Return to Innocence

by G. M. Frazier

  One of the boys screams, I don’t know which. I gasp and back up and stumble on the bottom step of the staircase. I fall backwards, still staring at the apparition before me. I’m trying to think of what to do and how absurd this is. I’m a grown man and I’m terrified.

  And then I hear laughter coming from outside. And then from inside. Peter and Nick are breaking into hysterics. Benjamin is jumping up and down, giggling and pointing at his daddy, who is lying flat on his back and bewildered at the foot of the stairs.

  I turn back to the lamp, which is no longer swinging. Standing on either side of it are my father and Jim, both straining to contain their laughter. I can see the string now, from which the lamp is hanging.

  “Old Joe’s come a’ callin’,” Dad says and then bursts into laughter, slapping his legs. Jim lets out a long, wheezing laugh and points at me.

  “I wish you could see your face,” he says.

  Benjamin comes running over and jumps on me. “We really scared you, didn’t we, Daddy?”

  “You sure did, little man.”

  Peter and Nick are near tears, they are laughing so hard. They stumble over to me, holding on to each other. Now that the shock has worn off, I start to laugh too. “You all planned this?” I ask.

  Jim shakes his head. “It was your dad’s idea,” he says, pointing to my father.

  “Daddy? This was your doing?”

  “T’was, son. I remember how much you used to love comin’ down here with your uncle, and him tellin’ you all those stories that our daddy used to tell us when we were boys. I just thought I’d give a little of that back, seein’s how I took it away from you.”

  I lift Benjamin off me and stand. I walk over and embrace my father and he pats me hard on the back. My eyes are full of tears.

  “I love you, Glen Michael. And I always have,” he says over my shoulder. “I just never knew how to show it. But I’m learnin’, son. I’m learnin’.”

  We tried to get my father to stay with us. But he said the dampness would have his arthritis acting up and he wouldn’t be able to walk in the morning.

  Jim brought a sleeping bag and I could see how happy Nick was that he was joining us.

  The boys have long since drifted off to sleep and Jim and I are lying in our sleeping bags talking, whispering. Peter and Nick are sleeping beside each other, each zipped up tight in his sleeping bag. Benjamin is in my sleeping bag instead of his.

  “It’s strange,” I say to Jim.

  “What is?”

  “You saw me hug my father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What would you say if I told you that was the first time?”

  “The first time for what?”

  “The first time I’ve ever hugged him.”

  Jim just stares at me. Finally, he says, “You’re kidding, right?”

  I laugh and I feel Benjamin stirring behind me. He wraps his arm around my neck and I take his little hand in mine and kiss his fingers. They smell of marshmallow and wood smoke.

  “Are you sleepy?” Jim asks me.

  I look at my watch. It’s a little past midnight. “Not really,” I answer.

  “Me neither. Let’s go sit out on the porch and talk.”

  I gently uncoil Benjamin’s arm from around my neck and slip out of the sleeping bag. I kneel over my sleeping little boy, his face the color of a Charleston sunrise in the amber glow of the fire. His eyes are moving under those tiny lids. He is dreaming. Probably about Old Joe. I reach down and stroke his hair and then kiss him on the cheek. He moves a little and makes a sound. I fold the sleeping bag up and tuck it under his chin. I look up at Jim. He is smiling at me.

  We get our shoes and jackets on and I step over for a look at Peter. He is sound asleep. Nick, as well. Jim and I leave the parlor and go out on the front porch.

  When we get out there, Jim lights the old oil lamp that he scared the hell out of me with and we sit on the steps. It’s a dark night and the stars are bright but there is no moon.

  “What did your dad mean when he said he took it away from you, Glen?”

  “He was talking about my uncle, his brother.”

  “And what exactly did he take away?”

  And so on this warm November night, on the steps of my ancestral home, I tell Jim the story of my childhood, my relationship—or lack thereof—with my father. And then I explain that Uncle Ben was really more of a father to me than Daddy ever was. That Uncle Ben was gay, and how the rest of the family treated him because of that.

  “What line of work was your uncle in?” Jim asks.

  “He was a counselor, like me,” I answer.

  “So what did your dad mean about taking it away from you when he mentioned your uncle? What did he take away?” Jim asks.

  I close my eyes and massage them with my finger tips. “Let me ask you something, Jim. Do you remember the first time you had an orgasm?” I look over at him.

  “I guess so,” Jim says. “Why?” He’s got a puzzled look on his face.

  “Solo?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Jim replies.

  “Well, mine wasn’t. I was in the bed with Uncle Ben my first time.”

  “Oh, jeez, Glen. You said your uncle was gay, did he do something to you?

  “No, no…nothing like that. But Daddy thought he had. All that really happened between me and Uncle Ben in my bed that morning was that Uncle Ben gave me the only sex education lesson I ever had until I was in college and took my first course in human sexuality. Your dad probably went over the birds and the bees with you, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty clinical as I recall.”

  “But at least he tried. Not my father,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Jim says. “Are you and your uncle still close?”

  “No, he’s dead. He killed himself the week after that happened.”

