by Patrick Dent
Briggs was third generation army and looked it. His square jaw, athletic build and thinning flat top blond hair made him look like a Rock 'em Sock 'em Robot. His headgear tucked into the precise ninety-degree angle formed by his left arm. When he sat, his spine remained rigid, never touching the back of the chair. “Sir, we have a problem. Elan is dead.”
“Details,” Dalton snapped, leaning forward on his elbows. He strained to keep a poker face. He couldn't let Briggs see his anxiety. In reality, Operation Sierra would earn him a third star if successful. The flip side meant it could also cost him his command.
“We lost contact with Lieutenant Elan four days ago. We know he was operating near Safi, in northern Morocco. He had a meeting set up with Tartus, but we didn't get the exact time or location before we lost contact. At first we assumed he had gone under deep cover, but yesterday the Safi medical examiner contacted the US Embassy in Rabat about a body found in a Safi landfill. The passport on the body matched Elan's cover ID. He was essentially decapitated, Sir.
“The local authorities wrote it off as the mugging of a tourist. I've arranged for the remains to be incinerated. Officially, he died a hero, saving six injured soldiers' lives before the Viet Cong got him. We gave him the Silver Star posthumously. I thought that was a nice touch. Basically, we are back to square one, Sir.”
“Damn it!” Dalton slammed his fist on his knee. Though Dalton knew the familiar sting of sending men to their deaths, this business of doing it one at a time was particularly unnerving.
Major Briggs judiciously gave the General time to collect his thoughts. The office sat silent for at least five minutes.
General Dalton spoke at last, “Next steps?”
“Well, Sir…”
“Speak up, Soldier!” Dalton demanded.
“We're running out of Arabs.”
Dalton glowered at Briggs. The message in his eyes said it all – this had better not be a joke. “You want to run that by me one more time, Major?”
“As operatives, Sir. The combined Special Forces units have only one remaining Arabic speaking soldier – Lieutenant Amin. It would seem we've nearly depleted our supply.”
Dalton stretched back and put his hands behind his head. “Where is Amin stationed?”
“Fort Bragg, Sir. He's a weapons specialist.”
“Has he been approached?”
“Yes Sir. He is preparing as we speak.”
“Good. I want you at Bragg tomorrow morning to brief him.”
“Yes Sir. Anything else, Sir?”
“No. Dismissed.”
Major Briggs stood at attention and saluted. When Dalton returned the salute, Briggs performed a surgically precise about-face and exited.
* * *
Beaumont, South Carolina
John's arraignment was quick and perfunctory, as promised. Judge Phillips remanded John into The John's custody. The judge gave him a trial date expedited to six weeks. John had to sign a few papers, and then he walked out into the afternoon sunlight as a free man.
So many things he had taken for granted, like the ability to go outside, see the sun, to walk more than nine feet in a row. His brief stint in the county lockup gave him a preview of what the next twenty-five years might hold - deprivation of nature's every form in a place where souls stagnate and rot.
His mother walked beside him, holding his upper arm with both hands, as if the slightest breeze might whisk him away. The John walked ahead to his Mercedes. He stopped in front of the car and leaned back on the grille, facing John. He crossed his arms high on his chest. He had a scowl on his face, making John cringe inside. The two of them had not been alone together since the incident. Gloria kissed her son on the cheek and walked to her car. She and The John always drove separately.
The John didn't mince words. “Son, let's get one thing straight from the start. I don't give a damn whether you did it on purpose or not. I don't want to hear your side, understand? The point is, accident or not, no one will railroad my son. You just let me take care of everything.”
“So you're telling me killing isn't wrong.” John said.
“Exactly,” The John said, “There is no right. There is no wrong. There's simply whose side you're on. The sooner you accept this simple fact, the better off you'll be. That's what all these hippies don't understand about Vietnam. The war isn't about good vs. evil. It's about allegiances.”
