Take One With You

by Oak Anderson

  “You were right, Charlie,” his mother suddenly said.

  “About what?”

  “Brad. I know he’s cheating.”

  Charlie’s brow furrowed, his eyes dark. Brad had always been a sore spot between them, and the last time his name had been spoken it had been ugly.

  “What are you doing with him, Mom?” Charlie nearly cried. Years of emotion poured out of him, all of the anger and bitterness about the betrayal of his father’s memory and their ruined lives flowed forth like a nasty, poison river.

  Anne just stood there and let it wash over her; she was almost happy for him to finally let it out. She should have been more open to it before.

  When Charlie was done, he felt tired and empty, and his mother took him in her arms and held him, whispering over and over in his ear, “I’ll make things right, son. I’ll make things right.”

  When Charlie finally pulled away, his mother’s eyes were peaceful for the first time in a very long time. He even thought he saw a glimmer of hope in there, somewhere. She wasn’t happy, but she was, how could he describe it? Reconciled.

  “You enjoy your time with Sarah, son,” his mother said. “Life is short.” And she smiled so sweetly that Charlie felt tears welling up in his eyes. He had been such an asshole to have stayed mad at her for so long. He could see that now. Everything seemed clear to him, now.

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom,” he said. “It’s a long drive.”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s getting late.”

  Something bothered him about the way she said that, and it wasn’t, of course, the fact that they were the very last words he ever heard his mother say. He had no idea of that at the time. It was the way she said it, with an almost dream-like quality. As if she had not actually accepted reality, but rather stepped into a fantasy, a world in which everything would be all right.

  And both of them knew that just wasn’t true.

  Charlie made the three and a half hour drive in three, and he and Sarah were halfway through their meal when his mother sent him a text just before stepping off the vanity stool in her bedroom, swinging just a bit before the kicking stopped.

  As soon as Charlie left, Anne had driven to her husband’s office and finally caught her husband in the act, laughing and kissing his secretary as they left for the evening, probably to some fancy hotel downtown.

  She doesn’t look like the cheap motel type, Anne thought, giggling at her insight.

  She entered the building after they’d left, and used the key to her husband’s office she had managed to keep from him, despite all of his precautions. There were several of his employees there, and she smiled and greeted them each by name, explaining that her husband had forgotten some papers and asked her to stop by.

  They knew she was lying, of course, but were too embarrassed to say anything at all. Their boss had just left with the woman they all knew to be his mistress; whatever else happened, it was none of their concern.

  Anne went through his files and found what she was looking for, and used the series of neatly typed numbers to open the safe that was hidden in the floor beneath his desk. In spite of her generally drugged state, there was something purifying about her decision. Something that cleared her mind a bit. She hadn’t really known whether she could do it until her conversation with Charlie, but somehow she knew he would be all right.

  She gathered the documents from the safe and shredded them, making sure to take the fragments with her for disposal at some out-of-the-way location on her way home. She wasn’t sure, but knowing Brad, he had kept all the copies in the safe for himself.

  Just before she hung herself, she sent a text to Charlie. Had she been thinking clearly, she would have never done such a thing, or at least left him a note, but the clarity of their last conversation had, by this time, receded back into the depths of her psychosis, and it all made perfect sense to her.

  Of course, had she been thinking clearly, she never would have taken her life at all, but as Charlie and his new friend understood better than most from the websites they frequented, almost anyone was capable of taking a life if the circumstances were right.

  Her sordid family history never even crossed her mind, her childhood obsessions now long forgotten. Little did she know those same fascinations had already been transferred to her son.

  ***

  When Charlie got the text, he knew immediately what it meant. Knowing his mother as he did, there was really no other explanation.

  He looked up from his phone on the table and into Sarah’s eyes, and his own were filled with terror.

  “I have to go,” Charlie said, and Sarah could find no words to respond. She had never seen such a look on the face of another human being, and she never wanted to again. She watched in silence as Charlie ran out of the restaurant, honestly not knowing if she would ever see him again.

  And then she looked down and saw his phone, where the last words of his mother lay coiled like a snake in the sun, ready to rise up and strike whoever wandered past

  I made things right. Love, Mom.

  1 YEAR, 2 MONTHS AFTER TOWY WEBSITE

  The following 60 Minutes script is from “Judge Not”.

  Steve Kroft is the correspondent.

  Samuel Grayson, Michael Dill, and Ariana Ortiz, producers.

  .

  You wouldn’t know it from his recent actions, but this Cook County, Illinois criminal court judge, pictured on the left,

  [Graphic]

  was a man so well respected by his peers that he was nominated numerous times, and recently won, The William H. Rehnquist Award for Judicial Excellence, one of the highest honors in his profession.

  This is the story behind the incredible events surrounding the trial of mass school shooter Nathan Jackson, and how one judge ended both his life and his exemplary career in a single, stunning moment that will likely forever change the face of American jurisprudence.

  Only last month, we reported on the growing TOWY movement, so named as an acronym for “take one with you,” which encourages those who plan suicide to literally take someone else with them to their death. Towys, as they call themselves, want to kill someone else before killing themselves. Preferably someone that society, or more likely, the shadowy leaders of the movement, deems worthy. Murderers, rapists, and child molesters initially topped the list.

