Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  —Walter

  Everyone holds the power of choice. Everyone must accept responsibility for his or her own actions in life. There are no exceptions to the rule. On this, Walter and I agree. It is irrational to believe you can be saved from your own bad decisions and stupidity. There are no excuses, only consequences. As Walter would say, “I am that consequence.” And believe me, I’ve seen the results. It’s not pretty but it is the last consequence some scumbags will ever know.

  With Walter, all the excuses in the world won’t change the scale of justice. Defense attorneys love that Freudian crap because they can spread it like fertilizer to grow “reasonable doubts.” Walter doesn’t buy it! Pointing fingers at moms and dads to explain aberrant behavior is the basis of a well-fertilized defense argument. Perps make decisions to commit criminal acts of violence on innocent persons to gratify their own seething lust. You can choose to believe regurgitated psychobabble spewed out at trials if you like. I hold violent predatory criminals accountable for their actions. Defense attorneys are con artists, selling juries excuses like their counterparts of the Old West with their snake oil. It’s only a tactic; there is no legitimate defense. None!

  Victims, more than anyone, should be willing to bring this behavior to an end and break the mythical cycle of abuse. I say mythical because it is overplayed by lawyers on behalf of the criminals. Oftentimes there is no support for this hogwash the defense is selling the court. It’s a ploy to blame someone other than the only person responsible for the crime. Unfortunately, it’s gone in favor of these perps too many times. That’s why they band together in activist groups with lawyers at the helm. Its society’s biggest betrayal and worth far more than thirty pieces of silver.

  Someone needs to step up to the plate. That’s where I come in. I’m a pinch hitter! What family members might have done with audacity and opportunity, I do voluntarily without fear of consequence—vengeance is mine! Offenders of violent crimes must die if crime is to be reduced—there is no alternative.

  One of my victims, in a rather hyper verbal state, related how he wished he had killed himself rather than rape a little girl. But he didn’t! He raped the little girl and tried to hide from his crime. His tears met my gunpowder. As with my illfated friend, suicide is never opted for by any perp, so I help them along.

  Yes, I’m advocating suicide as a far better choice than subjecting another person to violent sexual abuse. When perps do choose to commit such an act against someone, they should not be so naïve as to think a violent reaction is far away. They should expect it, not whine and cry about the unfair consequences they receive from a judge and jury. It’s nothing in comparison to what I have in store for them when our paths cross. Predator for prey is expected. Predator for predator is not. I am not supposed to exist, but I do.

  One thing I had decided from the start of this venture was to keep my projects at a distance. I did not want to get to know them on a personal level. I felt no inclination to befriend them or get close to their personal lives; it wasn’t necessary. What I hadn’t planned for was a situation involving a long-term platonic relationship.

  Latisha Hughes and I had worked the factory together for many years. She was single, never married, and in no uncertain terms ever wanted to be. I was content with having loved once and lost and moved on with my life. We went out to a few events together, but that’s where it ended for both of us. However, we had on numerous occasions discussed the problems of the world over a brew or two and actually solved most of them, if that can be believed. Unfortunately, most folks would never go along with the cures, so we kept them mostly to ourselves. It was this friendship and perhaps my views that brought into my world a set of circumstances demanding my personal involvement and a solution to Tish’s problem, a solution only Walter could administer.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! The pounding sound on my front door ricocheted off the walls as the afternoon was rudely interrupted. Since I never invite anyone to my house, I carefully opened the door not knowing what to expect. I was momentarily taken aback to see Tish holding a young female in her embrace. Mia looked up from Tish’s shoulder, her face grimacing with pain, and sobbing uncontrollably. Tish appeared upset and angry, asked,

  “Can we come in?”

  Startled at her appearance and tone, I swung the door open, “Sure, of course.”