Even after eighteen years, John's father still had the capability to surprise him. He appeared to be angrier with the Solicitor, Dave Parker, than he was with John. It slowly dawned on John that this was a turf war - and he was the turf. “Dad,” he ventured, “Would you please drop me off at Mud Dog Road? I'll walk home from there.”
“I don't see the harm,” The John replied, “But don't you even think about running away. My word is on the line and I'll break you before I break it. I would be unrestrained in my disappointment. Do I make myself clear?”
“Don't worry, I'll be home for supper,” John said, taking a sudden interest in the ground between his feet.
“Well, get in.”
John sat in the passenger seat, staring wordlessly out the window. The events of the past twenty-four hours just wouldn't add up for him. Not until later would the full impact of those events sink into his mind. The John did not talk at all, knowing silence can be the most effective form of speech. It worked. By the time he dropped his son off at the head of Mud Dog Road, The John shook fiercely.
John walked over two miles before he reached his favorite spot. He sat on a large rock formation overlooking Sugarcane Lake. The details of his surroundings soothed him as he unfocused his attention. Ants performed their small but organized tasks. Birds were moving deeper into the forest, sensing the upcoming storm that meteorologists would not detect for some hours to come. The surface of Sugarcane Lake lay as smooth as glass, responding to a recent drop in barometric pressure. The abandoned shack near the dam periodically creaked, though no one detected a wind. The rope swing formed a right angle with its own reflection.
After about an hour, a rustling in the woods interrupted his trance. Tammy emerged from the bushes and sat next to him, leaving a couple of feet between them, sensing his need for personal space. John and Tammy had a habit of never saying hello or goodbye. They sat; completely comfortable in the silence so many people feel the irresistible urge to fill.
When Tammy spoke, she began in the middle of a thought, as they liked to do with each other. “It's that asshole Solicitor, Dave Parker. What's the deal with him and your dad, anyway?”
“He and Parker were business partners in the sixties. They owned a gas station together. Anyway, something happened between them, so my dad sold out his half interest in the station, and opened his own station across the street. He worked nights selling insurance door to door, plus pulling in whatever money he could by taking small loans to subsidize the gas station. He sank every penny he had into the station, always selling below Parker's price. In the end, he sold gas at less than cost for almost a year before Parker declared bankruptcy.
“Then, he bitch-slapped Parker at a party years later, but Parker felt too embarrassed to file charges. So, yea, I guess you could say Solicitor Parker and The John aren't the best of friends.” John spoke robotically. Emotionally, he felt completely inert, like the rock where he sat. He wanted to feel something, but the feelings wouldn't come. He reached out and hugged her tightly. When the tears came, they came in a torrent. Neither spoke again until dusk.
John broke the silence. “Tammy, I don't know who I am. Everything I thought about myself just got tossed out the window.” He had his head in his hands. He saw tears dripping on the rock between his legs. “I've always thought I was the opposite of my dad, but I'm beginning to wonder if I'm exactly the same. Maybe deliberately being the opposite is exactly what makes me the same. Now, I'm a murderer on top of everything else.”
“No, you're not,” Tammy began, but John raised his palm toward her face.
“
When I was twelve,” John said, “my dad took me on my first hunting trip. He's an expert dove hunter, and wanted to teach me the basics. I had this little 4-10 shotgun, but I was still afraid of it. He taught me to hold it tight against my shoulder to minimize the kick and to squeeze the trigger with the gun still moving along with the target. Your natural instinct will tell you to stop, then shoot, and you have to overcome that instinct to hit moving targets.
“Well, by blind luck, I actually shot a dove out of the sky. But, when I walked up to the bird, it was still alive. I still remember it looking at me with those tiny black eyes as if to say, 'Why have you done this to me?' I was horrified at what I'd done. Then Dad walked up and casually grabbed the dove by the head and rung its neck to kill it.
“I threw up from revulsion, then ran and hid in the woods until Dad left. I knew he was disappointed in me, thought I was weak, and I couldn't face him. I walked home late that night and climbed in my bedroom window.