  But gradually, whether by design or because grass roots movements by nature are unpredictable, the list of those deemed worthy, expanded.

  Nancy Janes, who clerked for Judge Spencer Wetherbee and witnessed the event, recently sat for an interview.

  .

  Steve Kroft: What was it like working for Judge Wetherbee?

  Nancy Janes: He was the best, just the best. I still can’t believe he actually did it.

  Steve Kroft: What do you mean ‘actually’?

  Nancy Janes: Well, he kind of mentioned it before. Alluded, I guess.

  Steve Kroft: How do you mean?

  Nancy Janes: The case was all everybody was talking about, of course, and he –

  Steve Kroft: The Nathan Jackson case?

  Nancy Janes: Yes. Judge Wetherbee just seemed really tired of it all.

  Steve Kroft: Meaning?

  Nancy Janes: The whole media circus. There was a lot of, um, pressure.

  Steve Kroft: Go on.

  Nancy Janes: Well, he was sick of it. He’d handled, oh God, so many criminal cases. But this was different. This one hit him hard.

  Steve Kroft: You mean the children.

  Nancy Janes: He has – had, grandchildren that age. And when he had to make that ruling, it broke his heart.

  .

  She’s talking about a pre-trial defense motion to disallow the seizure of a laptop computer found at Nathan Jackson’s mother’s house that may have held evidence showing premeditation.

  According to Nancy, Judge Wetherbee made statements to her that he was worried about the lack of such evidence and how it might affect the jury.

  .


  Nancy Janes: He was worried they might not convict on first degree and bump him down to second.

  Steve Kroft: But how could that happen?

  Nancy Janes: We don’t have the death penalty. And when you’ve been a judge as long as he had, really…I mean, anything can happen.

  Steve Kroft: These were children.

  Nancy Janes: I guess that’s why he wanted to make sure.

  .

  Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011, and if the shooter had been convicted of second-degree murder, he could have been released in as few as four years.

  Dr. Scott Robbins is a professor of criminal justice at Illinois State University. He also has degrees in sociology and clinical psychology.

  .

  Scott Robbins: Oh, it’s quite possible that the shooter could have been convicted of the lesser charge. As terrible as it sounds, things like that happen all the time.

  Steve Kroft: For shooting nine six year-olds, killing four of them?

  Scott Robbins: It wasn’t his gun. At least, they couldn’t prove that it was. He could have found it on the way to the school, even at the scene, and just decided to shoot. Spur of the moment.

  Steve Kroft: Spur of the moment?

  Scott Robbins: This is Cook County.

  Steve Kroft: Come on.

  Scott Robbins: Look, if they’d been able to trace the gun, that might have made a difference. To show how or when he acquired it. But they couldn’t. The previous owner could be out there somewhere, scared to death to be connected to the shooting, or blissfully unaware their gun is missing. Or dead. Who knows? There are a lot of unregistered, unlicensed guns out there. But unless they could prove when or where he got the gun, they couldn’t necessarily prove premeditation.

  Steve Kroft: Unless they had the laptop.

  Scott Robbins: Unless they had the laptop.

  .

  Which brings us back to that ruling. Judge Wetherbee, by all accounts, was a stickler for the law. So when the police acquired the laptop outside the rules of evidence, the judge felt he had no choice but to exclude it.

  .

  Nancy Janes: Oh, it tore him up. Absolutely.

  Steve Kroft: And that’s when the pressure got to him?

  Nancy Janes: I think so. He just couldn’t stand the thought of that man not being punished for what he’d done.

  Steve Kroft: But he still would have served time.

  Nancy Janes: What time? Four years?

  Steve Kroft: Second-degree murder is four to fifteen. And there was still a chance he could have been convicted of first-degree murder, wasn’t there?

  Nancy Janes: Maybe.

  Steve Kroft: That could be life without parole.

  Nancy Janes: But would that have been enough? Could it ever be enough, for what he did?

  .

  Apparently, Judge Wetherbee didn’t think so. Because on the first day of the trial, he smuggled into his chambers an antique Colt Single Action Army .45 Revolver,

  [Graphic]

  also known, ironically enough, as a Peacemaker, first used during the American-Indian Wars of the nineteenth century. Though its cylinder holds six rounds, the weapon was loaded with only two.

  .

  Steve Kroft: Why do you think he did that?

  Scott Robbins: Just two bullets? I guess he figured he was a pretty good shot. Or else he was getting forgetful.

  .

  What Dr. Robbins is referring to are rumors of the judge’s senility, which have been refuted by his doctors, his family, and his friends. None of Judge Wetherbee’ relatives wanted to be interviewed on camera, but a spokesperson for the family released a statement that reads in part: “As for the number of bullets, we have no idea why he chose to load the number he did, except that which is obvious to those who knew him: Judge Wetherbee wanted to hurt only two people, the accused and himself, and that was his way of ensuring it.”

