by B. K. Dell
“I am not here to speak ill of the dead, Ms. Hobbs. I personally think it is a wonderful thing to lie if you are trying to protect someone. And when we imagine the pain and the heartache that you would have felt if you had known the truth, isn’t it natural for someone to lie? Isn’t it possible that Caleb did not only lie to you in his letters, but lied about everything? Isn’t it possible that by virtue of being the one who cared for him most, you are, in fact, the one who has the most obscured view of the truth?”
“No!” Cheryl snapped angrily.
“I see,” said Randolph as he turned away from her and headed back to his table. From his briefcase he pulled out a piece of crumpled paper. It looked as if it had been crushed into a ball, thrown out, and then re-flattened. “Can you tell me if this is Caleb’s handwriting?” He handed it to Cheryl.
Cheryl’s eyes bugged wide. “Yes,” she said surprised, “It is.”
“Can you tell us if that is the official Marine stationery that Private First Class Brown was so kind to describe?”
“Yes.”
“The same stationery, the jury can see,” he motioned to all the poster-sized copies of her letters, “as all the letters you received?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind reading the letter penned by your son?”
“Where did you get this?” she snapped.
“Would you mind reading the letter, please?”
She read:
Dear Stacy, I love you so much.
“I love him!” Stacy Oliver interrupted with an outburst. “We were so in love!” he exclaimed with fake tears in his voice.
“Order!” cried the Judge as he pounded on his gavel. Stacy slumped over to Jerald Schaefer’s shoulder where he was quickly shoved off. He turned the other way to slump onto Martin’s shoulder, where he continued to pulsate with tears, but quietly so.
“You may continue reading, ma’am,” said the Judge.
As Cheryl read, there was a slight shake in her hand that vibrated the letter, but she forced herself to continue:
You were right about everything. Everyone. There are only two types of people: homosexuals and homophobes. I was wrong about Marines. They are boorish and crude. They represent all the worst qualities in men, concentrated in a blinding focus. These men aren’t heroes, but schoolyard bullies. They fear what I am so much that their every action is a thinly veiled attempt to prove that they are heterosexual. They must constantly try to act the most masculine, most brutal, most emotionally calloused, and furthest away from being a freak like me.
The drill instructor here is the worst bully of them all. I am trying to decipher whether he actually believes his own lies about training us, or has come to terms with the fact that he just likes making young men (especially gay young men) suffer.
Cheryl quickly handed the letter off to Randolph, wanting it away from her. Randolph said, “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“I assume you would like to re-examine your witness?” the Judge asked Landry.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Landry approached the witness stand very solemnly. He said, “Isn’t it possible that Caleb just changed his mind?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Isn’t it possible that Caleb just had a bad day?”
“That sounds more like Caleb.”
Landry walked to grab a letter of his own. This one had not been blown up because he wanted the jury to hear it only from Cheryl’s lips. He handed it to her. “Can you tell us the date on this letter?”
“November 10th.”
“That is almost an entire year after he left boot camp, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“This was the last letter you ever received from Caleb, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said sadly.
“Do you mind reading the letter out loud?”
Cheryl Hobbs cleared her throat. She read:
Dear Mom,
I have been reading a Bible that Jackson and Stephanie gave me. Don’t get too excited, I am having a real hard time believing all of it. But I like to read it.
Do you remember me telling you the story that Jackson told me at graduation? Well, that story is in here. Why didn’t you tell me? Jackson is a stinking plagiarist! Jesus told a parable about workers in a vineyard. Some did more work than others, some even a lot more. But, they all got more than they deserved. That is the important part. They all got more than they deserved.
It is about salvation, obviously, but I got to thinking – it’s also about America, isn’t it? I know how the press talk about me. I know that they want to use me as an emblem for their cause and their war. But I want no part of it. I never understood those type of people while I was still with Stacy.
Caleb’s mom paused here and straightened up pompously. She said loudly to the whole room, in her best imitation of a lawyer’s voice, “Let the record show that after the name Stacy my son drew a frowny-face with its tongue hanging out and an X for both eyes – the international symbol for ‘Yuck!’”
People in the courtroom laughed. Stacy folded his arms tight across his chest. The Judge shot a warning glance that quickly quieted the room. Cheryl Hobbs returned to her letter, searching for the right place:
I never understood those type of people while I was still with Stacy, yuck, but I think I am starting to understand them now.
Those who talk about unfairness in society, by definition, must have their noses in everyone else’s business. If someone receives injustice, they should fight for justice. But there is a big difference between injustice and unfairness. (The first worker’s pay wasn’t fair, but it was just.) And there is a huge difference between those people who fight against injustice and those people who fight against unfairness.
People like Stacy are missing the main point. What they don’t realize is that in America we have already been given more than we deserve. Don’t they see how good we have it? The people who go on and on about equality have failed to realize that on a global scale, they are the privileged class; they are the fortunate few.