“Since that day, I haven't killed anything other than insects and haven't eaten one bite of meat. I keep trying to go back to that point in time, when I was innocent. I keep telling myself that's the real me, not the angry rebel I've become. I haven't been particularly successful so far, and now I've killed a human being. That's a mortal sin, Tammy. I killed that boy and all the children he would have had, and their children, and so on. Essentially, I've killed thousands of people. I'm a mass murderer. I've become the thing I hate and fear the most – a monster like my dad.”
“John, I know it was an accident and so do you. You're nothing like your father. You're gentle and kind and have a heart the size of Texas,” Tammy said, giving him a light kiss on the cheek.
“I've got his genes, Tammy.”
“Yes, but you also have something else, something more powerful than genes – free will. Nobody, not even your father, can turn you into something you don't want to be. He tried to make you a killer on that hunting trip and he failed. Don't you see? You decide who you are – only you.”
Extreme circumstances have a slimming effect on the mind. A billion worries coalesced into one thought. “Tammy, will you marry me?”
Tammy didn't move a muscle for three seconds. Then, her face burst into sunshine. “Yes!” She screamed as she threw her arms around his neck.
Neither of them thought about prison as they walked back to Mud Dog Road. As always, they took the path bypassing the lake. Tammy laid that law down. John never understood Tammy's fear of water. They took swimming lessons together as children, but she wouldn't even look at a body of water now.
John and Tammy walked directly to his parents' house to share the good news. The plantation-style home – white, two-story, with columns, sat on several acres. Eartha, the maid, answered the door. John had always loved Eartha. She was a second mother to him. After a brief chat, John and Tammy walked back into the living area.
The John sat in his wing-backed chair, reading the Beaumont Times. Al Capone's fishing rod hung above his head. The John claimed Capone gave it to his father to make good on a bet.
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. As John inhaled to speak, The John dropped the paper by two inches and barked, “I don't want to hear one syllable of complaint. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir,” John responded, “Mom, Dad, we've got some news.”
Gloria leaned forward, put her arms on her knees and intertwined her fingers. “What is it, John?”
“Tammy & I have decided to get married.”
The room grew silent as this proposal sank into their minds. Gloria looked shocked, but this didn't surprise John, as she was prone to melodrama. For almost a minute, The John did not look up from his paper. John realized too late that he should not have done this in front of Tammy.
The John finally spoke, “Son, this is a bad idea.”
“I don't know why it matters to you. This is one decision you will not make for me.” John said.
“This girl…” The John began.
“Her name is Tammy,” John interjected.
“This girl is not cut from the same cloth as the Drakes.”
“John, you're much too traumatized to make such a decision,” Gloria added.
“We've made our decision. You two can choose to attend the wedding or not. I don't care which. But, you can't stop us. We're both legal age.”
“You think it's as simple as that, huh? You're of legal age, and can do whatever you want, just to spite me?”
John saw the cauldron begin to boil behind his father's eyes. His parents thought of Tammy as 'trailer trash'. He had hoped her presence would be advantageous. He assumed their middle-class manners would work in his favor. It was uncouth to insult Tammy to her face. Civilized people would do that later, over a mint julep.
The John put his paper down and stood slowly. He walked until his nose reached the spot one inch from John's. He stared into John's eyes, but John held his ground. He maintained eye contact. It was no longer him against his father, something bigger than both of them was on the table – the formation of John's own family. At this range, John smelled a hint of his father's Old Spice.
“You do what you want. I don't give a damn!” The John looked John up and down as if sizing him up for a fight. When John did not respond, The John stormed out of the den toward the front door. A moment later, John heard tires squeal.
“John, you can't go through with this,” Gloria sobbed, “Please don't do something you may regret the rest of your life just to hurt your father and me.”
“You're talking about Tammy like she isn't even here!” John screamed. He clenched his fists at his sides, shaking with rage. “What gives you the right to judge her, or me for that matter?” He shoved his finger in Gloria's face as he spoke.
