Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  * * *

  Beaumont, South Carolina

  Incarceration differed from John's imagination of it. All his life, he had felt imprisoned by his father's roughshod rule. But his father's prison imposed an intellectual loss of freedom, the knowledge that certain actions carried certain consequences. He still had choices in the Drake household, no matter how unpalatable those choices were. When Sheriff Woodson had slammed that high tensile steel door shut and bolted it, an unnatural claustrophobia enveloped John.

  He realized a few things quickly. He would not leave the six by nine room until someone else decided he could leave. He would eat only when someone else decided to feed him. He couldn't take a walk, read a book or magazine or even take an aspirin unless someone else allowed it. How would it feel to spend twenty years like that? He thought about all the animals in zoos around the world and wondered if they lived with this feeling. Even the most comfortable prison was still a prison.

  The room sported a stainless-steel toilet with no lid, a sink with cold water only and a cot bolted to the concrete wall with an inch thick gymnastic pad as a mattress. They took his watch, so he had no sense of time. This was his universe until someone else decided to change it.

  He lay on the cot and tried to clear his mind. He wondered how the boy he hit felt right then. John's father had taught him to abhor violence by doling it out on a regular basis. Although The John brought out the rebel in him, John remained peaceful at heart. He regretted hitting that boy so hard. He could have held back, but he didn't. Why? Nausea chewed at the lining of his stomach.

  At some point, the walls no longer felt as if they were closing in on him. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but his slumber granted no solace. He dreamed of his father, the man who had taught him the unique skills that would soon make him among the most influential men of the late twentieth century. In his dream, in tenth grade, first session report cards had just come out.

  * * *

  The John chose a ten-foot bullwhip, truncated to five feet, for behavioral modification. This shortening minimized collateral damage to lamps and other fragile household items. The John was remarkably considerate in such matters.

  The smell of whiskey permeated the room, and although John knew the scent well, his kid brother did not register it as he huddled in the corner, crying as silently as possible. John grinned at Perry, giving him a wink to ease the kid's discomfort. More than anything else, John wanted to shield Perry from the scene to follow.

  “Get on the bed!” The John bellowed to his son, who, knowing the drill, was already stripping off his shirt.

  The first strike from a bullwhip immediately raises a welt roughly the diameter of a small cigar. Whenever a subsequent blow lands across one of these welts, the skin splits and blood spurts out.

  The John swung the whip with the fury and passion of a Golden Gloves champion, searching for just one more victory in his life. When he had no adversary to defeat, a poison began to build in The John, slowly at first, but always reaching a crescendo. Every blow, every time his whip permanently reshaped his son's flesh and mind, a little of that poison would drain out of him.

  The white scar tissue on John's back helped to ease the pain, but his deepest scars, and the source of all his strength, existed solely in his mind.

  The sound of leather skillfully used against human flesh continued. Each lick sounded like something between a firecracker and a rat-tail from a wet towel. The John utilized all the techniques he had learned as a champion boxer and a scratch golfer. Every swing originated from the soles of his feet, initiating a progressive torque throughout his body, culminating in a super-sonic whip velocity.

  The John swung as hard as he could, as many times as he could. For a man of 50 years, his effort carried considerable enthusiasm. John did not register the passage of time. He floated outside his body.

  The John, bathed in sweat, stood above his son, covered in blood. They looked like gladiators exhausted from battle, but not ready to quit.

  When The John's right arm completely gave out, he switched to the left. Though not a southpaw, long years of perfecting his jab and left hook had given him substantial control and power in his left arm. The revolting sound of leather upon flesh resumed.

  Finally, The John reached a point where he had his hands on his knees. Doused in sweat and gasping for breath, he glared at John with an unbearable rage. He still had fight left in him. He always had fight left in him.

  John turned, staring evenly into The John's hardened eyes. As The John wheezed for oxygen, his eyes stinging with sweat, John smiled and said,

  “You can start whenever you're ready.”

