Off the main road, the darkness of the wooded area quickly enveloped the three cars. It was at once chilling and reassuring. On the narrow side road, the only lights were from the police car and the two sets of headlights behind him. Leading the small procession, Yassim proceeded slowly and was soon rewarded. Another sign with the words “Findlay Lake” in script indicated a gravel lane little bigger than a driveway to the left. He slowed the cruiser almost to a crawl and turned the car carefully, aiming the headlights into the narrow lane. The bright lights of Mohammed’s car struck his rearview mirror and blinded him momentarily and he turned the mirror down. Then his attention returned to the dark woods engulfing his car from both sides; immediately he saw what he was looking for. The lane opened up to a broader gravel area wide enough to turn around a boat and he slowed the vehicle to a stop. Thirty feet ahead he could see the lake. Letting the car engine run, he got out of the car, the door open.
He walked into the beams in front of the car and in a few steps he felt the sloping decline of a wooden boat ramp. With the headlights as illumination, he stepped forward carefully. In three steps the cold water was sloshing over his shoes. Continuing forward, he counted his steps until his right foot fell away into the deeper water ahead of him. He was at the end of the ramp. But how deep was the water? He had to find out. Standing there, the water chilling his feet, he made a decision. I am the leader; perhaps this is part of Allah’s penance for my lack of discipline.
Yassim walked deeper into the cold, black water. Within two steps his entire body was submerged. His head below the water, he was blind and disoriented. He floundered, his hands grasping for purchase until he caught a slimy piece of wood that he guessed was one of the submerged supports of the ramp. He forced himself to turn 360 degrees until he could determine the exact direction of the headlights. He angled his body toward the light and paddled in that direction. He used his feet and hands to find the slope of the wooden ramp. A few more sluggish steps and he dragged his drenched, shivering body out of the water.
Still in the direct path of the car lights, he could see little but could make out the shape of a figure approaching. “Yassim, are you okay? Do you need my help?” It was Fadi’s anxious voice.
“I am fine, Fadi. Get back to the car.”
“Are you sure, Yassim? Do you need my help getting--”
“I am sure, Fadi,” Yassim shot back. “Get to your car now. We will need to leave here in a minute.”
As the cold night wind whipped through his soaked clothes, he shivered and his teeth began to chatter. He climbed quickly back inside the police cruiser and closed the door. He depressed the buttons at his fingertips and lowered both front windows, thinking how weak the Americans are that they must have a car that even opens its own windows. Then, he put the car into gear and eased it down the slope. He depressed the accelerator and the car glided into the water.
In a few seconds the water flowed over the hood of the car and into the open windows. It poured onto the car seat, immediately chilling his groin and legs again. Yassim stared ahead at the car’s hood and what he could see of the lake quickly surrounding the vehicle. He panicked. What if he hadn’t gotten the car far enough into the lake to submerge it? Just then, he thought of the light “bubble” atop the car and realized his mistake. If the car is not deep enough, the “bubble” will be the first thing showing. It will be recognized immediately as a police car.
Preoccupied with his doubts, he swallowed a mouthful of lake water. He spat it out and then turned his face toward the roof of the car and tried desperately to take a gulp of air. He had to repeat the effort three times before he was able to expel all the water, take a deep breath and hold it. Then, using both hands, he pushed himself out through the open driver’s window.
Halfway out, looking into the path of light left by the headlights, he cursed himself silently. He forced his body partly back through the opening and he used his right hand to frantically search for the light switch. His body half in and half out, he felt the car sinking into the depths of the lake, pulling him down with it, like some dying beast, trying to drag its prey with it to its grave. Blindly he ran his fingers furiously across the panel but he couldn’t find the right switch. As seconds ticked by, he struggled to hold his breath and his lungs burned. Although he had had a few rudimentary lessons, he was no swimmer. The vehicle descended farther and he realized he would have to give up the effort or risk being pulled down with the car. As he was pushed away, his hand bumped a button and the lights suddenly went out and all was black in the water.
