“Is man basically good or evil?” Doc asked the young philosophers. James the Younger answered that man was basically good. “Then where does evil come from? Do we learn it from others, do catch it like a virus, or does it just float on the ether waiting for a circumstance to present itself?” James the Younger surmised that it was a learned behavior.
“What motivates a person to learn an evil behavior, James? Is there an innate satisfaction in doing wrong?”
James the Younger thought carefully before answering, knowing that any response would elicit another question. “Perhaps making a wrong choice is easier that making a right choice for some people. If a person stands up for a right choice, he is obligated to defend it while in making a wrong choice he has very little emotional investment if he decides to change his mind or his behavior is challenged.”
Doc was impressed with James the Younger’s line of thought. “Then why are people who should know that they are wrong so bull-headed about maintaining an unproductive course of action? Here’s an example: When I was your age working the streets, I ran across many homeless people who would not make any attempt to change their living conditions. I’m not talking about those folks that have a run of bad luck and are down and out for a year or two with medical problems or unemployment. I am referring to the ones who make a twenty or thirty year career of homelessness. What emotional investment does that person have in maintaining the status quo?”
James the Elder was irritated that his best friend had shed his good old boy way of dealing with the world in favor of Doc’s questioning everything. “Maybe they’re just lazy, Doc.”
James the Younger agreed. “He’s right, Doc. He knows lazy first hand.”
“Getting back to the question, boys. What emotional investment does that person have in maintaining the status quo?”
James the Younger replied, “Maybe the emotional investment is that he already knows how to live in his failure. Failure has become his comfort zone. If he makes an attempt to better his life, there will be changes for better or worse. He’ll have to learn new adaptive skills.”
“You’re on the right track. Testing out new skills is stressful,” Doc agreed. “He not only has to worry that he is not up to the task of living at an improved level, he also knows that the higher he lifts himself, the farther he falls if and when he fails, and his experience tells him that he will fail.”
James the Elder was not convinced. “Sorry, Doc. I think most of them don’t have any ambition to better themselves. They think it’s better to just blame bad luck or blame someone else for not coughing up the handouts they feel entitled to.”
“Don’t you ever get an insidious, irrational feeling that you might not measure up to the academy’s expectations and might get washed out, Jim?”
“Nope, never. Why? Is there something going on that I don’t know about? I’m not in any trouble, am I? If there’s a problem, James the Younger did it - I‘m innocent.”
“My point exactly about the insidious, irrational feeling, although throwing your buddy ‘under the bus’ so to speak was a surprise. It doesn’t take much to plant a seed of doubt, but doubt is a rampant weed to stamp out once it takes root. Imagine living with self-doubt for a decade or two until it is the overpowering force in your life.”
“All it takes is a little effort to turn your life around,” James the Elder insisted. “It can be done. People do it every day.”
“I used to deal with a transient, Frank Pierce. He was a convicted felon, an alcoholic and a manic-depressive. He never held a steady job, didn’t bother to get an education, and his family gave up on him years ago. Where is his foothold to start turning his life around? Who in his right mind would extend him the trust and opportunity to start a career? What woman could ever see past his track record of homelessness and failure? Frank isn’t just a no-start. He’s been sliding backwards from the starting gate for so long that the starting gate itself is an unreachable goal.”
James the Elder interjected, “But it was his fault that he was a no-starter to begin with.”
“While that’s true that he is his own victim, is there never a future point when his ‘sin’ has been paid? Do we really have a society where a human being becomes disposable?”
“James the Elder’s ex-girlfriend would agree that there’s a point where a human being becomes disposable,” interjected James the Younger.
“When it truly comes down to the bottom line, boys, every human being is disposable. We may be the center of our own universe while we draw breath, but at the end of our lives we end up a caricature of ourselves devoid of the nuances that rounded out our humanity. Eventually, those who loved and remembered us are gone from this world and not even a sign or whisper of our lives remains. It’s as if most of us had never been born.”
“Then what’s the point of our getting up every morning if in the long run it’s all meaningless?” asked James the Elder.
“Maybe it is all for nothing if you don’t believe that you were put here for a higher purpose,” Doc resolved.
Martin Vann’s presentation was scheduled toward the end of the academy. Martin was a retired engineer Doc met on a burglary call several years back. Doc cajoled him into speaking to new recruit classes. The presentation’s objective was to allow recruits a chance to see the effect of taking another person’s life. Martin never entered the auditorium until the instructor introduced him. The lights were dimmed as a course title and short resume flashed onto the large overhead screen. As Martin began speaking, photographs from the night of his nightmare flashed one after another in the deathly stillness.
“My name is Martin Vann. I was a respected member of my church and my community. Eight years ago I took another man’s life. My wife and I watched the news that night and went to bed just like any other night. About two in the morning I suddenly awoke to the sound of glass breaking in the kitchen. I held my breath and listened intently for a couple minutes and decided that I had been dreaming and tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard a thump as someone tripped on the wooden kitchen chairs. My wife was still asleep. I debated on whether to wake her up and risk having her cry out.”
