Crack3d Picture

by Trey Sullivan

  Henrys’ eyes rapidly flicker. He is alone in his deathless cell. His cell is six feet by eight feet with a concrete slab and a thin mattress on top which serves as his bed. The toilet is scrubbed and so white it shines. The sink, likewise, but the chrome handles look like mirrors.

  A sudden and uncontrollable urge lifts him from his bed. He falls to the ground stomach first, but before he hits, his hands break his fall and he begins doing elevated push ups with his feet on his bed. The sound of forceful, strained breathing, growls and grunts reverberate off the cell walls. He alternates going slow then fast. Sweat is rolling off his body, which is bulky and muscular. Muscles are bulging from places he never thought he had. He has transformed into that of an intimidating monster. His body is chiseled like a Michelangelo stone sculpture of a Greek god.

  He stops, returns to his bed and begins reading a law manual. His room is filled with them. Each manual has tagged pages containing information relevant to overturning his conviction. The rest of his book collection consists of philosophical and psychological texts.

  Morning buzzer goes off.

  Henry makes his bed, puts his uniform shirt on, and waits for his door to open. He looks fresh for once. His blue uniform is pressed and his shoes are a glossy black.

  Another buzzer sounds and his door comes unlocked and he steps outside his cell, standing tall, waiting to be accounted for.

  An armed guard walks along counting heads. Only a few prisoners come out at a time. Once one group is counted, the others come out. There are guards posted all along the wing wearing bulletproof vests and aiming rifles at the prisoners.

  Once he is done, they uniformly walk in a single file line to the day room where they await for the cafeteria doors to open and serve their food. Along the way Henry looks up to the roof of the corridor and sees small windows showing the blue morning sky.

  The cafeteria is a vast space with sixteen metal tables with four chairs at each. Guards are posted all throughout the cafeteria with their rifles loaded, cocked and aimed at the prisoners.

  Henry has chicken fried chicken, runny mashed potatoes and cup of water and sits to himself, until he is ultimately followed by others.

  One convict that sits down at the table, a young man named Ronnie. Today is Ronnie’s first full day in prison. He is doing time for assault and battery on his under aged girlfriend. His dark hair is slicked back and he has beard stubble. He is a charming man with the intelligence of a ten year old.

  He motions to Henry to get his attention. “Hey, why do all the guards have their guns drawn at us?”

  “To shoot us,” he says sarcastically. “Something usually happens during chow anyways. We had a big fight yesterday. Sorry you missed it.”

  “Did they actually use the rifles? What happened?”

  “They had to. A runner was settling a debt with a guy who wouldn’t pay up. He used a shank that he made from a bed leg and stabbed the guy in the chest.”

  Ronnie is frightened but tries to play tough. “My name’s Ronnie,” he says extending his hand to be shaken.

  “Henry. I don’t shake hands. Why are you talking to me?”

  “First thing you do when you come to a place you haven’t been before is to make nice with the baddest guy around, right?”

  “That’s not me.”

  Ronnie shovels a spoonful of slop into his mouth and immediately spits it out. “This shit is nasty,” he says while wiping his mouth. “How can you sit there and eat this stuff?”

  “It is institutional food, you will get used to it.”

  Ronnie uses his plastic fork to stab the mystery meat and place it on Henry’s tray.

  “So what are you in here for?” asks Ronnie.

  Henry takes a minute to pause. He lifts his head up from his meal. “Word of advice; do not ask anyone what they’re doing time for. And also, don’t answer.” Henry scans the room with electric eyes. “There’s something brewing now.”

  A group of prisoners are sitting at a table; they are all staring and sizing up a new guard. He is a younger, baby faced man, perfect target for a prisoner who is trying to make a name for himself. One of the prisoners, a white man who is acting like he is black, is messing with something underneath of the table, fidgeting as if he has a nervous disorder.

  A buzzer sounds indicating chow time is over. Henry places his fork, knife and spoon all on the table to be verified by the guards. Two Guards come to him; one puts his rifle to the back of his head, the other counts the silverware.

  All convicts are walking in a straight line out of the cafeteria. Henry is the second from last in line with one of the prisoners who was sizing up the Young Guard is bringing up the rear. The Young Guard is the last person to leave the cafeteria when for a moment he loses his head and the prisoner swings around with a shiv that looks like a small bayonet. He grazes the side of the Young Guards neck, who is taken by surprise. The prisoner lifts the shiv over his head in a stab ready position, but before he can strike down, Henry turns around and forcefully grabs the prisoner, stripping him of his shiv and holding it against his neck until the Young Guard can compose himself and take the prisoner away.

