Thirteen Confessions

by David Corbett

  Use this on your lawyer.

  Stab that no-count Public Pretender in the neck.

  Be a hero.

  Ain’t that just it, I thought. First kill all the lawyers—somebody famous said that. Or get somebody else to do it for you.

  I wrapped it up again, stuffed it in my pocket, then headed to the metal shop, got me some tape and went back to the kitchen, did what I’d been told, fastened the shiv to the bottom of NK’s tray.

  Guard that day is a Raider’s fan, so I chatted him up about Amari Cooper being maybe the new Biletnikoff and it was like I’d pulled a plug. He starts jabbering about the good old days, Snake and Ghost, how jazzed he is about the new regime, first time he’s felt pumped about the team in years, and he musta gone on like that nonstop for the next half hour. Gotta understand how boring the job is most days, damn near ex-static to have something to talk about. So no problem slipping NK his love letter.

  Now I just wanna get off the pod, before the man discovers his tray’s got a little something extra attached. Maybe he’ll call out for the guard—no telling with his kind. But we make it out okay, wheel my cart on out through the pod door. Damn near cry when I hear the lock click shut behind us.

  I’m thinking I’ve done my bit. Anybody got a gripe, ain’t with me.

  Comes time to collect the trays, I’m back in Iso Pod, another guard this time. I call out for NK to do the usual. Instead of the tray, though, he slips the shank and the note through the slot. Says through the opening to the guard, “Tell whoever gave me those they need to keep looking for their hero.”

  In case you’re wondering: No. I ain’t a trustee no more.

  —10—

  Defense counsel filed his motion for mandatory mistrial by the end of that afternoon, which conformed to the relevant sections of the code of civil procedure for timely submission. I checked to make sure the motion was signed with proof of service attached, date-stamped both documents, made copies for my personal case file, another for the judge’s (he likes to keep his own for reading in chambers so the original stays at the clerk’s office, available to the public).

  By the next morning the prosecution filed its response. I repeated the procedure with those papers, then calendared the hearing for the following day. As a courtesy, I called both lawyers to let them know when arguments were scheduled.

  Late in the day I took a moment to read the motions. The defense argued that the disruption in the courtroom substantially and irreparably prejudiced the defendant’s case, making it impossible for him to receive a fair and impartial verdict. The prosecution responded that only outbursts by counsel, jurors, or the judge present clear grounds for mistrial; as a matter of law, outbursts by the defendant himself, especially of an “intemperate or profane nature,” are not to be given great weight.

  Knowing the judge as I do, having worked with him for so many years, I doubted the motion stood much chance of success. But I’d had difficulty reading his mood during this trial. He’d seemed unusually distracted and lost in thought, and after the incident in court—especially when violence became necessary to subdue the defendant—he seemed particularly sullen and remote. I honestly had no idea how he would rule as I packed up at day’s end and headed home.

  I prepared a simple dinner, steamed vegetables with a teaspoon of lemon juice in the water to perk up the flavor, and a poached salmon with dill and mustard. My husband and I ate in silence, as we always do, for we agree that needless conversation disrupts the digestive process.

  After dinner we read, my husband his history (he’s currently making his way through Livy’s account of the Punic Wars), and I a classic 17th century Chinese guide titled The Craft of Gardens.

  Come ten o’clock we moved to the bedroom and put on our pajamas. Before turning out the lamp on my side of the bed, I pulled back the covers, rose to my knees, and straddled my husband, placing both hands on his throat. I pressed my thumbs into his larynx, a slight pressure at first, then increasing. He put up no resistance, a response I expected. He simply looked up at me with a gaze of calm bemusement, even as my efforts quite clearly began causing him pain, and he could no longer take in air.

  Finally, his hands shot up and took hold of my wrists, a reflex gesture, but even then he did not struggle or protest so much as simply try to connect. His grip felt accepting, even as my hands remained on his throat, pressing harder, harder.

  When I finally let go and climbed off him, he sat up, sputtering and heaving for several seconds, trying to reclaim his breath. Our eyes met.

  I said, “How did you know I would stop?”

  That struck him as funny. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  He took that in, as I knew he would. No one has ever truly seen me the way he has. He gave it considerable thought, his eyes never straying from mine as his breathing settled. Finally he said, “I suppose, in fact, I didn’t.”

  “You hoped I would,” I said. “Stop, I mean.”

  “I presumed you would.”

  I reached over and stroked his soft, stubbled cheek. “Is there a difference?”

  —11—

  I personally resent being denied the opportunity to render a verdict.

  When the judge called us back from the jury room and let us know he’d declared a mistrial—we were dismissed, thank you for your service, blah blah, go home—it felt like a goddamn insult. Apparently we’re just too unsophisticated, too small-minded, to put aside what we’d seen and come to a fair conclusion.

  Look, I know the difference between losing your temper and strangling somebody. Give me some goddamn credit already. I see a man flame off in frustration, I don’t automatically think he’s a killer. I mean, come on. Seriously? Nothing that happened that day added or subtracted from what any of us already knew about the guy.

  That’s not to say deliberations would’ve gone off without a hitch. Maybe a mistrial was inevitable—because of a hung jury, I mean. You could tell there were traitors in the room.

