For the month of October I’ve been posting true life tales of adventure, daring and creepiness. This one goes in a different direction from the last three: while a serpent is mentioned, it is not the main character. It’s a true-life story I first published in 1987.
Fate is like an overly long serpent, twisting and coiling back upon itself until it seems certain to tie itself into knots. Somehow, it never does. I found myself snared in a bight of this serpent a few years ago. I was late for work. I took a short cut past the old airport and pushed the accelerator closer to the floor.
I drove a 1969 Thunderbird–then only five years old–with a 429 Thunderjet engine, high performance cams, valves and pistons. The car was too heavy to be any good at street drag racing but on a long haul it was one of the fastest cars around. I could make the long run to Chicago at 115 miles per hour with the engine just purring along. Twice–that I know of–I had flashed past a highway patrol car which was hiding off on the roadside. Neither time did they try to pursue.
This time I wasn’t so lucky; a County Mounty tagged me doing 78 in a 45 zone. He hitched up his belt as he sauntered back to my car, red lights flickering and flashing dramatically behind him. Grinning as he shoved his large face in my window he said, “Flyin’ kinda low ain’t ya, boy?”
I didn’t have time to argue. I handed him my license. He studied it and handed it back, “This expired four days ago.”
“Yes, I know, but it didn’t really. I sent a check to the Secretary of State two weeks ago but have not received the new card. I’m sure if you check, the computer would show the renewal by now.”
He took the license and returned to his patrol car for an uncomfortably long time. When he returned he was grim, one hand on his gun as he said, “Get outta the car. Lock it up and put your hands behind your back.”
We went for a ride.
He took me through the process of booking, printing, photographing and surrendering all personal possessions including my contact lens case. I protested this loudly, stating that without the case I could not remove my lenses, which meant that I could not sleep. “That’s not fair!”
“Life ain’t always fair, boy. Get used to it.”
They put me in a cell with one other occupant; a rough looking, tough talking guy named John, who turned out to be fairly nice once we got acquainted.
When I felt at ease with him, I started asking about his background, where he lived, worked, played. I discovered that he was a mere 16 years old. He came from a broken home; a mother who had run off years ago, an abusive alcoholic bum of a father, one brother in prison, the other not around enough to know much about. All his friends were in a street gang that ran in his neighborhood. He wanted to feel a part of something so he joined up too. I asked why he–a juvenile–was in the county jail. Juvenile Hall was full and his crime was severe enough to be jailed as an adult.
Hesitantly, I asked what he had done.
“I trusted my friends.”
He looked familiar to me. When I asked if he had ever been into the gas station I managed, he gave me a hard stare and decided it was time to turn in. The next few hours were spent trying to fend off slumber. I failed and paid dearly for it in the morning.
After breakfast, I was taken to wait my turn before the arraignment judge. I convinced him that I was not an escaped mass murderer and had only a little cash and no check book or credit cards on me with which to post a bond. He grumped about civic responsibility for a while, then set a court date and released me on my own recognizance. I eventually beat the DWOL wrap, but the speeding ticket cost me big bucks.
Shortly afterward I again made an appearance in court. Not as the defendant this time, but as a witness for the prosecution. Some time before all this took place–it seemed an indeterminately long amount of time at this point–my gas station had been robbed by a group of young thugs wielding knives and baseball bats.
They broke the shoulder blade and collar bone of one of my employees and held a machete to my throat, demanding that I open the safe or they’ll open me. Betting on the odds that this was a spontaneous heist, not a well thought out robbery and that my youthful appearance would hide the fact that I was indeed the manager, I insisted that I could not open the drop safe; only the manager had the combination. It worked, sort of.
They smashed Jim’s shoulder, stripped the attendants of their working change–about fifty dollars total–and broke a few windows on their way out.
Jim knew the one who hit him. We figured the blow was aimed at his head, but he managed to duck and roll enough to take it on the shoulder. He gave the police the name and address and they picked up the whole lot of them two hours later. They were in the garage of the boy’s home, noisily doing in about fifty dollars worth of booze.
I sat in the witness waiting room, wearing my most clean-cut-citizenish suit, wondering if these guys would have friends among the spectators. Visions came of burly hoods jumping up and shouting “We’ll get you for this, Douglas! We’ll get you!”