  There were no other weapons or ammunition found anywhere in the judge’s chambers, his home, or his car.

  When we return, video of the event itself, up until the moment he pulled the trigger.

  [Commercial break]

  What you’re about to see is the extraordinary footage from the first day of the trial of school shooter Nathan Jackson, Judge Spencer Wetherbee presiding. We won’t show the actual shooting, but please be advised the content may be disturbing to some viewers.

  [Video]

  As you can see, the judge has ordered the armed bailiffs to stand to each side of the bench, facing out towards the courtroom. This was unusual, but most onlookers probably assumed, after his next direction, that it was for his own protection.

  They assumed wrong.

  .

  Judge Wetherbee: Before we bring in the jury, I’d like to say a few things. Mr. Dalworth, would you instruct your client to stand and approach the bench, please?

  .

  As you can see, the defense attorney brings Nathan Jackson forward, but then the judge surprises everyone for the second time.

  .

  Judge Wetherbee: You can sit down, Counsel.

  Mr. Dalworth: Your honor?

  Judge Wetherbee: Please take a seat. Thank you. Mr. Jackson, you have been incarcerated for some time, now. Your meals, your protection, and your care are all paid for by Cook County. You were brought here under armed guard wearing a bulletproof vest, walking amongst men who are trained to step in the way of an assassin in order to protect your life, all so that you may be tried in a court of law by a jury of your peers. Your trial, and many others like it, along with the probable appeals, will inevitably take many months, if not years, to conclude. It is, in my view, a colossal waste of the State’s resources.

  Mr. Dalworth: Your honor –

  Judge Wetherbee: Sit down, Mr. Dalworth. You’ll have your chance to speak in a moment. My point, Mr. Jackson, is that an awful lot of time and money will be spent on you, and the media will endlessly blather on and on and your name will become commonly known and possibly even glorified, and it will be like many other trials I’ve witnessed in my thirty years on this bench. A lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing but pain for your victims, this community, and society at large.

  Mr. Dalworth: Your honor!

  Judge Wetherbee: Sit down, Mr. Dalworth! Do you know what I mean, Mr. Jackson? That’s from Macbeth, act five, by the way. The full quote is, “A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Mr. Jackson, I am that idiot. As well as my peers, and society in general. For continuously allowing our judicial system to be perverted by the likes of you. Stay in your seat, Mr. Dalworth, and you can ask for a mistrial. Mr. Jackson, I’ve decided to stop being an idiot. I find you guilty as hell!

  We’ve frozen the tape there, but at that point, Judge Wetherbee drew his weapon from beneath his robe, stood up, and before a shocked courtroom, shot Nathan Jackson between the eyes. He then turned the weapon on himself. Both men died instantly.

  We may never know what motivated Judge Wetherbee, after a life devoted to serving the law as a judge, to appoint himself jury and executioner, as well. But we do know this: There are an awful lot of so-called Towys out there who had vowed to do exactly the same thing to Nathan Jackson if ever they got the opportunity.

  Judge Wetherbee, because he’d had enough, denied them that chance.

  Chapter Seven

  “I could cut your throat like a chicken and nobody would give a fuck.”

  The larger of the two men in the alley silently appraised his adversary through slitted, almost feral eyes, breathing heavily. Both men knew the words reflected a hard truth in an even harder city, the kind of truth that wasn’t so much conscious knowledge as it was something deeper, almost like a gene passed down from father to son.

  There were a lot of people in the city who wouldn’t be missed should something tragic befall them, people who looked like they’d already fallen through the cracks a few times before and somehow managed, against all odds, to crawl back into the l
ight to await a similar fate.

  People like the man being pushed up against the wall with a knife to his throat.

  What the speaker of those words had no way of knowing was that the object of his derision, though a derelict through and through, was not one of those people.

  The smaller man, the one holding a knife to the big man’s throat, the speaker of those cold, hard words, pressed the blade a little deeper into the larger man’s flesh, an especially nasty glint in his eye.

  “You know what I mean, you piece of shit?”

  The bigger man nodded once, being careful not to move much at all given the sharp steel against his skin. It was really more of a look in his eyes than a movement of his head, but he sensed the smaller man wanted something more. He was already bleeding from several places after the beating he’d taken, and had no desire at all to test the sincerity of the smaller man’s claim, especially when it would be his own knife that would be cutting his throat.

  “Lemme hear you say it,” the man with the knife hissed, pressing harder. The big man could feel his life pulsing beneath metal, an odd thing to experience, indeed.

  One summer when he was a boy he’d hiked through the woods with some buddies to an old dam during a drought, and after they’d snuck past two fences, one of them had dared him to walk across the cement shoulder to the other side. It was about the width of two shoes, not that hard to balance, but falling to either side would likely mean serious injury or death.

  It was the longest 200 feet he’d ever traveled, and about halfway across the dam he got the same queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he felt now, in a darkened alley behind a liquor store just a block from the cheap flophouse where he always stayed until his check ran out, which was usually about the middle of each month.

  Like his life was teetering on the edge of something cold and unfeeling, something that would just as soon have him die as live.