  * * *

  “Breakfast, John.”

  John jerked upright, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He shook his head and squinted at the Sheriff, raising his other hand to block the glare.

  Sheriff Woodson resembled a well-fed bear that ate mostly from dumpsters. He weighed in at almost three hundred pounds. His salt and pepper moustache completely concealed his mouth. The hair on his arms formed a thicket. But, when he opened his mouth, the macho illusion evaporated.

  A big man, Woodson was cursed with the voice of a Boys Choir soprano. That tiny, high-pitched voice coming out of Woodson's mouth resembled some weird ventriloquist's act. Physically, he could take any of the roughnecks around Beaumont. But instead of respect, he usually got ridicule. They thought he didn't hear them making fun of him, but he heard more than they thought. Over time, this had made him mean.

  Woodson slid the traditional Southern breakfast of eggs, grits, toast and sausage through the slot in the bottom of John's cell door. He spoke without looking at John.

  “There was this kid I sent to Juvi a few years back. I thought he was basically a good kid, so I kept an eye on him. His name was Mario. He was a tough guy, just like you. In Juvi, he was tough shit - let me tell you. He was in the gang that ran the place. But, two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, he got pinched for grand theft auto. That little stunt landed him in Wallbash.

  “Now, here's this kid who's used to being the toughest thing around and suddenly he's just another punk. That's their favorite kind of new guy, by the way. They love the ones who fight back. They love to bring them down a few notches.

  “Mario was raped so brutally and so often that his anal sphincter was damaged beyond repair. They had to sew it shut and give him a colostomy bag. Can you imagine wearing one of those for the rest of your life?” Woodson looked at John as if he expected him to answer. When he didn't, Woodson continued. “Well, about a month later, Mario comes into the infirmary again and his colostomy hole is infected. You know what it turned out to be? Gonorrhea. That's the kind of place you're gonna spend the next twenty years in.”

  “Twenty years?” John said, “Just for a fist fight?”

  “Fist fight?” Woodson said, his face growing purple, “Son, that boy is dead.”

  John couldn't respond. This couldn't be true. This couldn't be happening. He had killed only one living thing in his entire life, and that damned dove still haunted him. Now, they were saying he'd killed an innocent man. He wondered if they were right. His hands began to tremble. He felt light headed. There had to be a mistake – mixed up medical records or something. He just punched the guy.

  “You're going to be charged with murder, son,” Woodson said.

  “Sheriff, I, I mean, I didn't…you know it was an accident. You know I'm not a killer.”

  “I don't know any such thing. What I do know is you have a history with this boy. I also know you hit him with that ball on purpose. I've been watching you pitch since seventh grade, and I know the control you have.”

  When the Sheriff spoke, John saw his moustache move, but his mouth remained hidden. This unsettling him quietly, John felt his neck and face getting hot. Anger suddenly consumed him for no apparent reason. He responded to Woodson with volcanic rage.

  “You don't know shit,” John spat. “You think you're something, don't
you, riding around in a squad car, busting kids for drinking beer and smoking pot. 'To protect and serve', huh? Well, who exactly do you protect and serve? That is, besides yourself.”

  “You think this is a game? Huh?” Woodson said, “You think this is funny? This ain't high school, where you can shoot your smart mouth off and just get detention. You're an adult, son, and that's the way you're going to be tried. You can play games if you want, but all Parker needs do is convince twelve people you're guilty, and snap - it's slammer-time.

  “Let's see how that mouth serves you when you're in prison for the next 25 years to life. I bet those boys in Wallbash will just love your mouth.” The Sheriff made a kissing noise from behind his unkempt moustache.

  “I always knew you'd amount to no good. You're in so deep this time, even your daddy won't be able to get you off.” Woodson's gin blossoms were further reddened by his anger. John couldn't guess whose side Woodson would choose. Although The John was officially his friend and political ally, Woodson clearly resented the man's influence and power. “I've just got one question, John. I've seen Clay, Marciano, Louis, all the great heavyweights fight, and I've never seen a person killed with a single punch. How'd you do it?”