With the blackness came disorientation and a new desperation raced through his mind. He struggled to regain his calm as he allowed his natural buoyancy to raise him in the water. Yassim searched through the dark water for the headlights of the other cars he knew must be there. Seconds before he broke the surface, he saw the lights. As he came up, his lungs expelled and then greedily gulped air. He forgot the cold, the fear, and panic as the fresh air flooded into his lungs. As soon as he could breathe clearly, he cried, “Allah, be praised!”
Treading water, he turned around in his position and searched for any sign of the police car. He heard a few bubbles break the surface but he saw nothing in the water. Satisfied that he had done what he could, he took slow, awkward strokes toward the beckoning headlights.
Chapter 13
You might not know this but good teachers use whatever’s at hand to motivate students. The best government teacher I ever worked with, a talented veteran by the name of Doug Halpin, used current events to get his students excited, even arguing about issues like the latest Supreme Court ruling or the most recent battle in the UN, no small feat for a class of teenagers. He had the power that truly gifted teachers have; his room was seldom quiet and the students were the ones doing most of the talking. They were, as we say in this business, engaged.
I’m not in Doug’s league by a long shot, but after working down the hall from him for three years, I had learned a few things. Since all of us in Hammerville were in the midst of the biggest current event that would ever directly involve us, I decided to make full use of it. At least that’s what I had in mind at the time with my Journalism class. The next issue of The Anvil was coming up, and, as our sports teams weren’t providing any stellar material lately, I had planned to do a theme issue for the student paper. I decided it might be a good idea to devote the edition to the issue of capital punishment. I knew I had struck gold--at least from a motivational perspective--thirty seconds after the announcement was out of my mouth.
“You mean we’re going to write about how they’re going to fry the Arab? Count me in!” said Keith, an athletic type with the build of a linebacker but who chose not to play any sports. His long, stringy, blond hair tended to fall down over his eyes when he talked and he had to constantly brush it off his forehead.
I didn’t respond as I knew Tess would rise to the challenge. “Keith, you can really be a lightweight, you know that? Try to rein in your prejudice, would ya?” she called across the room, momentarily looking up from the computer screen. “This state doesn’t ‘fry’ anybody. They haven’t since 1963. They use lethal injection.” Her voice took on the pedantic tone she adopted when she wanted to.
“Gimme a break, madame editor,” Keith said. “I was just usin’ a figure of speech or somethin’. Everybody knows the prison guys are goin’ plug that drug into the IV and it will be lights out for old Asad.”
I glanced around the room, scanning the students’ faces and eventually landed on Ms. Christie Ferguson sitting again in a rear corner desk. My “peer coach” and friend was already jotting her notes on what was happening in my classroom. With her and my personal antagonist, Jerod, both visiting today, my room seemed over full. I nodded briefly at Christie but, with the discussion that was about to unfold, it was the last thought I would give to my peer coach. I wish I would’ve been that lucky with Jerod.
I started again. “Well, I thought The Anvil might take a little broader
perspective than focusing on ‘frying him,’ as you so eloquently put it, Keith. Since we’re a school newspaper, I thought maybe we should try something different than the tabloid approach.”
“Whadda you mean, Ms. S?” asked Jake, a red-haired sophomore who was the youngest in the Journalism class and a decent writer. He’s a likable kid with a good sense of humor and the older students in the class usually cut him some slack. Most of the time Jake wasn’t afraid to ask the questions other students thought about but wouldn’t voice.
“Well, this is supposed to be your newspaper. What do you guys think we ought to do?” I asked.
“What if we did the ‘theme’ not on Akadi?” said Tess. All the other students were quiet. Studying the faces of the teens in the room, I was reminded of what a good choice I had made in naming her student editor. She was smart and savvy about what other students think and when she spoke, the rest usually took heed. “What if we covered Akadi, but...” she paused, placing her index finger on her pursed lips, “but we did the edition on the whole issue of capital punishment.”