I was wondering if I ought to find a new apartment, new job, new identity when the bailiff called my name.
I was sworn in and took my seat next to the judge’s high bench. I glanced at the young man sitting at the defendant’s table and my insides turned to ice. Sitting there, groomed and finely dressed but easily recognizable, was my former cell mate; John.
During my testimony, I learned that it was he who had held the machete to my throat that night. He who had offered to end my life as glibly as another might offer to polish my shoes.
My mind roiled with confusion. How could the barely civilized animal that had threatened to murder me be the sensitive, misguided boy I had met that night in jail.
“I trusted my friends.” he had said. Some friends. Now he sat in court, charged with armed robbery and accessory to attempted murder. I felt inexplicably sorry for him. I knew that I shouldn’t. I had felt the razor edge of his knife against my larynx, heard his demands and threats. I should hate him. I should want to see justice served.
Perhaps I did. Perhaps I knew that he wasn’t to blame for his actions. Perhaps I was being foolishly sentimental. I wondered how I would have felt about him if fate had not tossed us together to talk as we had.
I answered the questions put to me as honestly as I could. There were no vicious cross-examinations trying to trap me into saying something I didn’t mean. No television-style battle of wits between prosecution and defense. In fact, it was rather disappointing. Kind of boring.
When the lawyers were through with me and I was about to leave, I made a decision and asked that I be allowed to say something of my own.
“If it is relevant to the case.” replied the judge.
I recounted my experience in the county jail for them and summed up with an opinion that John was a victim rather than a perpetrator. While he did participate in the robbery, I suspected that his need to belong, to fit in, and his poor family environment were more to blame than John himself. The prosecutor scowled, the defense beamed, the judge dismissed me.
I read about the outcome of the trial in the local paper a week later. Two of the three older boys had been given suspended jail sentences with long probationary periods. The one who hit Jim was convicted of attempted murder and sent to prison. John was also given probation and was sent to live with relatives in another part of the country until he turned 18. This pleased my sense of justice.
Perhaps, as I had been told: “Life ain’t always fair…”, but this time I thought it did pretty well.
Have you been caught up in a similar situation? Please tell us about it below.
I enjoyed reading this piece, Doug. There was a lot in the lines you wrote and between them.
Thank you Mary. I appreciate knowing that some of the things I didn’t “say” came through anyway… I think: I guess it depends on what you were finding between the lines! 😀
I’ve got nothing to match that. I have, however, worked with many students in a behavioral facility. One in particular stood out; a young man who had a long list of petty thefts and one assault. Amazingly enough, he proved exceedingly gentle and polite when working with the elderly as part of his program. Once he was removed from his everyday environment, he was a different kid. If only we could do that for all of them.
When this story was published I got feed-back from several active and retired police officers, all of whom told me (in gentler terms) that I had done society a disservice by getting the kid off. They claimed these kids never change and he probably was doing the same stuff and causing problems for the relatives he went to live with. They may have been right, but I hope not. I served as a Foster parent for many years, and I always believed that showing troubled kids that there is another way to live, a better way to live, helps to break the cycle that leads to delinquency. Thanks so much for your contribution, Lisa.
As always Allan, really enjoyed the post. What a story!! Though, I doubt I could be that forgiving or noble, I can most definitely see how an act of kindness, can wash over something as violently cruel as this. Though no one was killed. I’m sure it had to run thru all of your minds, wondering if they would kill you when they were done. That alone, would be enough to have me furious. That feeling of not knowing. And for nothing more than booze money.
I wonder…did the act have any affect on the man? Perhaps change his life in any way? That would be interesting to know. So many times, we do things in this life.(well those like you and like this perfect example) that have drastic affects on the lives of others. Just one kind hearted act, at the right time in someone’s life can make the difference. One small deed can be enough to change someone’s life forever. Imagine if we all acted accordingly.
By the way, do you still have the car? What a Beaut!
Had it not been for that weird twist of fate, Inion, I’m quite sure my attitude toward my attacker would have been very different in court.
At the time I wasn’t much older than our attackers. Later in life, several employers pushed the ideology of “help them load the truck, don’t risk your life.” but at the time I was thinking that it was likely they would kill us both whether I gave them the money in the safe or not – so i would deny them the big pay-off.
Sadly, no The Bird was a wonderful car but I no longer own it.