“Instead, I reached for the phone by the bed. The dial tone seemed louder than I ever remembered because my senses were heightened by stress. I was scared that whoever was in the kitchen could hear it. I punched in the number 9-1-1. With each number the receiver gave out a short, sharp shriek which woke up my wife. I hushed her and whispered that someone was in the house while handing her the phone. She pulled the comforter over her head, but was too frightened to speak for fear the intruder would know we were home and awake. I could still hear the 911 operator’s voice muffled under the quilt. At the time I was aware that our address would show up on the 911 call screen, but when someone is in your house in the middle of the night, it seems like an eternity before the police arrive, even if it is less than five minutes.”
“I couldn’t tell how much time passed. The detective estimated later that less than a three minutes passed when he played the 911 tape recording back.”
“I was afraid the police would not get there before the intruder - or intruders - discovered us. I didn’t know if there was one or two or more, whether they had guns or knives, whether they were kids or adults. We just knew that someone was in the house with us in the dark.”
“I quietly slid the drawer of the nightstand open and pulled out my old military service revolver. Like so many other homeowners, I kept a loaded handgun in the nightstand by the bed in case this ever happened. But ladies and gentlemen, I would wager that no one ever truly considers the moment of truth until it happens. You have the cold hunk of steel in your hand and you have to decide if you can really fire that weapon at another human being.”
“I sat up in bed pointing my gun at the center of the bedroom door with both hands to steady the shaking, and realized that I didn’t have my glasses on. I madly felt around on the nightstand for my bifocals and got them on my face as th
e doorknob started to turn. My heart was leaping out of my chest and just for a second I hoped that I saw a pause after the doorknob turned all the way. My stomach was twisting and my hands shook uncontrollably. Then the door eased open slowly until I could begin to see an outline form in the ever increasing space between the door and the frame. I had no idea who it was, yet I pulled the trigger over and over - six gunshots and I don’t remember how many clicks.”
“It dawned on me that I had no more ammunition for a second burglar who would probably not take kindly to my plugging his friend. I kept the empty, useless gun trained on the doorway and listened for any noise that would indicate that he was crawling toward me or if there was a second burglar still in the hallway. The shock was setting in. I heard sirens and the squealing of tires out front. My wife was talking to the 911 operator who was telling us to put down the gun and go to the front door.”
“I handed my wife the gun and she pushed it under my pillow before running to the bathroom and locking the door behind her. I got up, walked in the dark to the bedroom door and stepped over the man, praying that his hand would not grab my leg. I wasn’t even sure that I hit him until his warm blood soaked the bottom of my feet and squished between my toes.”
“I steeled my nerve to go into the hallway as I was halfway convinced that the second burglar was waiting for me. The police were pounding on the front door calling my name, and I could see the beams of their flashlights intruding through different windows of the house and reflecting off the walls. I flipped the hallway light switch as I passed and checked up and down the hallway with a glance before rushing to unlock the front deadbolt.”
“After quickly asking where my wife was and if there was anyone else in the house, two officers charged from room to room checking for additional burglars. A third officer waited at the front door with me. He pulled the afghan from the couch and threw it over my shoulders as I hadn’t taken time to dress. A couple minutes later, I saw another officer assisting my wife in her old housecoat as she stepped over the body in the bedroom doorway. She let out a little scream when his wet blood soaked into her slippers. Then the waiting began.”
“The two of us sat on the couch as a parade of police officers, supervisors, and crime scene specialists came and went. They talked among themselves, even joked out of our earshot, asked us a question of two, and then drove us down to the police station for statements after a detective retrieved our street clothes from the bedroom and we had a chance to change.”
“During that whole time the dead burglar lay in the bedroom doorway like a doorstop. I couldn’t see his face. The soles of his tennis shoes were at an awkward angle with his toes together and heels apart. He had black, baggy wind pants and a long sleeved black shirt. I never saw his face until it flashed on the television the following day. I shot him, killed him, and didn’t even know what he looked like. It was very surrealistic. It was as if everyone was walking around a movie set instead of our home. One would think they did this every day of the week. It‘s very strange feeling to have what seems like a dozen strangers in your home with a dead body sprawled on the floor in the middle of the night, and you just sit there with no say in anything going on in your own home.”
“The first time you hear the word homicide used is a shock. As a civilian, you equate homicide to murder and you think, ‘I’m not a murderer.’ Later on you find out that you actually did commit a homicide, albeit in self-defense, but the word homicide is still a very cold, unfeeling word. You can’t believe it applies to you, plus it’s not a transient term. You get sick, you get better, you get thirsty or hungry, then you eat and drink and the adjectives don’t apply to you anymore. But the word homicide sticks to you like a scar on your body that never heals.”
“After our statements we went home. The blood was still on the floor, the glass in the back door was still broken. We couldn’t bear to stay, so we went to a motel and slept for a few hours. The next day I hired a company to clean up. They ended up tearing out the carpeting in the bedroom and hallways, and the house smelled like bleach for the longest time. We changed the color of the carpeting, painted the room, and changed the bedspread to try to forget that I took a life in that doorway, but it’s like that joke about a pig: you can dress it up in pearls and makeup and lipstick, but it’s still a pig.”