  Other guards come to the aid of the young guard while other convicts come back to check the scene. Some guards start yelling at the convicts and taking them to their jobs or back to their cells, while the remaining guards beat the prisoner with the butt of their rifles.

  Henry works in the prison library. He is carrying a cart full of old, hardcover books through the aisles and placing them on the shelves where they need to go. He is also carrying a newspaper, which he is reading while working.

  An article within today’s paper freezes him to his core. The article reads:

  ‘DRUNKEN POLICE CHASE LANDS DEAN IN JAIL. ‘

  Henry begins to quietly read to himself, “Radcliffe University Dean faces drunk driving charges after flipping university-owned vehicle. The chase started last night when a caller reported a vehicle driving with three blown tires and swerving into on coming traffic. When police found the vehicle a chase ensued and ended when the Dean ran into a guard rail and the vehicle over turned. He failed a field sobriety test and refused a breathalyzer at the scene. He registered a 0.18 at the station. The University has no comment.”

  He tucks the paper under his arm, as always, and continues putting books on the shelf.

  Another cold, gloomy day and Henry is sitting on the ground against the building writing in a journal. He is by himself, no interruptions.

  Typical activities during rec time are weight lifting, basketball and other forms of exercise. Although physical, it is an emotional refreshment to be outside of the walls. Henry looks over across the yard towards what seems to be the minimum security ward and they are planting small flowers and/or flowery bushes. He cannot really tell. He sees Ronnie and they make eye contact which prompts Ronnie to excitedly walk over to him. Ronnie is smoking an unfiltered cigarette and has another on his ear.

  “Man, you got everybody talking. The guy who saved the hack. That is incredible. Why’d you do it? I thought it was us against them?”

  “This isn’t TV. This is reality. They’re people no different than us. Flesh, blood, whatever. No one has said anything to me.”

  Ronnie extends the cigarette from his ear toward Henry, which he refuses.

  “Hey, you don’t mind if I have a look at that paper do you?” he asks while trying to sit down beside Henry.

  “Actually, yes I do. There’s an article in here that is extremely important to me. Has anyone told you anything about prison? I had to tell you not to ask about what got me here, it’s meddling. But meddling means other things too. It means meddling with everything. Like coming over here uninvited and asking for my paper; or just coming over in general. It could get you in a lot trouble.”

  Ronnie bows his head and flashes a cracked, broken smile. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right; sorry I bothered you.”

  He turns and walks away saddened, which prompts He
nry to feel sorry for the young and naïve Ronnie.

  “Hey kid!” Henry shouts loudly.

  Ronnie quickly swings his body around in the direction of Henry, with a smile on his face. Henry waves him over and Ronnie walks back to him. He hands him the paper and Ronnie sits down beside him, but not too close.

  “Only until rec time is over then that paper is mine again.”

  The sudden urge returns and Henry begins his last workout of the day before lights out, triceps pushups on the edge of his bed. He is blood red and covered in sweat. The backs of his arms are pumping with blood; the triceps muscle is forming the perfect upside down ‘V.’

  After his final set, he unstitches a portion of his mattress pad and pulls out a collection of papers. This is Henry’s book of collages of his old home town. All newspaper articles have been cut and pasted on multiple pieces of paper.

  He rips the article from today’s paper, squeezes glue on one side then finally pastes the article down next to another article which reads: ‘SHERIFF WHARTON RETIRES ONE DAY, DIES THE NEXT. ‘

  His mail is also sitting on the floor, untouched. He sees a letter from the Virginia Court of Appeals. He opens the letter and reads quietly to himself, “Court of Appeals number 01VA1986. City of Radcliffe District Court number 04VA1962. Honorable Judge Benjamin K. Whitlock. The People of the State of Virginia versus Henry T. Horace. Judgment denied.

  Henry folds the letter back and fits it into the envelope. He sticks the envelope in his collage book next to another ‘Judgment Denied’ letter, and then places his collection back into the opening inside the mattress.

  He does his best to calm his nerves again. He practices his breathing exercise and slowly relaxes. He grabs another large hardcover criminal law manual, opens it and hops into his bed. He is unable to sleep, so he reads throughout the night.

