestle to the ground if it wasn’t for those two things; it was just another day at work. That day wasn’t the first time in the history of rock-n-roll someone had stormed the stage and proceeded to act like a jackass; on tour I deal with jackasses on a daily basis. As well, neither myself nor any member of my band had witnessed anyone getting seriously injured. We would have remembered that. Once after
a particularly rowdy show, I saw a man backstage with a broken femur, a splinter of bone protruding through his ripped red flesh like a snapped celery stalk poking out of a freshly quartered venison tenderloin that had been wrapped in bloody denim. He had just returned from serving a tour of combat duty in Iraq, and I can still hear him screaming about how he had finally made it home alive and had just wanted to have a good time at a show as he lay bleeding on a medic’s gurney backstage. I do not forget it when I see fans get injured. I can’t. It’s too important and it’s too traumatic.

  Back to Lucie’s line of questioning: Without prior knowledge of anyone being hurt, much less attempting to injure them, it was pretty hard for me to recall hurting anyone, to which I felt she was trying to get me to admit. I was extremely careful in choosing my words, as I knew in my bones that this would be the part of my testimony reviewed with the greatest scrutiny. In the last chapter, I talked about the final time the fan who kept jumping on stage had joined us once again, about how he had flown from the stage, and how I didn’t know whether or not for sure I had pushed him. In my initial statement to Lucie however, I stated that when I saw this man coming onstage for the final time, I pushed him away from me, and I remembered him falling into the crowd and standing up. This was not strictly true, as I did not (nor do I to this day) truly remember pushing him at all. I know what I believed happened, and I feel deep down in my gut that this is the truth. In reality, I cannot say what actually occurred based upon any sort of memory that I would consider in the slightest bit reliable. What I believe today happened that night was slowly, painfully, formulated over the next months leading up to and through my trial, and is based on countless hours of searching my mind, reading witness testimonies, looking at videos of the show, and even the opinion of the Czech Republic’s sole legally certified expert in the science of biomechanics, the only man allowed to speak as an authority in that field in any court of law in the entire country. The truth that sits inside my soul, aching quietly like a father who has discovered he has passed on some terminal genetic defect to his offspring, is not what I spoke that day under questioning. Why? Because I did not know it yet. Why would I not just say then that I had no true recollection of pushing anyone at all? Once again, it comes down to the unreliability of human memory. I was under a lot of stress. I was exhausted, confused, and very, very frightened. I also had some new information I had read over and over during the last twenty-four hours. Here it is:

  “On 24.5.2010 in the time period between 21:30–22:45 in the club Abaton, street Na Koince 8, Prague 8 during a musical performance of the band Lamb of God (USA), where he is a singer, after unclear instructions given by him to the audience, which were interpreted as invitation to the podium, the damaged Daniel ___, born _._.1991 climbed up on the podium. The damaged Daniel ___ was intentionally thrown off the 98cm high podium by the accused David Randall Blythe who unexpectedly approached the damaged /____ / and pushed him by both of his hands into the chest so the damaged fell over the metal barrier (131 cm high fence) and fell by the back of his head on the floor under the podium which caused him bleeding into the brain, brain contusion and brain swell. As a consequence he lost consciousness and, despite all medical care provided, he died on 23. 6. 2010 in the ____ Hospital. The accused must have been aware of the fact that the podium is elevated and fenced off by railing. With regard to the circumstances, the accused must have been aware that the necessary consequence of a backward fall on one’s back is impact of head against the floor.

  Therefore the accused intentionally caused bodily injury to another person and this act led to the death.”

  That is exactly what the warrant for my arrest sitting beside me on my desk right now reads (with the exclusion of Daniel’s last name, date of birth, and the name of the hospital he died in). Since I had been arrested, I must have read the warrant at least forty or fifty times, trying desperately to make sure I understood exactly what it said, and to remember or at least make sense of the events described in the charge against me. There was also a page and a half worth of other data concerning the case—a restatement and explanation of the charge, justification of the charge, the fact that my government had refused to cooperate in prosecuting me, the names of witnesses interviewed, and a more technical medical explanation of the cause of Daniel’s death after his injury. Finally, the paper read that if I did not chose a defense attorney within one hour of receiving the warrant (and Lucie had handed me the paper the second I was arrested), then an attorney would be appointed to me at my cost, unless a request for free or reduced price defense was granted under some paragraph in the Czech legal code. (Reading this again as I write this, I realize now that good old Alex had been taking it easy on me—he could have slapped me with the soud’s finest within thirty minutes of getting to the jail, as it took us half an hour to get there from the airport through traffic. An hour to find an attorney? Holy moly.)