  “I don't know,” John replied, his tone calmer now. John knew if he got worked up, his cage would feel all the smaller for it, so he tuned Woodson out and closed his eyes. At times like this, when he wanted to speedily shut out the world, John focused his entire mind on a single word, phrase or thought, to the exclusion of all else.

  When the Sheriff realized John had tuned him out, he left in a huff. “Yea, they're just gonna love your mouth,” he repeated as he loped away.

  After a few minutes, John silently picked up his tray and began his breakfast. He finished everything but the sausage. Having nothing else to occupy him until lunchtime, John stood on the toilet to improve his view to the outside world. Behind the county lockup opened a massive cotton field, an ocean of white swabs extending for over a mile. The field reminded John of the tops of the clouds as seen from above. The John wanted all his children to experience flight at least once, so he arranged for John, at fifteen, to be taken up in a C-130 from the local Air National Guard unit. John remembered every detail of the trip. Possibly his most pleasant father-son memory.

  Beyond the cotton field was the edge of an enormous pine forest. John knew that forest well. He had been exploring it since he was six. Over the years he had found several rich veins of petrified wood, two openings to underground streams, the occasional deer or dog skeleton, and his most prized find - a rusted WWII bayonet. The bayonet's handle had been rotten with age, but John had remedied this condition with a thick layer of duct tape.

  Doves swarmed overhead, devouring every insect in their paths. Above the cotton field, doves glided and swooped as they gorged themselves on the ample supply of mosquitoes in the Southern air. John had read somewhere that Doves each consumed over two thousand mosquitoes per day. That did involve a lot of eating, but about a million too few by John's reckoning. The doves reminded him of the painful incident that made him a vegetarian.

  As the day progressed, he saw the heat waves rising from the cotton. By mid morning, a glimmering mirage overtook the center of the field. It resembled an enormous black pond.

  When the Sheriff brought John's lunch, he saw the boy hadn't moved. Woodson noticed that John had not touched his sausage. “Not hungry, Big Boy?”

  “I don't like sausage,” John said blandly.

  “What's the matter? Stomach getting' a little queasy thinking about those Wallbash boys? Well, don't worry, I'm sure you'll get your fill of sausage once you're in the slammer.” Woodson giggled as he slid John's lunch tray into the cell - barbecued pork. John grimaced, knowing he would have to get by on mashed potatoes and string beans. If this represented prison food, he didn't have to worry about the next twenty years. He'd starve to death in a few weeks. Somehow, he doubted that Wallbash would accommodate a request for a vegetarian diet.

  * * *

  Judge Phillips' receptionist stood the instant she saw The John enter. Without a word, she immediately escorted him into the Judge's office. The John made it clear he was not one who liked to wait. He stormed across the generous length of the office and put his fists on Phillips' desk, leaning forward, encroaching on the man's personal space. “Don, you and I go way back,” The John began.

  “Yes, we do, John, but we're talking about a murder charge here.” Phillips did not back away. They both knew the reason for Drake's visit. Phillips maintained John Drake's penetrating gaze.

  The John knew there had to be the illusion of compromise - the face saving out for one's opponent. He already knew that Phillips would capitulate, but he still had to go through the motions. Diplomacy required The John to give Judge Phillips the impression he possessed some semblance of power. The John and Phillips participated in the strut and dance, fulfilling the ancient ritual of negotiation. The John always won the psychological victory. He knew this. Ultimately, the quickest route into a man's brain passes through his wallet. And victory doesn't come cheap.

  Phillips betrayed his discomfort by drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “That's horse shit, and you know it. This is an open and shut case of self defense.” The John's face reddened with anger as he slammed his fist on Phillips' desk. The vibration knocked over the judge's pen box, but Phillips did not set it back up.