  He reads until he can see some form of light shining through the roof windows which prompts him to start his routine of push ups and sits. He finishes and is dressed before the alarms sounds to start of another day and the same routine for him. The alarms sound and lead Henry and others to the cafeteria. Everything is exactly same as the day before except now instead of chicken fried chicken for breakfast, it is ‘eggs’ and ‘sausage’ and a plastic cup of orange juice. The other prisoners are glaring at him for his actions the day before- saving the enemy.

  Ronnie is rambling on to the people at the table about his conviction and how he was an innocent man. “My dad hired the best, and highest priced lawyer who proved in court that all she did was date a guy and said they beat her. It was a sickness. It happened to her other boyfriends too! ”

  One of the convicts from the table gets up and leaves, he does not want to be associated with a sniveler and also the traitor. Just as he leaves another comes down beside Ronnie. He is a skinny man with short brown and a thin mustache and beard with Chinese eyes. He stares at Ronnie waiting for the rest of his story.

  Ronnie continues, “The system is all jacked up man, aren’t we all innocent. Well maybe not innocent, but surely not guilty. Right? That Commonwealth’s Attorney is dirty. I heard he is Supreme Court judge, now.

  Ronnie is looking around the table, searching for an agreement, a response anything.

  “Tell me about it,” says the new coming Chinese eyed prisoner.

  Henry can only shake his head, as Ronnie has brought some unwanted attention to himself. A sniveler is degenerable, not to mention a sex offending sniveler.

  “Why don’t we keep it down for a second? You don’t want these people to view you as weak.”

  “Weak? What do you mean? I ain’t weak?”

  “I am going to give you my last piece of advice and I want you to listen closely.”

  Ronnie draws closer to soak up the intellect from a prison educated man.

  “Stop talking. Don’t talk. Ever,” advises Henry as sternly as he possible can.

  The Chinese eyed prisoner stares at Ronnie, not even noticing anything Henry has said.

  With that, the buzzer goes off and all prisoners place their plastic cutlery on their trays to be checked. Once again the two guards conduct their gun drawn routine.

  Henry is casually walking with some guards as they lead him from the cafeteria to work.

  “Henry, come with me. You have a visitor,” says a voice from behind him. He turns around suspicious and prepared for anything. It is the Young Guard.

  “How? I don’t even have a list,” he says.

  “Just follow me.”

  The guards release him to the custody of the Young Guard.

  The visitation room looks just like the interrogation room, just white walls and a window. It is also much cleaner. There are two white chairs and one white table.

  An armed guard leads Henry, who shackled along the hands and feet. He shuffles to one of the chairs and is slammed down by the guard, who positions himself in the corner of the room, in view of Henry with his gun drawn ready to fire if needed.

  At that moment, a uniformed police officer walks into the room with a case file in his right hand and a steaming cup of coffee in his left.

  He is a middle aged man with dark, salt and pepper hair, mustache and a strong cleft chin. He is Sheriff Martin Johnson, the newly appointed sheriff of Radcliffe. Sheriff Johnson sits down in the chair across from Henry and extends his hand.

  “Henry, my name is Sheriff Martin. I am the Sheriff of the City of Radcliffe, and I just wanted to ask you a few questions,” he says.

  “Alright. Something else you want to pin on me?”

  “No sir, Henry; I just wanted to show something; maybe you could help me out with a recently opened investigation.”

  “I’m not a specialist, or Ted Bundy or anything, but ok.”

  “Great, thanks Henry. Let me find it in my file here.”

  Sheriff Johnson fumbles through his file, desperately searching for something. He loses control of the folder and all of his papers fall to the floor. “Oh no. I know it is in here somewhere,” he says quietly to himself. “So I understand you saved a guard yesterday? You must be a popular guy within the convict community.”

  “The code of humanity is much more important than the prison code. I was just doing what I thought was right. Consequences from unintelligent white trash hypocrite convicts be damned. It looks much better for me now; I am having a conversation with a sheriff.”

  “Interesting,” he says while lifting a piece of paper. “Here it is! Here, Henry, I would like you to take a look at this. Read it to me and tell me what you think.”

  Henry cannot read the type, so Sheriff Johnson hands him his glasses.

  “Psychological evaluation. Confidential. Hope T. Dickson. Dickson? As in…”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Henry may have just been metaphysically punched in the gut, but he keeps reading, “…is a Caucasian female sent to me for symptoms relating to drug induced schizophrenia. Symptoms include restlessness, paranoia, depression and delusions.”

