Sins of the Fathers

by James Scott Bell

  “Well done. You get an A on this part of the exam.”

  “Now I’ll ask you a question: If you were convinced that God told you to do something, you would think that was good, right?”

  Woodard nodded. “That’s called command hallucination, a very tough mental nut to crack.”

  “But what if a person really believes it’s God talking?”

  “The problem is proving that. All you have is the subject saying that’s what was going on in his mind.”

  “But here’s my angle: What if you’re a kid? You don’t have the background, the experience of life yet. Your brain is still forming. You’re more susceptible.”

  “But the judge and then a jury; that’s what you’ve got to worry about. The God-told-me-to defense, or the devil-made-me defense, these don’t fly anymore. People are just too cynical, even when it comes to kids.”

  “Can I give it a try? Can I make an argument to you?”

  Woodard smiled. He had always loved interplay, often vigorous, with his students. “Be my guest. But I warn you, I’ll fire back.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Lindy paced in front of Woodard, as she might in front of a jury.

  “To be guilty of a crime means not just that you commit an act, but that you also have mens rea, a guilty mind.”

  Woodard folded his arms across his chest. “Continue.”

  “Because in this country, we only punish people who are responsible. That’s the basic premise of the criminal law.”

  “You’re making a speech. Make your argument.”

  “You can’t punish someone who is insane, because he doesn’t have a guilty mind.”

  “That’s circular. Tell me why we can’t punish him.”

  “Because it is immoral to punish someone without cause, and none of the justifications for punishment exist in the case of the insane person.”

  “Explain.”

  “Let’s take a hypothetical. A two-year-old knows how to fire a gun. He’s seen it on TV. He finds his daddy’s gun and fires it at his daddy, killing him. Is he guilty of murder?”

  “I concede that he is not.”

  “Well, what if a baby in a thirteen-year-old body kills? We would say that a thirteen-year-old with a baby’s mind does not have criminal responsibility, wouldn’t we?”

  “The line is very fine.”

  “But there is a line. If there is no line, law loses meaning. We don’t punish people who are not responsible for their actions.”

  “Tell me why not.”

  “Because punishment without responsibility doesn’t fit with any theory of justice. Take retribution, the revenge theory. Someone must suffer for the purposeful harm they have done to others. But it is immoral to make someone suffer who does not deserve to suffer. Only a guilty mind justifies such suffering. Otherwise, punishment is merely torture.”

  “What about other theories?”

  “How about deterrence? We punish wrongdoers to send a message to potential wrongdoers. But those who are insane cannot process the message. Deterrence simply doesn’t apply to those who cannot be rational.”

  Woodard nodded but kept his skeptical air. “There are still other theories.”

  Lindy thrilled at being in the thick of an argument, just like when she’d been in his class, speaking with all her energy because the law mattered.

  “Education. The punishment of criminals educates the public about what we consider good and evil. But if we punish the insane, are we not educating the public that inflicting pain on the mentally weak is good?”

  “Any more?”

  “Rehabilitation. Here, punishment is supposed to help the offender return to society. This theory has fallen on hard times, and no one buys it much anymore. But in the case of the insane, it fits perfectly. Because we treat insane people in the hope that they can get better.”

  “And what if they don’t?”

  “They remain in a facility. But that facility is not a prison.”

  “What about those who say the insanity defense should be abolished? It’s been abused.”

  “Oh, really? When it works less than 1 percent of the time? How can you possibly call that abuse?”

  “Because it’s the rich-man’s defense, effective only for the ones who can afford to hire top lawyers and experts.”

  “That’s no reason to deny it to those who deserve it.”

  “Deserve?”

  “Yes!” Lindy was heated now, her argumentative furnace set on full. She was in the grip of something and let it have its way. “They deserve compassion, don’t they, if they’re mentally ill through no fault of their own? That’s what gets me about the mob mentality. Somebody kills; everybody wants to string him up! How is this different from the lynch mobs of a hundred years ago?”

  Woodard, still playing the devil’s advocate, answered with commensurate heat. “People are sick and tired of criminals getting away with murder.”

  “It’s not murder if they’re insane!”

  “You’re arguing in circles again. These people are dangerous and shouldn’t be allowed on the street. If they go into a hospital they can get out, maybe kill again.”

  “I’m not . . .” Breath left her, like she’d been punched. “Don’t you see what I’m saying? . . . I can’t lose him! I can’t . . .Wayne . . .”

  “Lose him? You’re a lawyer not a—”

  Lindy put her hand on her throat.

  “What is it, Lindy?”

  She couldn’t speak. She sat heavily in a chair, her mind swirling.

  The name. She’d said the name.

  “Lindy, what’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Let me get you a glass of water.”

  “No.”

  “Who’s Wayne?”

  “My brother,” she said.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  Lindy looked at her professor. “I lost him, see? I lost him.”

  Woodard pulled up a chair near her and sat, silent,waiting for her to talk if she chose to.

  She closed her eyes for a long moment.

  7.

  “It was when my father’s drinking got bad,” Lindy said. “He was a ’Nam vet and came back changed. Was he a bad man? I don’t know. All I know is he got drunk all the time, and by the time I was fourteen he was beating up my mom, he would hit me, and sometimes he would hit my little brother.”