  The mope who seemed to be writing down damn near every word anybody said—what was up with that? Always had this look on his face like he needed somebody to slap him, bring him to his senses, clue him in. I dunno, he bothered me. But I think I could’ve brought him around.

  But the old lady in purple with the bows on her shoes and the little veiled hat—she was going to be trouble, you could just tell. Came from a different planet. One where gravity doesn’t exist. Never looked anybody in the eye. If you said good morning she put on this saccharine voice so damn phony you could tell, down in the darkest pit of her soul, she’d get off watching rats eat your face. Woman had poison in her veins. She’d refuse to convict just to spite us.

  But there’s ways around that. You can bump a juror who refuses to deliberate honestly, call in one of the alternates, start over. But we never got that chance.

  Free men and women deserve the right to deliberate on the facts as they see them, render the fairest verdict they can. That’s nothing more or less than the law. We were deprived of our right to carry out our duty. And you ask me, that makes those responsible criminals, whether they wear an orange jumpsuit, black robes, or purple.

  —12—

  Once the first trial was vacated, I thought I should visit the defendant. He’d refused too see me every time I’d tried before, but chaplains grow accustomed to that. We’re trained never to surrender hope, never to stop trying. Besides, for whatever reason, I had a feeling this time might be different. It turned out I was right.

  His outburst in the courtroom seemed to me indicative of impatience. And that in turn suggested remorse. The soul, fouled by sin, hungers for light and clarity, which is to say judgment. Contrition is the gateway to acceptance and mercy.

  I intended to let these thoughts guide me as we talked.

  When I entered his cell I detected an atmosphere of resignation, and
his posture and expression amplified that. I felt he might be ready to yield to God and make himself whole.

  And yet he said nothing, not even hello. I realized it would be up to me to get things rolling.

  I’d read up on his case, and had some idea of how to ease my way into his good graces. I began by noting that the issues that seemingly divide us—Christian versus Muslim, believer versus atheist, innocent versus guilty—ironically are often ways to forge bonds. Discord rewards our fear of the unknown. And faced with the hatred coming from both sides, we choose one camp or the other, if only because it’s simply too terrifying to be alone.

  He looked at me with a weary smile. “Last man who talked to me like that,” he said, “I strangled.”

  Our knees were almost touching in the small cell. I did my best to return his smile. “Well, how about this time we pray instead?”

  That seemed to amuse him. “No thank you.” He began rubbing his hands together. “But would you mind if I told you a story?”

  This had a hint of progress to it. “Not at all.”

  “Great. Good. Here we go.” He smiled with genuine warmth. “There’s this shepherd watching over his flock, okay? And one day he becomes aware of a wolf lurking nearby. So come nightfall the shepherd gathers all his stragglers into the center of the pasture, then takes out the giant knife he’s been sharpening for just this moment. With me so far?”

  I will admit to being uncomfortable, nut managed to say, “Of course.”

  “See, the shepherd knew that protecting his livelihood meant more than just keeping the sheep alive one more day. What about the next day, and the day after that? He had to remove the threat. The wolf had to die. Agreed?”

  I said nothing.

  “The wolf, on his end of the equation, knew the key to staying alive long-term wasn’t to attack the sheep. He had to take out the shepherd.”

  “If you’re trying to justify—”

  “I’m just telling a story. Okay?”

  It is difficult to convey in words the intensity of his stare. “Fine, but—”

  “Come midnight, the wolf sneaks into the pasture and goes for the shepherd. The shepherd draws his knife. At the very same moment he sinks the blade deep into the wolf’s chest, the animal’s fangs rip open his throat. Both bleed to death as the sheep just stand there, dazed, watching.”

  Again, I chose to say nothing.

  “The sheep stay like that, unable to move, for three days. Finally half the flock wanders off in search of a new shepherd. The remaining sheep trail away in hope of a new wolf. Except for one. Care to guess what he did?”

  It took a second for me to gather my thoughts, but eventually I managed to say, “You’re confusing a paradox with a parable.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s me all over.” He patted his knees like bongos. Then: “Tell you what, before you go, I’d like to ask a question.”

  Despite myself, I sighed. “Certainly.”

  “I assume you came here to talk to me about God’s love and such.”

  I nodded cautiously. “It’s why we’re never truly alone. God will not abandon us.”

  “Far out.” He flashed me a peace sign. “Well, if that’s true—if God loves me—why won’t he kill me?”

  —13—

  Happy New Year!

  Thanks so much for the most recent letter, Naughtily, for a number of reasons, some of which I’ll get to in a moment.

  First: you continue to amaze your useless father. What you’re doing out there where no one else wants to go (most people don’t want to even think about it, to be honest), handing out rations and medicine, risking your life—government on one side, the militias the other—it makes me wonder sometimes if you’re really my child. But you always took after your mother. Unlike your sister, who all too sadly resembles me.

  Steph continues to keep her distance. And yes, you’re right, it’s probably due to the ancient law of Like Repels Like. The Narcissism of Minor Differences. One day, perhaps, we’ll mend the fence. Maybe this year! I hope so.