  Henry scans down the paper. “Behavioral observations. She was brought in unwillingly by her father. She never made eye contact with anyone in the room and could not sit still. The patient had self inflicted cuts or scratches on her arms.”

  “Stop there Henry. Self inflicted cuts or scratches. Tell me the date of the evaluation. Should be right up top.”

  “June 22, 1995. Ok, tell me what this means?”

  “The prosecution withheld this information from your defense.”

  Anger is boiling in Henry’s gut like magma underneath a volcano. He takes the glasses off and hands them back to Sheriff Johnson. He hears the rifle cock as the exchange is made.

  Sheriff Johnson continues, “Henry, Hope was an escaped mental patient who hopped a train to Radcliffe. Only the prosecution knew this. Her father finally found her here, and coincidentally the University had an opening.”

  “I am having quite a hard time understanding. Why was evidence withheld? They knowingly put an innocent man in pr
ison for life? The Dean, Sheriff Wharton and the Commonwealth’s Attorney, they all knew?”

  “Sheriff Wharton knew he needed a conviction and fast. He found that drug addict outside the building who led them to you. He had no physical evidence, but minute circumstantial evidence. If he needed to hide or manipulate evidence to bring about the quick conviction, he did it.”

  “He told me I would get him re-elected.”

  “You did; and he won over me. I was on the force then and always had my doubts as to how a man with no criminal record could come from nowhere and commit murder. You didn’t even have one driving citation. I had a hard time just trying to find your name in databases. You didn’t even have a damn parking ticket.”

  “I never had a car.”

  “Ok. Well you never jay walked. The strange thing about this is that we found this information in the trunk of the Dean’s car. He kept this privileged information with him at all times. To the Dean’s credit however, he was apparently told to hide or destroy this information. He was applying a lot of pressure on Wharton to find a killer.”

  “So now that you have this, what are you going to do? You going to sit on it too?”

  “I have been investigating this for awhile now. I have always had my doubts, like I said. I have a team that is reviewing everything as we speak. If we find evidence to suggest that you killed her, then you stay and this meeting never happened, if we find anything that brings reasonable doubt or even a flat out acquittal then we take it to trial and hope the judge sets you free. Although I think this alone devastates the prosecutions claim of defense wounds.”

  “I am going to act as though this meeting never happened. I will continue to file my appeals as I always have. You keep investigating as you like, but right now I just don’t know if I can trust that the replaceable liars who put me in here now want to help me.”

  “Perfect. We will be in touch, Henry.”

  The armed guards come over to Henry and grab him underneath the arms and lead him out of the room.

  Henry is sitting alone on the same spot on the ground looking at a newspaper, too distracted to read. He can’t help but see and feel like the looks the other prisons are giving; like he was a leper. And also can’t stop thinking about the meeting with the Sheriff.

  He sees Ronnie and another group of prisons being led outside by a smaller group of armed guards. He immediately looks for Henry in his spot on the ground and waves at Henry, walking towards him.

  At that moment the prisoner who tried to stab the young guard comes from behind Ronnie and slits his throat with the same shiv.

  “Let’s hear you bitch now! You punk bitch!” shouts the prisoner.

  He turns his stare to Henry and smiles as the guards rush over to the prisoner and throw him down to the ground and cuff him. One guard confiscates the weapon, while the others beat him more.

  Ronnie is convulsing on the ground clutching his throat as blood pours through his fingers, down his prison shirt and forming a red puddle on the ground.

  Henry drops his paper and sprints to Ronnie but before he can get to him he is corralled by other guards who tell him sternly to calm down.

  The Chinese eyed prisoner looks on for the corner of the yard with a member of the prisoner’s entourage.

  Later that evening, Henry is sitting on his bed reading the same criminal law book, not doing his work out. His routine has been destroyed by the Sheriff revelation and then Ronnie’s sudden death.

  The noise of the prisoners seems to get louder and louder to Henry. He had become adapted to operating within himself, now that he has become noticed and singles out by the others, paranoia is setting in. The looks they give eat away at his skin and a new feeling from his gut is also eating him from within. Fear. Anxiety. Hope. They all need to be extinguished. The noise from the prisoners gets louder and louder. Lights out could not come soon enough.

  Henry is again led in, shackled wrist and ankle, by an armed guard, who throws him down in the same chair. The guard walks over to the same spot in the room and aims his high powered rifle at Henry’s head. Another sleepless night has Henry exhausted and dark eyed. Sheriff Johnson is already seated in his chair.