  “That,” said Judge Phillips, lifting his arms with the palms facing the ceiling, “is for the Solicitor to decide.”

  “Well, until he does, my son should be at home with me. What do you think he's going to do? Run away?”

  “It wouldn't be the first time, John. Besides this is an election year. How would it look if I released John and he ran off?”

  “Don, you want to talk about elections? Over half the people in this town owe me money. I've been poor and rich so many times I can't remember. What if I developed a little Christmas spirit in July this year? You know how they say people vote their pocketbooks? Well, I have a lien on damn near every pocketbook in town!”

  “John, calm down. You're acting as if we haven't been friends for twenty years. Of course, I'll help your boy. I just want you to understand the consequences of this favor. The arraignment is just a formality. I'll release him into your custody, but you'd better keep him out of trouble until the trial or even I won't be able to help him.”

  Chapter Four

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  Major General Jeremiah Dalton reclined at his desk with his eyes closed. He slowly leaned forward and glanced about his familiar surroundings. Dalton, an emotionally austere and mentally disciplined man, set up his office to mirror his self image. Though the space was large, the furniture was sparse - just two large metal desks forming a right angle. No family pictures on the desks. He had selected gunmetal gray for the walls and ceiling, with over two dozen colors to choose from, and he sported a grand total of about ten framed photographs, each from a different area of the world.

  The General's uniform was custom tailored to accommodate the upper body capable of one hundred push ups per set. From his physicality, one would place him in his early thirties. But, his eyes emanated a cold knowingness that one could not acquire in less than fifty-five years. Dalton's response to his thinning hair was to cut it all to the 1/8 inch standard for incoming recruits. His cheeks were hollow. His face had the look of granite just beginning to set in. Dalton's eyes were a brilliant blue, and when he looked you in the eye, he appeared to be looking down the barrel of a rifle.

  Hundreds of details swirled through his head, none finding a comfortable place to land. This made Dalton uncomfortable. He normally organized and filed his thoughts neatly away as if they were paperwork. But today, his mind seemed fuzzy. He couldn't focus on any one thing for fear of neglecting another. This had been happening more often lately, ever since he had launched Operation Sierra.

  And Operation Sierra wasn't exactly a success story so far
. The first deep cover operative had been publicly beheaded when his confidant, a man named Falon, turned him over to the Moroccan authorities as a drug smuggler. It had taken months of small transactions to even gain an audience with Falon. It took months from that point to win his ear, to see if he could arrange a meeting with Tartus. Obviously, the question would have benefited from better timing. It cost Dalton a highly trained soldier and set the operation back damn near twelve months.

  The second operative, Lieutenant Elan, used much more aggressive tactics. He tried to pass himself off as a kingpin in the Moroccan black market. Within three months, he had set up a personal meeting with Tartus. But, Dalton thought, there's the slight problem that Elan had failed to report on the meeting for several days now. Elan, if alive, was in Tartus' custody. Dalton hoped Elan remembered his training on torture tactics.

  “General Dalton, Major Briggs is here to see you,” the intercom barked. This jolted Dalton out of his detachment. His hand hovered over the intercom button. What was Briggs doing dropping in without an appointment? Dalton knew one thing – it wasn't to deliver good news. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he pressed the speaker button. “Send him in.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  Major Briggs entered the antiseptic office, closing the door behind him. Dalton knew Briggs always arrived a little nervous and he liked to keep it that way. He had been toughening Briggs' skin for years now, but the kid had a long way to go before he could handle the heat of full-bird. Dalton had a mouth like a scalpel. Other men could tell Briggs he'd screwed up, but only Dalton could convince him.

  Briggs removed his headgear, came to attention and saluted Dalton, who reciprocated.

  “Sir! Major Briggs reporting.”

  “At ease, Major. Have a seat,” Dalton said, knowing already he wouldn't like what Briggs had to say.