Those who claim that life has been unfair to them (as I once did) should be careful because they might wake up one day and discover that they were exactly right. That is what happened to me. I discovered that life has not been fair to me, and in fact, fate – or maybe God – has been far too kind, far too generous. There are three things in my life that I’ve always needed – desperately, desperately needed – but never thought I would have. Now I have them. Now I have all three – an identity (United States Marine), a place where I belong, and a friend that I can count on.
I swear, Mom, who wouldn’t want to be me?
I feel sorry for Stacy and his ilk, I do – real sympathy. I wish I still had Stacy’s address; I wish he could read this letter. You know what’s funny, Mom? I still love him – not romantically; what was I thinking? But I understand him. Stacy and I have been through so much of the same stuff. Our lives were quite parallel up until we reached a certain point. I went one way and Stacy went another. Stacy began to reject all those who rejected him (sometimes preemptively), while I continued to love them. To love, to admire, to emulate those who only mock you is such a difficult task – and I should know – that I do not fault anyone for giving in to resentment. Pray for him. I know that you think it will help, and I am convinced that it will not hurt. Pray that he finds the same peace that I have found.
That’s all I have for now, Mom, except one more thing, I’ve discovered that you are a dirty plagiarist too. I found this:
Psalm 121
I lift up my eyes to the hills,
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip,
he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord watches over you,
the
Lord is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all harm,
he will watch over your life;
the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.
I’m trying to memorize this. I want to be able to say it to myself before I go into combat. It comforts me. I don’t know much about anything else, but I know I am comforted. Haven’t you always wished for someone to watch over me?
I love you,
Caleb
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
There were four windows that lined the walls behind the jury. It was a clear day with only one or two billowy white clouds in the sky. The sky was a decisive shade of blue, constant and committed. It was a color that reminded Jackson of a firm handshake. It reminded Jackson of the Marine Corps. It reminded Jackson of God.
Beyond that glass was freedom and open sky. Beyond those walls was America, the country worth giving his life to defend; not the land, but the ideas; not a collection of states, but a collection of values. It was a dream so beautiful to Jackson that he wanted to get down on his knees each day and kiss the ground beneath his feet, the brackish earth a poor stand-in for a greater, intangible spirit. A husband, a wife, and children. Working hard, keeping your nose clean, and waking up each morning to the one that you love. A home, first here on Earth, and then in Heaven. Jackson could have no gripe if God chose to take all this away, because he never did deserve it. There is a type of joy that can never be earned. There is a type of joy that only comes from the grace of God.
Now is when I need to have faith, he told himself. He was waiting for the jury to return with the verdict, twelve people who would decide his fate. If he couldn’t summon the will to trust in God now, did he ever really trust in Him? If I can’t trust God now, what has been the point? Jackson, in that moment, wasn’t asking God for a verdict of not-guilty, men who have asked God for that have gone on to receive guilty verdicts before. Jackson was asking God to grant him a larger perspective. He was asking God to speak to his heart and tell him just how short of a time a life sentence is. Jackson was seeking to redefine himself, or just remind himself that he had always tried to place his identity on things that are eternal. My love of God, faith, humility, my soul…her soul, he listed in his head. His finger stroked the box in his pocket. If he believed everything he claimed to – really believed it – then he and Stephanie would spend eternity together. The two of them would spend eternity with God. It was an immutable, blinding greatness. It was a pro that could outweigh any con. “The only problem a man ever faces is not enough faith,” he told Caleb once.
Jackson bowed his head and closed his eyes. He reached out in his mind and placed his hand on an anchor, the one that could steady him through any storm. He remembered the words of the apostle Paul, “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through Him who gives me strength.” When he opened his eyes again, he felt like he was ready for any of life’s verdicts, come what may.
Jackson rose on the Judge’s orders as the jury returned to their chairs.
“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
“What is your verdict?”
Stephanie reached forward to grab and squeeze Jackson’s hand.
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
There was a cheer from exactly half of the courtroom. Jackson turned to quietly hug Stephanie. “It’s over,” she whispered. “It’s over now.” After a long embrace, Stephanie loosened her grip to pull away, but Jackson would not let go. So much pressure had built in him for so long, so much fear that he hadn’t even confessed to himself. The idea that he wouldn’t be there to continue to hold the woman he held right now. The idea that he would not be there to start a family with her was too much to bear. The visions he had of crying to her across a barrier of glass, begging her, “Go! Find someone else. Go be happy. You do not have time to wait for me.”
None of those fears mattered now. He drew back to look at Stephanie. Jackson felt the weight of those fears lift off his shoulders like a child’s balloon that had been let go. The weight of the guilt from that one moment in Afghanistan would not be as easy. Stephanie saw those details in Jackson’s face. She said, “We’ll get through it together.”