  Mia Payne was a casual acquaintance of mine. That is to say, I had met her on a couple of occasions. Mia was a newlywed of about six months. Her husband, Macon, I hadn’t met prior to their marriage. He was a polite and well-mannered young man that left me with the gut feeling he was putting on the dog for someone. There was something more artificial and counterfeit than genuine but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  She brought to the new relationship not only herself but a cute little six-year-old daughter, Barbie. Her father from the former relationship might have blessed her with his DNA but had brought little else to the table. The relationship was never made official and soon they drifted apart.

  Mia composed herself as best she could as she sat on the ottoman facing me. Tish sat near her on a recliner holding Mia’s hand and absorbing her tears. It was a struggle for Mia to open up. The pain was overwhelming. She didn’t seem to know where to start. She was hesitant, but with coaxing, blurted, “Macon is a felon. He did time in the state pen at Salem.” After a long pause it became easier for her and she continued. “He was involved with some other guys, they were all really young, and they were caught red-handed committing house burglaries. Macon was driving the car when they caught him. All the stuff they took was in the trunk.”

  Mia knew the story from the beginning. She was involved with a church ministry which had brought her in contact with Macon while he was incarcerated. Weekly religious meetings opened the door to begin their relationship. They started corresponding and talking on the phone frequently. At the end of his nineteen-month stint he was ready to move his relationship to another level. In Mia’s mind it was all behind them and buried in the past. Less than a month after discharge from Corrections they were hitched in a private ceremony. They were at this time six months into their marriage and had developed an ugly secret. Mia continued to beat around the bush. I found it interesting but felt the worst was yet to come. Why else would Tish bring her here?

  I tried hard not to have contact with any of the folks from the factory but I let my guard down with Tish. It was a mistake. I had given Tish my address sometime back at her request. It seemed the normal thing to do and abnormal to conceal it from her. However, I never suggested or encouraged her to drop by, nor did I expect her to. It must have been my lucky day. Bad luck, that is. I suspect she chose me because I was the most trusted person of anyone she knew and further, I was a man, which offered a degree of safety for what was going to be revealed. Regardless, I was chosen to become the recipient of Mia’s bad news.

  Macon watched Barbie while Mia worked an evening job. According to Mia, Macon loaded the little girl into his car and went for a drive while Mia was at work. He stopped by a liquor store purchasing a four-pack of wine coolers then proceeded to a “scenic” spot to enjoy the beverages. Or so it would seem. He gave Barbie a couple of sweet and fruity wine coolers, which she downed. When she became woozy from the booze and nearly passed out he sexually assaulted her with his finger. More might well have happened if it wasn’t for Barbie becoming sick from the alcohol and vomiting profusely in the car. He drove her home, put her in the shower, and washed and dried her clothes. Except for the stench, he managed to clean up the car before Mia got off work.

  Macon picked Mia up that evening and, when asked about the foul odor, confessed. However, Macon’s hope for a concealed lie amidst the truth failed miserably when Mia talked with Barbie about the incident. She hadn’t been as drunk as Macon thought and remembered the parts Macon left out. When Mia confronted him on the accusation, he lied and denied anything of that nature had occurred. Seeing Mia wasn’t buying, he quickly pivoted to a new position of weeping and
crying about how sorry he was. In truth, Macon was no doubt sorry, sorry he got caught, not sorry he did it. I’d heard enough.

  Mia went on with her story, although she really didn’t need to. I was busy planning a project, vaguely hearing what she was saying. I snapped out of it enough to hear her concluding the story with packing up her daughter and leaving for her mother’s house.

  “Mia called me frantic,” said Tish, still holding Mia by the hand for comfort. After meeting up with her at Mia’s mom’s house the two of them tucked Barbie into bed, Mia and Tish both giving her hugs and kisses before finding a place on the porch they could talk privately.

  “We haven’t slept a wink all night,” Tish said. “There’s no reason to go over it again and again. The story is the same.”

  Tish tried to get Mia to take Barbie to the hospital and file a report with the police but Mia was adamant, she did not want to involve the police. Tish had hoped I might talk some sense into her.