  I wait for Jim’s response. Finally, I look over at him. He’s just staring at me, the shadows from the flickering oil lamp dance across his face.

  “He committed suicide?” Jim asks.

  I nod.

  “Do you blame yourself?”

  “No, I blame my father. You see, he walked in on us—me lying there on the bed with my underwear down around my knees and my uncle beside me, stroking my hair.”

  “And your old man thought he’d caught you in flagrante delicto with his own brother. I bet he went ballistic.”

  My eyes fill with tears as I remember the imprecatory venom my father spewed that morning. I wipe them with the back of my hand. I clear my throat. “You just don’t know,” I say.

  “Did your dad call the police?”

  “The sheriff, yes.”

  “Didn’t you tell him that your uncle hadn’t done anything?”

  “Yes. And the sheriff even said he didn’t see any point in pressing charges, since I explained the whole thing.”

  “But your dad would have none of that, right? So your uncle killed himself rather than go to jail.”

  I don’t respond to Jim’s assessment. Yes, Uncle Ben killed himself because of the criminal charges that his own brother was trying to press. I pleaded with Daddy, to no avail. My father’s righteous indignation would not be bound, and his moral certitude would not allow him to believe the word of his own son, let alone his homosexual brother.

  I wipe away the tears as I remember that summer; the summer my uncle left me. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about him and miss him.

  Chapter 13

  Context

  On December 18, 1995 I was indicted on six counts of criminal sexual conduct in the second degree. The grand jury returned a no bill on both counts of committing a lewd act upon a child. Jim said something about those charges being merged with the felony charges as lesser included offenses because none were discrete incidences. Whatever that means, it is little consolation. If convicted on all counts of the indictment, I face up to one-hundred and twenty years in prison.

  It’s four months later now, and Jim and I have s
pent the time since the indictments were handed down preparing for my trial, which begins tomorrow. At a pre-trial hearing last week, Jim argued (in what he called a “motion in limine”) for the exclusion as evidence of all my writings, my research materials, and all the books, journals, and magazines that were taken from my home. He also argued for the exclusion of the testimony of Bill Tyne, my former research assistant at Penn. His story is utter fabrication, motivated by his belief that I played a role in his denial of admission into the Ph.D. program there at Penn.

  The judge didn’t rule the way Jim had predicted.

  “Mr. Aiken,” the judge said at the hearing, “I am denying your motion to exclude the evidence in question. Under Rule 401, I consider the evidence to be relevant, and under Rule 404 the solicitor will be allowed to introduce the materials that were seized at the defendant’s house, for the same reason.

  “I have reviewed the statement by William Tyne concerning Dr. Erskine’s alleged sexual encounter with a twelve-year-old boy sixteen years ago. I think the testimony is credible and probative, and it will be allowed.”

  Jim stood and asked, “May I address the court, Your Honor?”

  “Certainly.”

  “With all due respect, Your Honor, the law in South Carolina is clear on this issue. Collateral evidence can only be introduced to show the defendant’s motive or intent to commit the specific crime for which he is charged. Such evidence may not be admitted to show that the defendant might have motive or intent to commit the type of crime for which he is charged. I believe Your Honor is confusing intent with inclination and I would respectfully submit that the materials in question do not even show inclination. Dr. Erskine is a clinical and research psychologist and he has written on some of the issues raised by this case in that capacity.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Aiken,” the judge said with a smile. “You argued that point quite well in your brief. But I don’t believe the law in this state is as clear as you think it is. We are dealing with a very touchy subject here and your client has written extensively on the subject of child sexual abuse and childhood sexuality. Under 404(b), I think it is proper to let the jury hear the evidence and let them decide if that evidence shows inclination. If so, they can then decide if that inclination rises to the level of motive or intent on the part of the defendant.”

  “Yes, Your Honor, but you must admit that because we are dealing with a very touchy subject, this evidence is highly prejudicial to my client and this fact far outweighs whatever probative value it may have. Even though you have found this evidence to be relevant, Your Honor, I would move that it be excluded under Rule 403.”

  “I understand your concern, Mr. Aiken, but I’ve made my ruling. Your motion is denied. The evidence can be admitted. You will have ample opportunity to present your side of Dr. Erskine’s views, and I am more than confident in your ability to do so.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Jim sat and looked at me. He didn’t look happy.

  * * *

  It took nearly the entire morning to seat a jury and I get the impression that Jim is wholly dissatisfied with the twelve people and three alternates who will shortly sit before us. It is the first real day of my trial, and opening statements are about to begin.

  Suzanne is seated directly behind the defense table and is dressed in a striking blue suit this afternoon, the skirt just at the knee line, revealing her marvelous calves. Jim, when he came to pick us up for court, commented on my wife’s beauty. She thanked him and then said she was going to sue him for sexual harassment. We laughed, but I can’t help wondering if that is not what our society is coming to. If every comment must be scrutinized for all possible offenses; where a compliment may no longer be taken as such.