  Getting back to your work—I was particularly impressed with the fact you’d helped drill two new boreholes and repaired the hand pumps for the town’s wells. You’re getting to be a regular Jill Of All Trades, if that’s not too sexist a way to put it.

  It reminded me of the neighbor I told you about, the contractor, Pete. Once again he helped me with some small chore around the house—repairing some of the grout in the stonework on the porch, this time—because, as you know, I’m worthless in such matters. As always, I invited him in for a drink—this was last night, by the way, New Year’s Eve—and since we’re a pair of pathetic divorcees we sat for a while and shot the breeze, licked our manly wounds, waiting for midnight.

  I’m not sure why, but he seemed unusually restless and caustic. The turn of the year can do that, of course. I’ve told you about his bitterness, the anger that never slips too far beneath the skin. He’s one of those classic middle-aged men who feels victimized by life, sees threats to everything good and pure at every turn and can’t help but dip into the usual grab bag of buzzwords: freedom, strength, values. Talks a lot about “them,” a predictably moving target. Wish I had a nickel for every time he’s stared at the TV and said, when something particularly mindless pops up, “Christ Almighty, have some pride.”

  And yet he can also be incredibly generous. He never seems happier than when he’s helping me out, and he’s hardly unaware or uninformed, though he could choose his sources a bit more judiciously—a smidgen more fact, a pinch less rant—something I’ve told him more than once. And got my head handed to me for the privilege.

  His slant, though, last night, seemed unusually extreme. And personal. Like I’d said something particularly offensive or reprehensible or just clueless. Can’t even remember what we were discussing, to be honest. Sometimes I think it’s the mere fact I exist that he finds inexcusable.

  Anyway, he called me a few names, nothing I haven’t heard before, and to be honest there was a moment when I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself. His eyes went from a dead stare one minute to out-of-focus the next.

  “What woman worth a postage stamp would give you second look?”—he said that, I remember. And: “If I had to get up every morning and see you in my mirror I think I’d slit my wrists.”

  Like I said: New Year’s Eve. Sometimes the ghosts come out even worse than Halloween. The loneliness can really kick you in the teeth.

  But there was something else, too, a sense that he wanted someone to pay, be held to account for some crime. But who? For what? I didn’t know whether to apologize for something I’d inadvertently done or ask him if he wanted to get something off his chest.

  Regardless, the point became moot when he slammed down his glass and stormed out. It’s happened before. I called out through the doorway, “Sleep it off, Pete. Come on by tomorrow, we’ll watch some football.”

  Maybe he heard me, maybe not. We’ll see, I guess.

  But the point is, the way he was acting? It reminded me of something you said in your letter.

  I’ve spent a lot of time trying to apologize for what a lousy father I was—how, in virtually every way, I wasn’t there. Apologies never seem to carry the full weight they need, though. Easiest words to say in any language: I’m sorry. Know the hardest words? The ones you wrote: I forgive you.

  I can’t begin to tell you what that meant to me. It’s like a thousand chains have dropped away and I’m finally free.

  Thanks. If I said it over and over until the day I die, it wouldn’t be enough.

  Maybe that’s what I should say when Impossible Pete comes over today to watch the game: I forgive you. Wonder how he’d react to that.

  Anyhow, that’s what I wanted to say. You’re an amazing person and I’m so grateful you’re in my life, even half a world away. Be safe.


  It Can Happen

  Pilgrim watched as, just outside his bedroom door, Lorene handed Robert fifty dollars and told him she wanted to visit personal with her ex-husband for a spell. Robert was Pilgrim’s nurse. He’d been a wrestler in college—you had to be strong to heft a paralyzed man in and out of bed—and worked sometimes now as a bouncer on his off-hours.

  Robert glanced back toward the bedroom for approval and Pilgrim gave his nod. The big man pocketed the money, donned his hat and walked out the door in his whites, not bothering with his coat despite the cold.

  Pilgrim liked that about Robert—his strength, his vigor, his indifference to life’s little bothers. Maybe ‘liked’ wasn’t quite the word. Envied.

  He lay back in bed and waited for Lorene to rejoin him. His room was the largest in the cramped, dreary house and bare except for the twenty thousand dollar wheel chair gathering dust in the corner, the large-screen TV he was so very tired of watching, an armchair for visitors with a single lamp beside it and the centerpiece—the mechanical bed, a hospital model, tilted up so he didn’t just lie flat all day.

  Lorene took up position bedside and crossed her arms. She was a pretty, short, ample, strong woman. “Don’t make me go off on you.”

  Pilgrim tilted his head to see her, eyes glazed. Every ten minutes or so, someone needed to wipe the fluid away. It was a new problem, the tear ducts. Three years now since the accident, reduced to deadweight from the neck down, followed by organs failing, musty skin, powdery hair, his body in a slow but inexorable race with his mind to the grave. He was forty-three years old.

  In a scratchy whisper, he said, “I got my eyes and ears out there.”

  “Corella?” Their daughter. Corella the Giver, Lorene called her, not kindly.

  “You been buying things,” he said.

  “Furniture a crime now?”

  “Things you can’t afford, not by the wildest stretch—”