  “This is getting deep Henry. The prosecutions case is completely falling apart. We have documents upon documents that weren’t turned over. Your blood was at the scene but nowhere on her, the psyche evaluation, her history of suicide attempts, the prosecutions key witness now saying he remembers a white car pulling up to the building-“

  “Wait a second. A white car? Was it a Ford Mustang?”

  “Yes. Do you know something else?”

  “Yes, I saw that car the night she was killed. He was a dealer, right? I think I had an incident with him as well.”

  “Yes he is.”

  Henry sees another man walking through the door in a suit, but looking rather sloppy. His suit is wrinkled and untucked. He is a very strange looking man. He is pear shaped with skinny legs and small feet. He is bald but has hair on the sides and back of his head which are long, gray and scraggly. His skin in olive colored with a greenish hue. He walks hunched over due to his age. His nose is long and pointy.

  He sits down and smiles at Henry and his teeth are yellowish green and sharp like a piranha. His eyes are red, burning with contempt. This is Henry’s new attorney, Mark Rigby. And with a gravely voice- “Henry, I filed a petition to the court on your behalf to have your charges vacated; a post conviction writ of habeas corpus. Not only are there ethical and legal ramifications for the prosecution, reasonable doubt but also, us both-“

  “We both feel you’re innocent Henry. Feel, hell, we know it!” interrupts the Sheriff.

  “Please Sheriff,” says Rigby, holding his arm across the Sheriff’s chest. He turns his fiery gaze back towards Henry. “Now, Henry. This is a case of unjustified imprisonment and an unfair trial. We’re going to attack the prosecution for the suppressed evidence and also prove your innocent beyond a reasonable doubt. And from there the judge can do three things: retrial, deny the motion, or throw your conviction out entirely. We have all the documentation and people who are willing to testify on your behalf.”

  “Ok. This whole process can take months, years, who knows? So I will sit here, in hell with this over my head. I haven’t been hopeful about anything my life. Just stop trying to fill me with something as absurd as hope.”

  “Henry,” says the Sheriff.

  “No, don’t Henry me,” says Henry, angrily interrupting.

  As the argument gets heated, the armed guard runs over behind Henry, cocks his gun and puts it to the back of his head. He presses it so hard it is bruising.

  “Henry, we are trying to help you. If you could just take the prison mask off-“

  Rigby interrupts, “Oh, Sheriff, this isn’t a mask. Masks get broken in prison. You have to change who you are and become something else. Something that can neither be broken or corrupted, something not built on defective principles. You need to be built on the essence of survival in an environment were its people cultivate fear, and look for which people are overcome by it. And those who cannot overcome are dismantled and eaten alive. Those who look fear in the eye and ask for more, they survive. . .”

  Henry stares at Rigby as he continues his diatribe. He is cutting right to the core of Henry.

  “. . . I understand, Henry. You don’t have to trust me. I know behind these walls trust is used against you, but with me taking full control over this, you will not have to worry about these walls much longer.

  “These walls are my home. I don’t even care about being set free anymore. I shouldn’t even be saying this, but imagine I do get set free, how do I adjust? I don’t know what the world is like out there. I couldn’t acclimate myself to everything then. What makes you think that I am going to be able to succeed now, if I am released?

  “Do your best to integrate back into society? You can speak up for those who have been mistreated, such as yourself. Maybe talk to prisoners about thei
r transition to life in prison.”

  “Talk to prisoners? Sheriff let me tell you a story. I knew a man, a naïve man, who came into prison looking to accustom himself to his surrounding. But see there are different rules inside. You don’t look to make friends so you have someone to talk to and confide in. You stay aloof and alert. So one day this man made the mistake of saying he had money within his grasp. Very. Bad. Decision. So when someone else who is trying to be accepted hears this he looks to take advantage of the naïve man. He has him set up and here is how it goes. Prisoner sets up a fake sneak attack so he could be the one to save the day. Once naïve man is saved by,” he pauses, thinking. “Let’s call him the savior prisoner. So savior prisoner tells the naïve man I will protect you for this amount of dollars. However the prisoner savior is looking for protection also and will take this money to a gang he is looking to join. Unknowingly, naïve man agrees. However when a payment is not met, naïve man is stricken down from behind by the blade of a homemade knife to throat to lie convulsing on the ground. Innocence and naiveté lie convulsing on the floor.”