Jackson leaned in to hug her again. He could feel the hands of unknown people reach in to pat his back. He knew the ones that hurt were from his military buddies.
Outside the courthouse, the crowds had all just heard the news. A miserable bellow rose up – a mixture of boos and profanity. Young men shook their protest signs like they were pitchforks or clubs. Young women began to hold each other and sob. Newscasters that were positioned in front of the crowds trying to deliver the news were unable to be heard.
The noise could be heard indoors. Jackson lifted his head from Stephanie’s warm neck when he heard the sound.
Jackson shook the hand of his lawyer and said, “Thank you.” He rejoined Stephanie’s side, anxious to get out of there forever. When he reached the doors of the courthouse that led outside, he stopped. Jackson knew that when he stepped out of those doors there would be a flurry of cameras and microphones. Literally millions of eyes would be glued to his every gesture and every step. People will take time out of their day just to see him walk to his vehicle, or sign on as soon as they get home from work to see the same footage where it will live forever on the internet.
This was not the hardest walk he had to make, not even close, yet he hesitated. He turned to Stephanie. “I don’t want to go out there,” he said flustered. “How do I do this?”
Stephanie laughed at him the way she often would. She took a look at how straight he stood in his suit jacket, how perfectly pressed it was. She said, “You ask me what to do, but you already know the answer. Walk like a Marine. Make Caleb proud. Walk like a Christian. Stand tall for the next generation of Caleb’s who might see you and ask, ‘Why does he walk that way? What Earthy accomplishments have given him so much confidence? What Heavenly promises have given him so much strength?’”
Jackson opened the door.
Just as he had pictured, he was ambushed by a sea of reporters asking questions that they knew beforehand he would not answer. Over the heads of the reporters, he noticed the faces of the crowd. They believed they were there in support of Caleb. Each face he saw was straining his or her neck to peer past the reporters and likewise see him. There was a police barricade set up along the line of the street. Armed men kept their eyes on the chanting mobs. Jackson stopped mid-step. Curiosity alone compelled him to see them. He wanted to see the people who had been sending threats to him, as well as to the finest men he had ever met. He wanted to see the faces of the people who callously ruined lives, but felt that they were on the side of love, the people who spoke with such hatred against hate. He stepped slowly toward the rail and the reporters swiftly cleared a path for him. When he reached the rail it set off an escalation of boos, whistles and angry shouts. His combat experience gave him the ability to analyze them calmly amid so much noise and chaos. He studied each face. In slow motion he watched their mouths form their taunts and curses without being able to match a single sound to its source.
He was disappointed. He wanted a more worthy adversary. They were sloppy. They looked like their emotions were tearing them apart. Their expressions reminded him of the medieval paintings that he had seen of Hell. He did not consider them demons, obviously, but perhaps they shared the same type of pain. He imagined at some point they had learned to tuck their shirts in. At some point their mothers had told them not to slouch. At one stage in their youth they must have cared about whether their hair was in place or what kind of message their appearance gave to those around them. Somewhere along the way they had forgotten, or stopped caring. Somewhere along th
e way they stopped listening to the gnawing voice that drove them to reach their highest potential. And, with no one to listen, that voice grew silent. He imagined the same voice being silenced not just in regard to their appearance, but to their character as well. He imagined the same voice being silenced not just in their heads, but all of society. No one was asking them to be heroes. They had been told they are already heroes, heroes just because of the way they smile, heroes just the way they are. It all starts with an inspection where one drill instructor says, “So what if the socks aren’t folded right?” and leads to a division where those who want to eliminate standards despise those who want to hold on to them. It leads to weakness being held up as a weapon. The military had taught Jackson to use his opponents’ weaknesses against them, but these people have learned to use their own weaknesses against their opponents. He noted that not a soul among them could have ever survived Hell Week in boot camp. He thought of all the strain and all the pain, everything that he had endured, just to filter out the bad habits that these people had preferred to embrace.
Within a matter of seconds, one by one, each person stopped their screams. This was the first instant where any single verbal assault, now with no overlapping sounds, could be deciphered. He heard “homophobe” and “hypocrite,” but then even those stopped. The faces all dislodged themselves from looking only at him and he witnessed each one turn decidedly to the right. He turned to see what had caught their attention. It was Caleb’s mother. Cheryl Hobbs was walking along the rail slowly toward Jackson and her presence alone had silenced the entire crowd.
The sight of her saintly face had taken Jackson’s emotions off guard. Everything he had felt, not only that day, but all the way back to the day he slid over to offer Caleb his seat on the bus, were now suddenly and devastatingly focused in Jackson’s heart. Tears leapt from his bottom lids in silent torment. His face showed little change. He owed more to the woman in front of him than a blubbering mess. Keeping it together the best he could, his voice broke, “I’m so sorry!”