  I am wearing a simple charcoal two-button suit. White shirt. Maroon tie. Jim told me to dress conservatively, not realizing, I guess, that I generally do. My suit fits me well, but it doesn’t come close to the tailor-made one that Jim is wearing. I am watching him now as I sit at the defense table. He is standing not fifteen feet away talking with Moultrie. Smiles, laughs—you’d think they were long lost college buddies. But Jim has explained the precarious nature of the adversarial system of American justice. Sometimes opposing attorneys really don’t like each other. But usually the adversarial relationship is confined to the courtroom. And right now Jim Aiken and Nathan Moultrie don’t look like enemies about to do battle. They shake hands and Jim returns to the defense table.

  The deputy is calling the court to order. My case number is called. The packed courtroom heeds the command to rise and as we do, Judge Helen Booker ascends the bench. She is a handsome woman—I’d say around sixty—with brilliant silver hair done up in a fashionable style, short in the back and on the sides, full on top. There is a bit of color—red—peeking out at the collar of her austere black robe. With a rap of the gavel we sit.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” she says, her voice laced with a pleasant Charleston accent.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Jim and Moultrie intone in unison.

  “Are we ready for trial,” she says.

  Standing, Moultrie says “The State is ready.”

  “The defense is ready,” Jim says as he rises also.

  The lawyers sit, and I turn around and look at the spectators as the judge calls for the jurors to be seated. The tension in the courtroom is evident. Reporters are packed into the first two rows behind the prosecution and then back along the walls to the rear. There is not an empty seat anywhere. Earlier, there was a scuffle outside when the bailiffs closed the doors to further spectators.

  The judge greets the jurors, reminding them of the oath they have taken. She then begins to explain the nature of opening statements: “The opening remarks by the lawyers are intended to give you a preview of the evidence and facts they will present for your consideration. Sometimes, what they say will be of a personal nature, but as you listen to these two men, keep in mind that nothing of what they say is evidence in this trial. You are not to decide the guilt or innocence of the accused based on these opening statements. You must look at the evidence as it is presented, the facts of the case, and draw your own conclusions. You, as the jury, must come up with your own theory as to what the facts show. Do we all understand this?” Judge Booker gives a winning smile to the jury and there is a collective nod from them all.

  Everyone is anxiously awaiting Moultrie’s opening statement and as he stands to give it I feel a renewed loathing of this man who seeks to take my life.

  “May it please the court,” Moultrie begins and saunters over to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as the judge informed you this morning before you were questioned, this case involves a most heinous crime...”

  Moultrie’s voice is smooth and confident. The jurors seem to be warming up to him already. Even in my disdain for the man, I can still see that he is a likable person. Or maybe it is simply their dislike of me that is making them receptive to the solicitor.

  “...the sexual abuse of children is something that we, as a society, are no longer willing to turn a blind eye to...”

  I tune Moultrie out and think about how I have devoted my life to the intolerance of child abuse. And now the entire state sees me as the epitome of that crime.

  “...and I must tell you,” I hear Moultrie saying, “I have found this case to be the most disturbing to me personally of any case I have been involved with in my eleven years as a prosecutor, and here is why.” Moultrie turns from the jury and walks towards the defense table. He stops in front of us and stares down at me and I am tempted to look away, but I don’t.

  Moultrie turns to the jury and points down at me. “The evidence will show that this man has had a long and distinguished career as a child psychologist. Countless youngsters have put their trust in him over the years. Just like the boy who now accuses him.

  “The evidence will also show, ladies and gentlemen, that Glen Erskine is a pedophile, a man who seeks out contact with young boys in order to establis
h sexual relationships with them.” Moultrie leaves my presence and returns to the jury. “And what I find the most vile, the most despicable, is that this man hides under the cloak of professionalism in order to indulge his deviant lusts. Now—”

  Jim stands. “Your Honor, I have got to object to this.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Moultrie, let’s try and keep the inflammatory remarks to a minimum, please. I think we all understand your feelings in this matter. If the jury is to share your outrage, I want them to get it from the evidence, not from you. Are we clear on this?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize to the court,” Moultrie turns back to the jury, “and to you,” he adds. “The judge is absolutely correct. So, let me give you a rundown of what the evidence will show.

  “First, the evidence will show that a crime has actually been committed. The crime? The sexual assault of a thirteen-year-old boy, a resident of the group home where the accused served as director. The evidence? The boy will tell you himself what this man did to him. And there will be medical testimony to corroborate the boy’s testimony that he was brutally sodomized.”

  I see two of the jurors wince at that revelation. Could it be that they were truthful when they said they did not know the details of the case when questioned by the lawyers this morning? Jim was right, none of the twelve are going to view me in a sympathetic light when Moultrie is finished.

  “You will hear testimony from witnesses that place Dr. Erskine at the scenes of the alleged incidents of abuse. You will hear testimony from the boy’s roommate who was in the room when one of the incidents occurred.

  “The facts will show that Dr. Glen Erskine is a man with a long history of deviant interests and pursuits—again, all shrouded in the pseudo-legitimacy of clinical professionalism.

  “I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that once you have heard all the evidence, you will reach the same conclusion that I have reached. Glen Erskine is a pedophile. In short, the facts will show that Glen Erskine committed this terrible crime and he deserves to be punished for it.” Moultrie returns to the prosecution table and sits.