Tears were now streaming down Gloria's cheeks, “John, I know it hurts you to hear this, but you're not making a good decision.”
“What the hell does that mean?” John spread his arms in the fashion of a scarecrow.
“This is something you'll just have to trust your mother on, Honey.”
“Trust?” John spat, “What do you know about trust? A mother who allows her children to be beaten.”
“John, don't you know I blame myself for every one of those beatings every day of my life? Please, listen to me. I was just a teenager when your father married me. I never knew any different. Every day I pray to God for the courage to stand up to him, and every day I fail. How do you think that makes me feel? I'm afraid to stay and I'm afraid to leave.
“Honey, please trust me about this. She's not right for you.”
“Mom, I'd rather follow my own heart and be wrong than follow someone else's and be right. Tammy and I are getting married. This is our decision, and it's final.” Before Gloria could respond, John calmly grabbed Tammy's arm and led her out the front door.
Chapter Five
Beaumont, South Carolina
John nervously adjusted his tie as The John parked his black Mercedes sedan in the handicapped spot and squeezed his massive shoulders through the driver's side door. Gloria approached them across the lawn.
The Beaumont courthouse presented an awe-inspiring work of nineteenth century architecture to the practiced observer. The interior was 100% mahogany, worn to a smooth finish over a period of 156 years. There were huge cannonball cracks in the exterior red bricks. These cracks had never been mended, to remind the locals of Sherman's march through the South during 'The War of Northern Aggression'. Stout granite columns braced either side of the front entrance.
John saw his mother take note of the ever-present group of hippies waving banners protesting the war. They seemed to have unlimited time on their hands, and used it to demonstrate at any event providing an audience.
“Look at that, John. It's so tasteless,” she said.
“Mom, they're just fighting for what they believe in,” John chimed in.
“Fighting?” The John snarled. Gloria quickly cut her husband off by saying, “Well, Republicans don't
demonstrate. We just write checks.”
The John chuckled at his wife's little quip and put his hand on the small of her back, ushering her toward the courthouse. The John walked briskly, wearing his usual calm demeanor. His strides were long and confident, causing John to lag slightly behind. Only John noticed The John's occasional nervous twist of his West Point ring. For him, that tiny gesture was a full-blown conniption fit.
John did not have to presence of his father. In the six-week period since his arraignment, he had lost almost twenty pounds. His face stretched gaunt. He had black semicircles under his pink-rimmed eyes. He looked malnourished. Even with a fresh haircut and suit, something about him looked wrong. It would have been easier for him if the trial had occurred immediately after the incident. The waiting unnerved him. He had never been more frightened. When he saw the Solicitor crossing the well-manicured grass of the front lawn, he avoided the man's steely gaze. So, this what I've become, he thought, a coward?
John's head felt encased in molasses forced himself to face Parker. Time slowed to a crawl. John had weathered The John's abuses for the better part of two decades, but that had hardly prepared him for lifetime imprisonment. He had always been able to focus on the freedom he would enjoy when he turned eighteen. Now, this one ray of hope was in question. By force he managed to look Parker directly in the eye. Parker had the gaze of a junkyard dog. An icy calm washed over John. It was the calm of utter hopelessness.
* * *
Parker stood before the jury, pompously straightening his silk jacket by the lapels. He had chosen his navy-blue Brooks Brothers suit – conservative, respectable, and a nice complement to his sapphire blue eyes. Before beginning his opening arguments, he made brief eye contact with each juror.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want to tell you a story – a story of a boy on the wrong path in life, a boy who is not beyond salvation, but a boy who has committed a heinous crime nonetheless. I will demonstrate that the defendant, John Drake Jr., has a violent history. I will further demonstrate that John Drake Jr. has unleashed this violence on the beloved deceased, Clarence Buchanon, in the past. Ultimately, I will demonstrate that this was not an act of self-defense, but one intentionally instigated by Mr. Drake when he first attempted, and then succeeded in striking Clarence with a speeding baseball. Clarence merely defended himself.