Divine Rebel

by Tom Wallace

  “Maybe Todd’s not the killer. Maybe he never killed anyone.”

  “Now, that part I can buy,” Anne said.

  “Is it possible for me to interview Todd?”

  “Sure, that’s not a problem. I can arrange it for you. However, I would like to sit in when you do speak with him. Will that work for you?”

  “Yeah, I can live with that.”

  “When would you like to interview him?”

  “In a couple of days,” I said. “That will give me enough time to meet with several others that I want to speak with. What about sometime on Thursday?”

  “I’ll set it up, then text you the time. If it’s okay with you, we should ride together. It’s just simpler that way.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said, placing a credit card on the table.

  “No, no, this one is on me.” Anne opened her purse, removed her wallet, and took out a credit card. “I’m an attorney. I can charge this to my expense account. Besides, you’re a cheap date.”

  “I’ll relent only if you agree to let me pay for the next one.”

  “Deal.”

  After she settled up, we walked outside together. It was almost three-thirty and the sun was already heading west. The temperature was still hot, but the early morning strangeness had melted away, replaced by sunshine. I thanked Anne, shook hands with her, and then climbed into my car. Checking my cell phone, I saw that I had a text from my daughter.

  OK, Dad, I know this is insane but I’ll give it a try. Flying into Louisville on Thursday. Will arrive around noon. I’ll rent a car, then drive to your hometown. Should be there by three. Reserve a room for me where you are staying. See you in three days.

  I immediately texted her back, telling her how excited and pleased I was that she was coming for a visit. I also told her I would reserve a room for her at the Best Western. She replied with a smiley face emoji.

  I made the decision to call Steve Brown when I returned to my motel room. Hopefully, he would agree to meet with me sometime the next day. I also wanted to speak with Perry Jackson, but since he was out of town, that talk had to be put on hold. However, there was nothing to keep me from setting up an interview with my old baseball rival, Jimmy Martin. He was in on Todd’s interrogation, so I figured he might have something valuable to offer concerning the case. I could always get with Perry when he got back in town.

  Not much had happened since arriving there but I felt things were looking up. All I could do was interview people with knowledge of the case, listen to what they had to say, and then eventually piece it all together. Either I would uncover enough material for a book, or I wouldn’t. The jury was still out on that one. At the moment, however, writing a book was of secondary importance to me. That project ranked far below getting a visit from my daughter.

  Who knew? Maybe miracles really do happen.

  Eight

  In the solitude of night, alone, my thoughts often drift in bleak directions. Silent questions are posed, most of which go unanswered. Is it possible that no answers exist? Perhaps that’s the most profound question of all.

  Salvation through suffering is a dark formula. And yet, is there an alternate path that leads to salvation? I have long ago concluded that no such path exists. Therefore, an individual can only achieve salvation after experiencing his or her lonely hours in Gethsemane.

  In my hotel room, wide awake at midnight, I filled yet another cup (my fourth) with more scotch and soda. My thoughts, those unanswered questions, were drowning in booze. At the forefront of my thoughts was Todd Brown, a kid not yet twenty who was destined to live out his remaining years, most likely decades, locked in a steel cage like a wild animal, absent any chance, any hope that whatever potential he once had would be realized. It had vanished in a single act of madness. There would be no great achievements, no outstanding accomplishments, nothing to write on his tombstone except his name and the years of his birth and death. How sad. Such a waste of time, potential, and talent.

  William Blake believed in the concept that “everything that lives is holy.” But was Blake right? I’m not sure. Todd Brown certainly wouldn’t be inclined to agree. After all, is being locked in a prison cell for life really living? How is it holy? Seems to me it’s neither living nor holy. Blake is not a man to argue with, but in this instance I maintain that he simply got it wrong.

  In the Kabbalah espoused by the great 16th century Jewish mystic Isaac Luria, tikkun means to repair the world, to restore it to its original, perfect state before evil came into existence. The task of repairing the world falls squarely on the shoulders of every living human. To wait for God to perform the act of tikkun is to waste valuable time. As Kafka said, “the Messiah will come only when he is no longer needed.” Therefore, if it is left to us, then how do we go about restoring the world to its former glory? Several ways, we are told, including meditation, performing righteous acts, praying, and by striving for a closer relationship with the Almighty.

  But how does a man confined to a prison cell repair the world? What methods are at his disposal that will allow him to take even that first small step toward achieving such a goal? He can’t; there are none available to him. What, then, is his alternative? To give up, to abandon all hope? The answer to that is yes, if his goal is to repair the world, but no, in thunder, if he desires to repair the one thing that remains within in his control…himself.

  Through my alcohol haze, another thought keeps making its presence felt…what if Todd were actually innocent? What if he didn’t murder and mutilate Luke Felton? What if, in his alcohol haze, he was present when the murder took place but didn’t commit the crime? Is that such an outlandish possibility? True, the evidence is heavily stacked in favor of his being guilty. Maybe that’s what troubles me. As I see it, that evidence came in a package that was a little too neatly wrapped to be accepted without being challenged. Or it could be that I just hope the kid is innocent. Hope, though, is a damn weak argument when pitted against a mountain of evidence, regardless of how neatly wrapped said evidence might be.