“I’m retired. We can’t afford to sell the house. Even if we could, the real estate agent has to reveal that someone was murdered in the house, so it wouldn’t sell. I don’t know what our kids will do with it when we’re gone. We go to bed at night and lie awake wondering if we’re safe. I’ll get up twice a night and double check the doors and windows. When we do manage to get to sleep, every little noise wakes us up and we wonder. Stormy nights are especially bad for noises. I don’t think the anxiety will ever go away. We’re afraid to take sleeping medication for fear that we won’t hear someone breaking in.”
“On the criminal side, my shooting was an open and shut self-defense, but on the civil side our long nightmare was just beginning. The news media came down on my side. Friends and strangers would congratulate me on taking another bad guy off the street and saving the county the cost of a trial, but it felt hollow on the inside. There were a couple editorials and articles on whether a civilized society should allow a citizen to have weapons in his home. One editorial speculated that what I thought was a burglar could have been a child or family member or emergency responder.”
“What hurt most was the news coverage of who the dead man was, and the interviews with his family and friends. They got on TV and cried about how much they missed him and how he never really intended to harm us. I didn’t know that then and I don’t know that now. He didn’t have a gun or a knife according to investigators, but no one really knows what would have happened.”
The photo montage froze on the face of a smiling man in his thirties with his arms around two small children. He was sporting a huge smile. He wore his black ball cap at an awkward angle, a favorite red ball team sweatshirt and a silver cross pendant.
“The civil case dragged on for the better part of a year. We were tempted to take the family up on an offer to pay them a large cash settlement just to put it behind us. It was hard to put a number on how much his life was worth. He was thirty-two, but never held a steady job in his life. He had an extensive criminal record from drugs to robbery, he didn’t live with or support his family, yet their lawyer tried to justify an impossibly large sum for loss of his love and affection. I don’t know. I didn’t know him. I never wanted to know him - never wanted his life and mine to intersect. But it did.”
“In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, remember me. My name in Martin Vann. I was an engineer for thirty-six years. I lived a quiet, predictable life until the night I had to kill a man. The experience never truly leaves me. A day never goes by that I don’t think of him, his family or his children. I hate him for the pain he brought into my life. I hate him for showing me that I had the capacity to kill another human being.”
“In your careers you will draw your gun many times. God help you if you have to fire it at someone. Today is the time to look deep down inside your heart and psyche, and decide whether you have the intestinal fortitude to take another’s life, and more important, whether you can live with the consequences - especially if you make a mistake. Thank you for listening. I hope you’ve come away with some personal insight after hearing my story.”
Doc allowed a moment of intense silence before putting his hands together to start a round of grateful applause. Martin hastened out the door since he learned early on that he risked breaking down into tears if he waited for the lights to come up and attempted a question and answer period.
CHAPTER TEN
Doc would have stayed at the academy for the rest of his career if the choice had been his to make. The choice was in other hands, so Doc found himself assigned as a field supervisor on the Northside. The field was a comfortable assignment, especially on midnights where young, enthusiastic pat
rol officers were cutting their teeth. Many of them were former students during Doc’s academy assignment. Both James the Younger and James the Elder were on his team with their own brand of yin and yang as if they were different sides of the same coin.
James the Elder brought dark, stark realism to James the Younger’s idealism; he brought rain to keep the other’s fire in check. Doc was fascinated by the balance, yet convinced that it could not last indefinitely. The question was not if the relationship would last, but whether it would quietly implode or explode with fireworks. James the Younger was the stabilizing element of the pairing. In the meantime Doc watched a year go by and then a second year.
James the Elder married Ell, his girlfriend from high school, at the end of the academy. He purchased a new house, and chased an elusive dream of happiness. James the Elder knew that a larger home or a new truck or a better promotion would make everything fall into place so that he could relax and enjoy his life, but his formula for success was flawed. He couldn’t purchase the peace of mind that James the Younger knew.
James the Younger on the other hand, lived a happy life of short-term goals. As long as the sun came up every morning, he thought he was satisfied. Life was good to James the Younger until the night his young wife was gone. After that, James the Younger occupied his routine world, but his heart was elsewhere.
Doc knew that if James the Younger was not on call, there was a better than even chance of finding him ruminating in the quiet midnight air of the levee. Many times they would talk for an hour or more at the end of shift, or sometimes it would be a prolonged silent vigil sipping coffee in the predawn mist. James the Younger seemed to be actively sorting the shards of his life with Doc’s assistance.
“Any questions, any answers, any jokes that won’t get us fired?” Doc began his wrap up of roll call. No one stirred so Doc launched into one of his infamous stories. “How many of you remember the TV show Lassie?” Not a soul stirred since the show went off the air when their parents were children. Doc was not deterred.
Living in Quiet Rage Page 12