  There was a ton of brand-new and very upsetting stuff rolling around in my noodle; and despite my best efforts to remain calm and level-headed, I was not in the clearest state of mind during the interrogation. Not by a long shot. After constant review of the only information I had at the time (the arrest warrant), disturbing imagery began to arise in my head; a hazy, hesitant, picture of pushing this annoying young man off the stage. I began to wonder if what the paper said was true. If it was true, I had to find out. What if I had killed him? This slowly started to seem feasible. I began to accept that I might have to accept the consequences of actions I did not clearly remember committing. Whether or not my memory of how events had occurred was accurate had no bearing on the fact that a young man was dead, and I was possibly to blame. Indeed, if I was to blame, if this tragedy was truly my fault, I knew that no matter how frightening, I could not run from a just and deserved punishment. Not if I wanted to still call myself a real man.

  I decided I would rather die in prison (always a distinct possibility in the penal system) as a real man than live free as a coward because I was too damned scared to face an uncertain future in an effort to find out the truth. If warranted, I would pay the price for a deadly crime I might have committed, and do so without complaint. I still believe in (and try to live by) a concept that is sadly almost lost, even ridiculed at times as anachronistic, in our western society: honor. To me, to not at least attempt to find out the truth, by any means necessary, would be dishonorable. A man or woman stripped of their honor is not a man or woman at all to me. Only one person can take your honor away: yourself. I would not dishonor myself or my family name by failing to do everything in my power to face the truth. I realize those are very strong words; words some people might even laugh at. But my actions over the next year would back them up, and that is an irrefutable fact. Just like my honor, no one else can take that truth from me. It’s okay to have strong convictions, and to act on them no matter how frightening that may be at times. And people, I’m here to tell you: you’d better believe I was scared shitless. I say this without a shred of embarrassment—I’m not some stoic hard-ass. I was terrified. However, I would be so deeply ashamed if I hadn’t pushed through the fear and tried to do the right thing, I don’t think I would have ever been able to look in a mirror again. During my drinking days, I had done the wrong thing so many times out of fear. I categorically refuse live that way anymore. Ever.

  As I contemplated my future with a growing sense of dread, I began to see the blond headed young man on stage for the final time more clearly. I started to envision him in front of me, yet again waving his hands stupidly around, and he bounded toward me. I saw myself pushing him from the stage, and him hitting the floor hard in front of me; only to rise, hold his head briefly, then begin to bang his foolish head and rock out again. As what I thought I might be starting to remember faded away, I imagined him walking away and out onto the street behind the club, then falling down and losing consciousness. I saw him being taken to a hospital, then dying as his family sat beside his hospital bed in tears.

  D
ear God, please forgive me. I think I may have killed a man.

  The vague memory of pushing that particular young man was 100 percent false. That person is alive and healthy, and walks the earth today. I know this because I have met him, and he seems like a fine and moral man, despite his foolish actions that night. When photographs of him and me wrestling on stage would surface in newspapers and on websites later, he would do me a greater service than he will ever know by coming forward of his own free will and explaining that he was not Daniel. Sadly, Daniel is, in fact dead, but I have no memory of ever seeing his face, much less pushing him to his death. I only have what I have come to believe happened between him and me.

  Lucie and Martin began to pepper me with questions about this young man. Was he the only one who had come onstage? (“No, definitely not.”) At what point in the concert did you have physical contact with this person? (“The middle? Towards the end? I don’t know really.”) How many people did you push on stage or push off the stage at the Prague concert in 2010? (“Only one, if that occurred at all.”) How did you and with what force did you push this person? (My statement reads: “I pushed him in the chest, at least I think I did, and I think it was with both arms and open hands. I pushed him with some force, enough to keep him away from me. I certainly didn’t take a running start to tackle him like you would in football. There wasn’t enough room onstage for that, anyway.”) How did this person respond to being pushed? Did he step back, climb down, fall off stage etc.? (“I don’t know how he got back to the auditorium, whether he climbed, jumped, or fell. Because I don’t see very well without my glasses, all of these are possible.”) Did you ask the person you pushed if he was okay? (“I didn’t ask him anything—the people around him gestured that he was okay.”) Were you angry with this person that was repeatedly getting onstage and were you planning on fighting him back? (“No. I was probably tired and may have been annoyed with him, but I wasn’t angry enough to fight him.”)