  Todd’s suffering—hell, everyone’s suffering—might cease to exist if Kafka’s Messiah would simply get off his lazy ass and make his long-delayed appearance. But after thousands of years in hiding, what hope do we have that he’ll show up anytime soon? Not much, I would argue.

  By mid-morning my head had cleared but my stomach felt like Mount Vesuvius ready to erupt at any moment. This had not been a pleasant morning, but not many are when I go to bed with a belly full of booze. No doubt, my liver would thank me if I chose to cut back on my alcohol intake.

  ~ * ~

  Two phone calls within a matter of minutes had jarred me awake. Both came as a complete surprise. There was no way I could have expected to hear from either of the individuals on the other end of the call.

  The first call was from Karen Tucker. She wanted to know if I would have dinner with her tonight. I thought this was an odd request, given that Mike was out of town for the next few days. I told her I wouldn’t be free until later, but she persisted, saying if I couldn’t make it for dinner, I should stop by when I was free and we’d have a few drinks.

  “With Mike out of town,” she said, “we can drink all we want, just like real adults. And we won’t have to feel guilty or selfish while we’re doing it. You up for it?”

  I was hesitant to say yes…meeting her while Mark was away somehow seemed inappropriate… but in the end, I agreed to the visit.

  The second call was from Sheriff Perry Jackson, whose voice and tone carried elements of anger and resentment. It was clear from his first words that he had no desire to speak with me. I couldn’t help but wonder why.

  “Mike Tucker left a message saying you need to talk to me,” he grumbled. “Talk about what, specifically?”

  “I was told you were out of town,” I said.

  “Well, now I’m back. I repeat…what do you want to talk about?”

  “The Todd Brown case.”

  Jackson hacked a
cough, then said, “That’s ancient history. I have nothing new to say about that case.”

  “How do you know until you hear what I ask?”

  “You want to know about that case, go to the courthouse and read the transcript. That’s where you’ll find everything you’re looking for.”

  “I plan to do that,” I said. “But still…I would like to hear your thoughts on what happened.”

  There was a long pause before Jackson finally responded. “I’m tied up most of the day, but if you’ll come by my office at, say, four o’clock, I’ll give you thirty minutes of my time. That’s the best offer you’ll get. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll see you at four,” I said, ending the call.

  What an asshole.

  ~ * ~

  I showered, dressed, and gave some thought to an early morning scotch and soda… the old hair of the dog remedy… but decided that it probably wasn’t a great idea. Instead, I found the phone number for Steve Brown that Mike had given me, and I punched it in. Since Steve knew me, I felt good about my chances that he would agree to talk about his grandson’s terrible situation. But those chances were seventy-thirty at best. I had to remember that Steve was still grieving, so it was just as likely he might tell me to go straight to hell, friend or not.

  When Steve answered and I identified myself, I received my third surprise of the morning. He not only seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me, he also knew the reason for my call. Apparently, word spreads faster in my hometown than a California wildfire.

  I didn’t ask Steve how he found out I’d be calling. That really wasn’t important. What did matter was that he sounded upbeat and eager to share his thoughts concerning what had occurred with his grandson. That’s more than I could have hoped for.

  “I’m still trying to process what happened and I’m finding it nearly impossible to do,” he said. “We are all still in shock, still reeling from what Todd supposedly did.”

  Supposedly did. What a peculiar choice of words.

  “When is a convenient time for us to meet?” I asked Steve.

  “Mary Sue and I are visiting Todd at the prison this afternoon from two until four,” he replied. “Why don’t you come over at four-thirty? We should be home by then.”

  “That won’t work for me, Steve,” I said. “I’m scheduled to meet with Sheriff Jackson at four. What about sometime tomorrow?”

  “No, no, come see us after you’re finished with the sheriff. We’d love to see you.”

  “You live in Gaslight Park, correct?”

  “Yes.” He gave me the street and house number. “I look forward to seeing you, Nick.”

  ~ * ~

  After ending the call with Steve, I left the motel and went on an expedition to find something to eat. My stomach had finally settled to the point that it was prepared to accept food without a major rebellion. Like every community in the United States, large or small, my hometown has a McDonald’s, a Wendy’s, and a bunch of familiar pizza places. I had a choice to make, although I quickly ruled out pizza—my stomach hadn’t settled that much—so I flipped a coin between Mickey D’s and Wendy’s, and Wendy’s won. I had the chicken sandwich, fries and a Diet Coke. A tasty meal, although I must admit I much prefer Mickey D’s fries to Wendy’s.

  When I finished eating, I put in a call to Mark Robinson, the county attorney I had originally gone to the courthouse to see before I was hijacked by Anne Bishop. Robinson’s secretary answered, and after I identified myself, she transferred the call to her boss. Unlike Sheriff Jackson, Mark Robinson was more than happy to speak with me, adding that he would be available all afternoon. I told him I’d be in his office in half-an-hour.