  “Mia, take it to the police.” My response was everything Tish expected

  She promptly refused. “Macon is still on parole. A parole violation would put him right back in jail and he’d hate me.”

  I will admit sometimes I just don’t understand people. This was one of them. “Why do you care if he hates you? Don’t you hate him for what he has done? Don’t you want him in jail? Isn’t that what he deserves?”

  Mia sat back, “I don’t know, it would devastate him. What if he killed himself?”

  Well she had a point; it would take care of the problem and save Walter the hassle.

  “I’m not worried about him, Mia, he’s a big boy and he’s responsible for what he has done.”

  Mia’s tears were gone and she sat soberly fumbling with a wadded-up ball of Kleenex. I thought for a moment I’d gotten through to her.

  “He told me he was leaving Oregon and he would not bother us again.”

  My response was coarse, “Is that all you want? Just gone? He’ll go somewhere else and he’ll do it again if you don’t do anything.”

  Mia sat quietly without responding. Tish continued to hold her hand while I looked into her eyes and awaited the next opportunity to coax her in the right direction.

  “He mentioned Australia,” Mia said looking at Tish. “He said he was going to Australia. He’s probably on his way already. He was really scared of what would happen if he stayed here. Besides, I can’t put Barbie through a big court ordeal.”

  His leaving solved Mia’s immediate concern but it wasn’t the full measure of an answer to the problem. It would be up to Walter to resolve it permanently.

  I was through trying to talk her into something she wasn’t going to follow up on. Mia continued to talk, an attempt to justify her feelings, but she didn’t have my interest. I was angry Mia would not show the proper care and concern for her daughter. I toyed with the idea of telling her to hit the dusty trail but that would not make matters better.

  Hindsight being 20/20 it was easy to see Macon had been grooming Barbie from the beginning of their marriage. Mia recounted having observed Macon’s behavior at home that sparked the initial concern. Macon, the loving new dad in the picture, made attempts to bond with Barbie, or so Mia thought. Macon would go into the little girl’s bedroom at bedtime and give her a back massage. What bothered Mia was his manner of stroking her back, over her buttocks, and down her legs. Although it raised a concern in Mia, she thought she was just being overly protective and dismissed it. Macon ingratiated himself in Barbie’s eyes by giving her treats and privileges Mia frowned upon. Again, Mia did not want to derail her new husband’s good intentions of being a father figure and stepped aside. Then the straw that broke the camel’s back. This was unforgivable. Yet, she didn’t want to involve the police.

  Mia felt partly to blame for what happened and a criminal trial might bring that out. To me it was just another child sexual abuse case that would never be reported. She was another parent who didn’t know right from wrong and it was wrong to allow the crime to go unreported. Under the guise of protecting her child she would allow for more victims to follow. Macon would seek a lair in some out-of-the-way place where he could hide what he was, then resurface to victimize another child.

  Mia asked, “Can you pay him a visit just to see if he’s left yet? If not, maybe you can encourage his packing and leaving.”

  Now I’m an errand boy! Getting involved would be a mistake. Ted E. Bear was right, I can’t just kill everyone. In this case I might end up a suspect! I could feel my judgment becoming clouded, not because of Mia, but anger over what had happened to this little girl. Personal involvement was against everything I believed in and planned for. I was playing with fire and I knew better. Shaking my head as I sat back I reluctantly responded, “Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

  At the door Tish gave me a brotherly hug, whispering, “I’ll give you a call.”

  Great, I thought, more involvement. “Tish, let me call you. I don’t know what all this will entail.”

  I saw concern sweep over Mia’s face. Looking toward her I called her name, “Mia, hang tight. Let me handle it, okay? I’ll help him be out of your life forever.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “I’ll call you, if there are any problems, I’ll call, I promise!” Mia gently hugged and thanked me.

  I turned my attention to Tish once more knowing how she is. “Give me a chance and I’ll make sure he’s gone.”