“Yeah,” piped up Goat, a tall, gangly kid nicknamed for the prized black goatee that adorned his pointed chin, “we could do something on the number of cons on death row and what crimes they’re in for.”
“Where?” I asked, breaking in but trying to make the question innocent.
“Whadda mean?” asked Goat.
“The number of cons on death row in Hammerville or in Ohio or…in the U.S.?”
“I dunno,” said Goat, “I guess Hammerville...or Ohio? Does it matter?”
“Sure it does,” said Tess. “The students here would be more interested in how many’s at HBE, but we need to have a little context to make the numbers make sense.”
Keith turned to Jerod. “Mr. Thomas, do you know how many cons are on death row at HBE?”
“As of to-day, HBE houses fourteen males awaitin’ execution, eight African-Americans, three Hispanic-Americans, two whites ‘n Asad, of course,” Jerod twanged.
I know I shouldn’t but I couldn’t help it. I just found that drawl irritating.
“Does it bother anybody else that more than half of the cons on death row here at HBE are black, while only 12% of the population of the state is black?” asked Tyrone, the sole African-American member of the journalism class, and one of a small minority in the whole high school.
“If you do the crime, you better be ready to do the time...or get fried as the case may be,” quipped Keith. I was relieved when no one laughed.
“Keith, that ain’t funny,” Tyrone shot back, “or at least you wouldn’t think so if your face wadn’t so white.”
Of course, Keith took exception to this and was quickly pulling his long legs from inside the desk when I thought it might be the appropriate time for a little instructional intervention.
“Mr. Thomas, do you know how the racial composition of the death row convicts at HBE compare with other prisons in Ohio?” I asked, looking for an ally.
“Naw, Miss Sterber, I dunno. Do you?” He flashed that baby boy smile at me. I could’ve strangled him.
But his slow pronunciation gave me enough time to cross the room and lay my “teacher” hand on Keith’s right shoulder.
Editor Tess recognized my dilemma and jumped in. “According to the flyer that was given to me by the protester at the prison,” Tess hastily pulled the red and white sheet from her book bag, “85% of all those on death row are minority, mainly black and Hispanic. Now, I don’t know if their figures are right, and as journalists we have to consider the source. But, Tyrone, you have a good point and I think it’s significant that none of us know the answer to Ms. Sterber’s question. Not even Mr. Thomas, who works there.”
She went on. “Maybe, if we want to do a real theme issue dealing with capital punishment, we ought to do more than just rehash the story on Akadi. Heck, everybody’s already done that.” She got nods of agreement all around the room. “We ought to find a way to use all this attention to grab a new angle, to do something that hasn’t been done. Any ideas, anybody?”
“Why don’t we start by asking the other students?” Goat offered, like a young child eager to please a parent.
“Ask them what?” I asked and the answers came flying from every student in the room.
“We could ask ’em if they’re in favor of capital punishment.”
“Do they agree that we should fry Akadi?”
“What crimes do they think are serious enough to get death?”
“Why are there more minorities on death row?”
“Do they have any idea of how many convicts are on death row?”
“Do they know how many states still have the death penalty?”
“How many countries have the death penalty?”
“Do they believe the death penalty is a deterrent to crime?”
The ideas sprang from one mouth after the other, some full with shiny, silver braces, others naturally bright white. The room was abuzz with real questions about a real issue from real teenagers. I was impressed, or just lucky. But I knew it wouldn’t be long until it spiraled into bedlam or an argument, so I intervened again.
“Okay, wait,” I said and then a little louder, “Everybody...everybody, wait, wait! Wait just a second. Goat, make a list of everyone’s questions and then we can decide which ones we want to use.”
In the middle of the excited exchange, Tyrone pulled away from the group now ganged up around Goat’s desk and directed a question at me. “Ms. S, could we ask questions of anybody else?”