  “What of the savior prisoner?” asks the Sheriff.

  “He will die too, along with everyone the naïve man knew. That is justice in here. Maybe it isn’t too much like the outside.”

  Rigby is laughing and says, “You enjoy your freedom in a way that makes you and only you happy. The biggest crime and injustice of oneself in this world is to live confined from happiness.”

  Henry nods his head approvingly, still with the gun in the back of his head.

  Henry is being transported to the courthouse for the first day of his hearing. He is like always; shackled again on his wrists and hands. On both sides of him are two armed guards with their rifle, both staring at him waiting for one wrong or sudden move. The van is making hard turns causing Henry is to jostle around, and with every move the guards bump into him purposefully and forcefully.

  Once at the courthouse, unlike before, there is not a large crowd gathered outside the courtroom. There are no people holding signs wishing for Henry’s immediate death, no cameras filming or flashing and of course no signs of encouragement acknowledging the insanity and abuse of justice.

  The guards whisk Henry through the back door of the courthouse. Officers and lawyers within stare at him through their inexpedient eyes as if he was an incongruous savage. They lead him into a room with Rigby and they both sit in chairs, staring at the walls in silence.

  An officer grabs the still cuffed Henry and leads him to the defendants table. He looks across to the table of the Protectors of the State; all wearing the same grey suits and ties. He turns his head around to look out to the almost empty courtroom. Conspicuously absent are the Dean, who cannot be found, Wharton who is slabbed, bagged, and tagged, and the former Commonwealth’s Attorney, who is wearing a white wig elsewhere. For now.

  The bailiff hollers, “All rise for the honorable Judge Madden.” Everyone obliges. “Court is now in session. You may be seated”

  “Proceed,” motions Judge Madden to the defense.

  “I’d like to call Russell Johnson to the stand, please,” says Rigby, sound as if he had eaten a breakfast sandwich of peanut butter, sand and gravel.

  Henry stares Russell down as he stumbles weakly onto the stand. He is the addict who was said to be outside the building when Henry left. He is uncomfortable, timorous and ill at ease.

  “What I have in my hand right now is the official court transcript in which you identified this man,” Rigby says pointing to Henry. “as the last man who left that building the night Hope died. Also in this hand I have a retraction after your most recent bust, in which you blabbed your ass off for leniency, that you actually remembered a white car arriving after my client left. Elaborate, please. Describe the man who last left that building.”

  “He, he was very tall, ya know. He was white, real white. Just like those papers. Very white. His eyes were red, maybe contacts. No I think he was albino. He was bald, he did have no hair. He was wearing all black clothes but I could tell he was very skinny. It didn’t look like he walked; he slithered, like a serpent. When he looked at me. . . If looks could kill, I wouldn’t be here today. He was with a man in a suit”

  “Thank you, no further questions. Please get off the stand. Your Honor I would like to call Counselor Lundwiig to the stand please.”

  Lundwiig walks down the aisle and sits on the stand across from his counterpart. He is terrified. His former client’s new representation is far more superior then he.

  Rigby grabs a handful of documents from the defense table and hands them to Lundwiig without saying a word. “If you could, sir, flip through those and tell what they all have in common.”

  Lundwiig licks his finger and flips through the papers. He looks absolutely confused and dumbfounded. “I am sorry; I cannot identify one similarity in here.”

  “Ok, well let me ask you a simple and straightforward question. Have you ever seen these?”

  Lundwiig flips through the documents again. Rigby is getting slightly frustrated. He looks to the judge and then looks at Henry, and shrugs his shoulders.

  “No sir I have not.”

  “Exactly. That is because the prosecution withheld these. That, your honor is systematic abuse of prosecutorial discretion.

  “I wish I would’ve had these then. This is surely enough to challenge the jury’s verdict.”

  “Exactly,” says Rigby, motioning his hands and bowing down as if he were waiting for claps and roses. “You may step down.”

  Rigby walks back to the defense table and tells Henry, “Talk about ineffective counsel.” He rises back up and announces, “the last witness I would like to call to the stand is the real victim in this all, Henry Horace.

  Henry, still shackled, shuffles his way to the witness stand, as his rusty chains ring throughout the courtroom.

  Rigby continues, “Henry, all I would like you to do is to address the courtroom, address the state that has wrongly and maliciously conspired to strip you of your freedom as a means to propel themselves into the stratosphere of saint hood.”