  Tish responded, “I know you will.” With that Tish and Mia made their way to her car.

  I spent the night pondering my foolhardy decision to become personally involved. Why didn’t I insist she go to the police? Problem solved! But I knew why, I wanted to kill him. He was a predator and he was not going to change. Formulating a well-thought-through plan and executing it was time consuming. Time I didn’t have for this one. I would have to act first to keep him from going on the lam. I could not let him escape but what I was contemplating would be far chancier than what I had done previously. To make matters worse, no sensory perceptions were guiding me this time, just the natural feelings of anger and a desire to rid the world of another perp. To further complicate my thought process my target this time was not a convicted sex offender but a hearsay offender. I would have to tread lightly.

  I decided it would be better to arrive at the front door unannounced than to call ahead. If he was still there he might try to hide or run and that wasn’t one of my solutions to the problem. Arriving at his house I pulled up in plain view of his front door. It was a small ranch-style home with a living-room front window. My persistence at ringing the doorbell paid off when I heard him unlock the door and open it a smidgeon. The door moved easily as I nudged it with my foot. Macon was walking away with his back toward me when he grumbled, “What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk for a bit.”

  Stillness filled the air as he ignored my request. I moved to a couch and sat patiently. Macon wandered in circles around the house for a few minutes; it seemed much longer. He appeared disheveled and anxious. His eyes showed signs of a lack of sleep and were filled with fear. He was moving rapidly from room to room looking for something but it was obvious he didn’t know what. He was lost. Occasionally he picked up something and jammed it into a suitcase that lay open on the coffee table before me. I made attempts to calm him for the better part of an hour and offered to drive him to wherever he needed to go. I wanted him to know I was there to help.

  Mia had taken her car, which was his only form of transportation. With no place to go and very little pocket cash to get there, he sat on an opposing couch and began to cry. He admitted to me what had happened with Barbie but spared me the worst details. It was probably nothing more than curiosity but I wanted to know, why? At first he shrugged his shoulders, unable to form a viable answer but everyone knew why they acted the way they did. As I sat patiently he slowly began to unravel the clues. The long and short of it was simple, he blamed his parents. Both his parents had ut
ilized Macon and his two siblings in sex orgies with other adults. He said he had two sisters who were engaged in drugs and prostitution. He credited their behavior, as well as his own, to the abuse inflected on them by his parents. He recounted vividly one night how a visitor clamped a vise grip on his finger and squeezed until blood came out from underneath his fingernail. Then the sadistic visitor sexually assaulted him while his parents were present. I would have to know more about this. If it was true there were a few more people I’d like to kill.

  “Macon, how could you turn around and do the same sort of thing to another child?”

  At first he made some excuses how it wasn’t the same as what happened to him. Then breaking down again he cried out, “I hate it! I’d rather kill myself than do the same thing to another kid.”

  That bothered me. Most people by now would be sympathetic—not me, he was lying. In fact, nothing indicated he had tried to stop himself at all. Contrary to his feelings, the feelings he was now sharing with me, he’d gone out of his way to devise a plan to damage Barbie’s innocence. There was something egomaniacal with this line he was giving me and I was not buying it. Macon continued to stumble through a maze of half-truths and distorted thoughts, unable to accept responsibility for what he did. I knew he knew why, he just couldn’t admit it. He eventually composed himself, washed his face and combed his hair.

  “My mother passed away while I was in jail.”

  I, of course, thought, one down, and two to go, but kept my wits about me and my comments to myself.

  “My dad lives about an hour’s drive away.”

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “Not often, but we get along okay.”

  “Is that where you want to go?”

  “I’d go to my sisters, they live together, but there won’t be any room. My dad lives alone, there’s plenty of room for me there.” Macon was now looking more relieved.

  “I’ll take you to your dad’s if you want?”

  Macon paused briefly before answering, “Sure, that’ll give me some time to get some things worked out before I go.”