  Mark Robinson looked like a county attorney straight out of central casting. Tall and thin, with dark hair just beginning to edge toward gray, he was dressed like Gregory Peck on a good day. He had on a starched white shirt, blue tie, black slacks held up by red suspenders, and shiny wingtip shoes. Even his deep voice and the precise way he pronounced every syllable sounded like Peck’s Atticus Finch defending Tom Robinson in To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “Todd’s case was the easiest and the saddest one I’ve ever been part of,” Mark said, after we were seated in the small conference room. “Every homicide committed by a teen is tragic in multiple ways. Two families are shattered by what happened. And as the person elected to ensure that justice is served, which in this case meant sending a kid to prison for life, well, it takes a toll on you. For sure, it took a toll on me.”

  “But there wasn’t an actual trial, was there?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t necessary. Todd confessed.”

  “Before he had legal representation, right?”

  Mark chuckled, said, “You’ve spoken with Anne Bishop, haven’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, that’s true,” he said. “But he had plenty of time to ask for an attorney.”

  “He was eighteen.”

  “Eighteen-year-olds are considered adults under Kentucky law. It was up to Todd to ask for an attorney. Sheriff Jackson was under no obligation to make Todd aware of his right to have an attorney present.”

  “Maybe not, but it doesn’t pass the smell test for me.”

  “From start to finish, everything about this situation was shitty. But Luke Felton was dead and Todd admitted killing him. Don’t lose sight of that little detail. My hands were tied. I had no choice but to prosecute Todd to the fullest extent of the law. Same goes for Anne Bishop once she jumped in and got involved. Her hands were also tied. Like I said, it was a sad situation all around.”

  “According to Anne, Todd doesn’t remember anything about that night. Any chance he might be telling the truth?”

  “Only Todd knows the answer to that question,” Mark said. “Why? Are you saying he might be innocent? And before you respond, let me remind you there is a mountain of evidence stacked against him.”

  “I’ve heard about the evidence and it does appear to be overwhelming. Still, there are a few questions I’d like answered. Perhaps you can help me.”

  “Let me hear them. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Am I right to assume the murder weapon was a knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the knife found, and if so, were Todd’s prints on it?”

  “The knife has never been located,” Mark said.

  “If Todd rode to the murder site in Luke’s car, and if the car was still there when his body was found, how did Todd get back to his house, which was a good six or seven miles from where the murder occurred? Did he walk, hitchhike, what? How did he cover that distance in the dead of night?”

  “Todd claims he doesn’t remember how he got home. Or where he disposed of the knife.”

  “Explain to me why a kid Todd’s age would be spending time alone with a man pushing seventy.”

  “This is only a guess, but I suspect it had to do with drugs. In case you haven’t heard, Todd was a heavy drug abuser.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I was silent for a moment, then said, “Drugs could account for his memory loss. Maybe he experienced a blackout.”

  “I have to be perfectly honest with you, Nick. I’m not buying Todd’s amnesia act. It comes across as a little too convenient for me to believe.”

  Checking my watch, I realized I only had time for a couple more questions before I had to scoot out and get to my meeting with Sheriff Jackson. Lucky for me, his office was also in the courthouse, a floor below Mark Robinson’s.

  “Did you watch the tape of Todd being questioned?” I said.

  “Several times, yes,” Mark replied.

  “Did anything about the interview bother you?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Anne says there were times when it looked like Todd was agreeing with Sheriff Jackson’s statements rather than answering his questions. If that’s true, it might indicate the sheriff was leading Todd in a certain direction, perhaps one he wanted Todd to travel.”

  “T
hat’s hogwash, Nick. Anne is desperate to find any flaw that will exonerate her client, which is what she’s paid to do. I get it. I’d do the same thing if I were in her shoes. But she’s dead wrong to claim Sheriff Jackson bullied Todd into confessing. That didn’t happen. Perry acted in a professional manner. So did Jimmy Martin, who also sat in on the interview.”

  “How wsould you describe your relationship with Sheriff Jackson?”

  “Strictly professional.”

  “That’s a rather subdued assessment.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “I’ve heard whispers that Luke Felton was gay,” I said. “Any truth to that?”

  “Here’s what I know. It is true that Luke spent a lot of time in the presence of younger boys. Whether he was gay, or whether he was just a friendly guy who acted as a mentor to young boys, I can’t say with any certainty. But…I will admit I do find it to be disturbing behavior on his part.”

  “Did you question any of those boys?”

  “No, why should I? Luke was deceased and Todd confessed to the murder. Luke’s sexual proclivities were irrelevant.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you, Mark,” I said, standing and offering my hand. “Thanks for taking time to answer my questions. I really appreciate it.”

  Shaking my hand, he said, “Mike tells me you’re planning to write a book about the case. Is that true?”

  “I’m leaning that way, yes.”

  “Can’t be as exciting for you as writing all those movies. Hell, I’d consider that a dream job.”

  “Working in the film business isn’t necessarily what it’s purported to be, I can promise you that.”

  “Maybe not, but it sure beats the hell out of slaving away in this county.” He opened the door and shook my hand a second time. “If you have additional questions, or seek more information, feel free to give me a call. I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “Count on it,” I said, as I left his office.