  He takes a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

  “The world waits,” says Rigby through a devilishly slanted smile.

  Henry, solemn, clears his throat. “I remember the day I found out Hope died. I remember what I was doing and where I was. I was numb and frozen for one moment but at that point in my life, I was stuck on a vessel going at light speed in one direction. Any time I looked back, time stood still. The hands on the clock never moved. Frozen. The hands have never moved since. I appeared to be on a fast track to a slow death . . . which I was ok with.” Henry stops and digs his finger tips into his eyes and grinds his teeth. He then takes a few deep breathes to collect his thoughts.

  “Dealing with lose requires steps, a process we use to get over the anger and pain on the road to acceptance. Some of us come out on the other end a better and more whole person. Imagine though, it being taken away, ripped out with a blunt knife by those who are assigned and elected to protect you. The process takes longer. Not only do you have to try and accept it, but you also have to survive. No one in this room can fully understand what it is like to be an innocent man branded a killer. To have their own pain used against them as a means to arrange a false verdict. It was nothing more than a pop psyche excuse created by buffoons and was efficiently used to persuade a panicky population who already had their minds made up. I guess I am surprised they did not use Satan worship or heavy metal music against me; just to go with the other lies. I imagine afterwards that those who lied to convict me enjoyed a toast in my honor and slept in their blood money. They had put a city to sleep by convicting an innocent man, and I hope you slept well. I can spin this positively and say I finally helped my community. I do not need sympathy or for you to empathize, just know that the shield or flag can turn on you also, to benefit itself. A city built on defective principles and injustice can never see the end they envision, onl
y an illusion. Reality catches up with us all, and then it’s all over. Until then, I hope you all have sweet dreams.”

  Henry gets up and walks off the stand and over to the defense table, next to his lawyer who looks upon him approvingly. He sits at his table nervously with Rigby who as always is more than confident.

  Judge Madden has heard all he needs to hear. The anger in his voice is controlled and calculated. “It is uncharacteristic of me to come to a decision this fast, but what about this case is characteristic of anything that has happened before. This sets a catastrophic precedent. The system of jury trials is the government’s instrument of protecting its people, not the government’s instrument of protecting and covering up its mistakes. This system, our system, has failed in every possible way. It is unfortunate that only now after years of imprisonment that you are given actual innocence. I am ashamed of the way my government has operated within its own confines, using its rules not as a means to bring about justice, but as a means to silence its subjects. Situations like this that bring upon revolt. With that, I am dropping all charges effective immediately free of bail. Court is adjourned. Welcome home.”

  Henry and Rigby shake hands.

  Sheriff Johnson comes up to Henry and wraps his arms around him, Henry lightly pats his back. He notices the Young Guard is with Sheriff Johnson, and also has the same cleft chin.

  The new Commonwealth's Attorney J. Christopher Jett also walks over to Henry to shake his hand. He has a camera man following him. “Henry, I just wanted to be the first to apologize on the behalf of the City of Radcliffe. I just want you to know however that what was done to you was with the best intentions of the city as a whole. We are prepared to work out any settlement you may want. We would rather keep it out of the court.”

  Commonwealth's Attorney Jett pulls out a velvet box and opens it. Within it is a silver and gold Rolex.

  Henry stares at the watch, resting on the fingers of his suppenated hand and brings his head up slowly, looking him directly in the eye and slowly laughs. His laugh gets louder and loud until it is knocking in the tilted door of hysterical. Tears begin to flow down his face in an avalanche of irony. He wipes his tear of joy and tries to calm himself down. “Fuck you.”

  He turns and walks towards the exit door of the courthouse by himself.

  Henry is in his cell for the last time, going through all of his belongings, trying to figure out what he will take or throw away. Everything within his room is tossed into the trash. He unstitches his mattress and pulls out his newspaper collage. He stares at it one last time and throws that away as well.

  An alarm has sounded. The loudest alarm Henry thought was possible.

  The prisoners start yelling and screaming, a riot has started. The armed guard by the cells cocks his rifle and leaves Henry in his room. The lights and heat have been shut off. Tears gas begins to rise from the floor to the ceiling within the corridor.

  As Henry walks cautiously towards his cell door, a STRIKE- he has been stabbed in the stomach. He stumbles back into his bed and falls, doubled over with blood pouring into his hand as the riot continues. The sound of SCREAMING, YELLING, guns FIRING fades in Henry’s ears until the silence accompanies him into the darkness.

  EPILOGUE