“Who’d you have in mind, the teachers?” I asked back.
“Naw,” he said and paused, as if contemplating his options, and then, “What if we interviewed some protesters?” At his question, all the other students stopped, the chaotic cacophony suddenly silenced, and they turned as one to hear my response.
I hesitated and the students interpreted my pause as reluctance--correctly, as a matter of fact. Before I could formulate a reasonable response, they all jumped on me.
“Some of these questions would work real well with the protesters, I think,” said Goat.
“I think those people have a right to be heard, even if their opinions aren’t particularly popular,” suggested Jake, his bright green eyes making his red hair more prominent.
Zoë, a pimply-faced junior with bleached blonde hair, usually too shy to say much, even wanted to add her argument, “I believe,” she said so softly that I wouldn’t have heard her if the room wasn’t completely still, “that they have a right to tell their story, at least the way they see it.”
Tess added the final blow. “Ms. S, we’ve been to the prison. It’d be no big deal. You saw the protesters up close with me. We saw how committed some of them are, staying at the prison through the rain, the cold, and the bad weather. If we’re serious about doing an issue, aren’t we obligated as journalists to tell all sides of a story, including theirs?”
“Well, Tess, I’m not sure it’s possible or practical to tell all sides to a story,” I responded, “but any journalist worth her salt needs to get alternate views to make sure the reporting is as balanced and unbiased as possible. After we get the student survey part down, we can take a look at some of the questions to see if any might be appropriate to ask the protesters.”
“Hey, I got a great idea!” cried Keith, waving one long arm in the air, looking like one of the persistent reporters at the press conference. By the excited look in his eyes, I knew I was not going to like what came out of his mouth. But, I asked anyway, trying not to sound anxious.
“What, Keith?”
“I think we ought to see if we can interview some of the convicts on death row,” he offered.
“I don’t know about that--”
He cut me off. “Or maybe they’d let us interview Akadi! Maybe Mr. Thomas could help arrange it with the suits over at HBE?” The whole class turned to look at Jerod who sat in the back of the room.
“Keith, I appreciate your enthusiasm,”
I said, “but I’m sure Mr. Thomas could tell us that it’s far too dangerous to have students enter into a maximum security prison, even for such a lofty goal as interviewing death row inmates for a student newspaper.” I glared at Jerod, my arched eyebrows telegraphing my message.
“Wel-l-l, I’m not sure ‘bout that. The HBE execs might be interested, for PR purposes, of course. They’re always talkin’ about how they want to show the whole town just how safe our facility is. And it certainly would be a true learning experience, that’s for sure. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll be glad to check with the powers that be. That is, if it’s aw right with Miss Sterber?” He said all this and turned to look squarely at me. And then smiled, dammit. And of course, every adolescent eye in the room turned back to gauge my response.
“Well, um, well,” I stumbled for an answer, dumbfounded. “I, uh, I, uh...I’m not sure about this. I don’t think Central Office will allow us to go…probably for liability purposes.” When in doubt, blame the administrators.
“Could you at least check and ask for us?” pleaded Jake, his youthful face beaming naive anticipation.
“I--” was all I got out and the bell intervened. To my surprise, not one student moved to the door, not even Keith--who I think started all this just for fun. Even he was engaged. Amazing! All of them sat there and I realized they weren’t going to move till I said something. So I said, “Okay, I’ll check on it and get back to you tomorrow.”
In seconds, chaos ruled again and the room was evacuated faster than a fire drill, leaving Jerod and me in the center of the room. Since I couldn’t be certain what might come out of my mouth, I was silent. I shot a quick glance to Christie still in the back of the room and commenced my “busy teacher” routine, collecting papers to be taken home and graded, picking up leftover student debris, straightening the bookshelf and hoped he would take the hint. He didn’t.
Leave No Child Behind Page 10
