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Pale Deaths

C. Bryan Brown

    Did you know that March 19^th is Act Happy Day? Or that November 3^rd is Cliché Day? Here’s one for the record books: October ^31st isn’t just for trick or treating anymore, no—it’s also National Knock Knock Day. The United States has an entire day dedicated to a line of jokes that no one beyond the third grade cares about. This is the country we live in, the land of the free and the home of the brave.
    Knock knock.
    Who’s there?
    Iraq.
    Iraq who?
    Iraq my brain wondering who gets paid to come up with these stupid fucking jokes for a living.
    It’s sad, isn’t it, how the self-proclaimed “best place in the world to live” has its obvious flaws and moments of ridiculousness?
    Today is May 9^th. This is Root Canal Appreciation Day. Not lying. I hate the dentist, but I’d rather be there than sitting in the courtroom, watching Mr. Jack Johnson, Esquire. I’m still not sure why I even hired a lawyer, really, considering I’m guilty. My crime is extreme and I stand the chance of being sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. I should qualify that by saying without the possibility means absolute certainty. But that’s okay; I deserve to die.
    Jack gave me this notepad at the beginning of the trial two weeks ago. He wanted me to take notes, listen to the witnesses, jot down anything out of the ordinary or that didn’t ring true. This is his job but I don’t begrudge him the request. He wasn’t the one who committed the act of murder and so could only go on what I’d told him. At any rate, the notepad has been blank until today. I couldn’t dispute the facts the witnesses presented or the forensic evidence provided. To wit, my crime had been done in public and I confessed to it. Why this case went to trial eludes me, though I have a suspicion it had to do with news, ratings, sensationalism, winning the hearts and minds of the public. Another of those interesting things this country strives on, much like having a National Clean Off Your Desk Day.
    Whatever.
    This morning Jack informed me that he was going to put me on the stand, let me address the court, and tell the jury exactly what happened and why, which, in Jack’s opinion, was the cream in my coffee. This event would take place in the afternoon, sometime after lunch, once he’d made his opening statements. I was surprised at this. Since the beginning, he’d been telling me I wasn’t going on the stand, though I suppose not having anyone else to testify on my behalf changed his stance.
    When I questioned him about this, he said it would help our case. Case? What case? He pleaded for me to work with him, to listen to him. Hey, he was the lawyer; if he wanted me to talk, I’d talk. I could do that.
    At the moment, Jack’s up there giving his opening statement; my time is running short. When he’s done, he’ll call me up.
    However, my purpose in writing today isn’t for me, and it’s certainly not for you, Jack, as I’m sure you’ll be the first to read this. I hope, instead of turning it over to the media like a prick, you’ll give it to Danielle. I worry about this ethical choice of yours because you’ll be pissed off at me, because putting me up on the stand was a mistake. Please accept this as my apology in advance since I’m going to fuck your case over. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about doing what’s right and standing up for what you believe in. The rest of this is for my wife.
    I know, Dani, that this isn’t what you want to hear, or what you believe, but this is it. This is me. You know how stubborn I am. I only hope that you can speak favorably to about this (and me) to Matthew when he grows up instead of telling him that his old man didn’t love him and was too stupid to stay out of trouble. I hope your soft logic can turn you around the same way it used to turn me around in those moments when anger dominated. The fact that you’re not here today speaks volumes and time is the only hope that remains.
    I love you and Matthew. I trust that you will move on. You both have a brighter future than what’s before you now. My mistake will not be your taint.
    Jack’s standing near the jury now, building them up for my time on the stand. Really, I think he’s just talking to the brunette sitting in the corner. He feels she’ll be persuasive during their deliberation. Single parent with a young son, heavily involved in neighborhood watches, PTA, that sort of thing. Somehow, I think it’s the tanned legs and big brown eyes that have his attention. It doesn’t matter. When he’s done, I’ll walk up to the chair, raise my right hand, put my left on the Bible, and I’ll be sworn in. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. All that kind of shit.
    Question is, Dani, what is the truth?
    My father once told me that the truth is never just the truth, but one man’s opinion of the events that have transpired around him. This opinion is influenced by more outside factors than George W’s pocketbook. My father’s presidential reference was different, of course, but the point remains the same. Otis, he told me, fuck the truth. Give me the facts. He wanted the facts so he could make up his own mind and decide his own truth. And in his house, his truth was all that mattered. Right or wrong, it didn’t matter. Long live the king, or so they say. But the bottom line is that my truth is not your truth, nor will my truth be the jury’s truth.
    Jack told me he was going to ask only one question of me while I was on the stand. “What is the truth about what happened the night of April Fourteenth last year?”
    Trust and forgive me, Dani, like you used to do. That’s all I can ask, for I will not repeat what Jack and I practiced earlier; I will not speak of what Jack thinks is the truth. I will, however, give the following facts:
    Fact: On January 3^rd, two years ago, our eldest son, Kyle, was kidnapped from our yard. He was seven years old.
    Fact: On January 19^th a paperboy was cutting through a backyard on the way to his next delivery. He tripped and fell over something in this yard. It was a hand. Kyle’s hand. A dog had dug it up. His body was only eighteen inches below the ground. This was twenty three days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes since he was abducted.
    Fact: The yard belonged to a man named Dean Simon.
    Fact: Kyle had been raped. The cause of death was suffocation and the plastic bag used to cut off his air supply was still tied around his head.
    Fact: Investigation and forensic evidence revealed that my son had been held for at least a week in Mr. Simon’s home.
    Fact: Mr. Simon was arrested, indicted, and sentenced to death for Kyle’s murder.
    Fact: Two days following his sentencing, the state of Ohio banned all forms of capital punishment. It had been ruled that lethal injection was considered cruel and unusual punishment. Anyone currently on Death Row was reverted to life in prison without the possibility of parole. This included Mr. Simon.
    Fact: The man who violated and killed my son was not going to die for it.
    Fact: This was unacceptable to me. I could not (would not!) sit by and let this man live for another hour on my dime.
    Fact: I owned a pistol.
    Fact: During his transfer from the county to the state, I was able to pull off an effective Jack Ruby and get close enough to shoot Mr. Simon once in the forehead.
    Fact: Forensic evidence and medical reports confirm that death was instantaneous. A luxury Kyle was not afforded.
    Fact: I dropped the gun to the ground and surrendered at the scene.
    These are the facts of my case that cannot be disputed. I think I mentioned earlier that my punishment would be life in jail. It’s harsh, but not harsh enough.
    Jack wants me to play the grieving father. This is not a hard role for me; I grieve everyday for the loss of my son, for the atrocities he endured during the last few days of this life. For those are things that no child should ever hear of, let alone have to experience.
    I will sit before the jury, repeat the facts of my case, and will duly inform them that nothing about Dean Simon’s death was cruel and unusual. The powers that be deemed the once-acceptable methods of lethal injection and electrocution unconstitutional.
    I carried out Dean Smith’s original sentence in a quick and painless manner, which is what society demanded. Nothing about my method was cruel or unusual; therefore I feel no remorse for my actions.
    What was done to our son was cruel and unusual.
    Dani, my grief is superseded by righteous anger and a sense of duty, not only to our son, but to every person in this fucked up country of ours. Why does anyone who kills another person deserve to live? An eye for an eye, a life for a life. Dean Simon took Kyle’s and I took his. Now I freely give mine.
    Jack’s just called my name. He’s waiting. So are the judge and jury. I have to go now.
    I’ll be my own executioner.

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