  “Wayne,”Woodard said.

  “Yes. When dad would come home, screaming drunk, I used to take Wayne and hide in the closet with him. We protected each other there. I’d say to him, ‘We’ll stay together, you and me.’ And he’d say it back. ‘Together, you and me.’”

  She paused, letting the black memory out. Maybe in doing so, it would finally leave her alone.

  “This one night, there was a storm, and we heard him yelling up the walk. Mom told us to get to our rooms. I took Wayne to the closet with me. But then I heard my mom scream in pain, and I couldn’t take it. I ran out. I saw him slapping her. I don’t know. I forgot everything and ran at him as fast as I could. I threw myself at him. We went down. I was on top of him. I smelled the whisky on him. I’ll never forget that smell.”

  It came back to her, turning her stomach again.

  “He was strong. Even with his beer belly and war wounds, he had iron hands. He grabbed me by the throat. He lifted me off him like I was a pillow. He got on his knees, holding me. I couldn’t breathe. He slapped my face with his other hand. My mother screamed and tried to pry his hand off my neck. I was sure I was dead.”

  Lindy spoke with a distant voice now, almost as if she were hearing this account for the first time.

  “He didn’t let go, and I was starting to fade. And then, suddenly, his hand left me. I fell on the floor. And then he fell next to me. And I saw blood on the floor. I thought it was mine. But it wasn’t. It was my father’s. I looked up and saw Wayne standing there. He was ten years old. He had this look on his face . .
.”

  Lindy felt tears coming and bit her lip. She had to finish.

  “He was scared. And I saw what he’d done. He’d taken a kitchen knife and stabbed my father in the side.”

  The blackness in her mind deepened. “My father made an animal sound, an awful animal scream, and he got up and hit Wayne in the face. He hit so hard . . . it was like hitting a soft melon. The sound of it . . .Wayne went down. He went down . . .” Lindy slumped in her chair.

  Woodard touched her arm. “You don’t have to say more.”

  “Wait.” She straightened up, her vision blurred by tears. “My father saw what he’d done and he ran out of the house. Wayne was on the floor. He wasn’t moving. I went to him and my mom was screaming and crying. I called 911. I was aware enough to do that. They found my father in his car, dead. He ran into a telephone pole across from my elementary school. They said it was drunk driving, pure and simple, but I wonder if he ran into it on purpose. I think he wanted to kill himself for a long time.”

  She took a moment to gather herself for the hardest part.

  “Wayne never came out of it. He hung on in a coma for a week.

  But he never came out of it. I lost him, see? I was the one who was supposed to protect him, and I lost him . . .” She was starting to choke on words, sobs coming up like irregular beats of her heart.

  “When they buried him I didn’t go . . . I couldn’t take it . . . I didn’t go. I stayed in the closet . . .”

  “Lindy—”

  She buried her face in his shoulder and he held her, the way her father never had.

  NINE

  1.

  Sunday, Lindy turned to Roxy just outside the church doors. “I have this terrible feeling I don’t belong here.”

  Lindy’s stomach actually roiled, the way Dorothy’s must have when she stepped out of the farmhouse into the land of Oz. Last time she’d been to church with Roxy, Lindy came as a one-time visitor. This time, she was here not just because Roxy wanted her to be, but also because some restless need beckoned her. God ideas had been klunking around in her head. The DiCinni defense had something to do with it, but even apart from that, she realized she wanted to know.

  After talking about Wayne to Everett Woodard, her need to know had grown into an insatiable hunger.

  Even so, she felt like an imposter.

  “This is church.” Roxy took Lindy’s arm as they joined the crowd entering the front doors. “Everybody belongs here.”

  “You sound like an advertisement.”

  “You going to be a poop about this or what?”

  “Much better.”

  Roxy punched her in the shoulder.

  Inside the auditorium, the worship team was pounding out a song, the congregation standing and clapping. The atmosphere was sort of fun, which was a shock to Lindy’s system. Church, fun? Well, why not?

  At least she could relax a little. Recharge. Let her brain rest. This was Sunday, the big day of rest, right? Relax and forget, for just a little while, about the case everyone was talking about. And no cameras. She could be anonymous in a crowd for a change.

  They found seats on the outer edge of the human sea, which was fine with Lindy. Travis Kellman joined them.

  There was more upbeat music, some announcements, a soloist—a girl of about eighteen who could really belt out a song—then the featured attraction. That’s the way Lindy thought of it, anyway.

  The big preacher. The sermonator.

  Pastor Clark (as Roxy called him) still had the stage presence that had previously impressed her. This morning, though, he didn’t have that glint in his eye, or the energy. He looked serious, which made Lindy all the more interested in what he was going to say.

  “As we all know, for over a month this community has been reflecting on a terrible tragedy,” he said. “Six innocent people, five of them children, gunned down in an act of senseless violence.”

  An electric jolt shot through Lindy.

  “When such things happen, right in our own backyard, we can’t help but be affected. Here in our own congregation, one family was affected directly. And as the church, we must be ready to be there for them.”

  Heat filled Lindy’s head.

  Pastor Clark said. “I can’t help but ask, Where was God? I know many of you ask the same question. It’s human. It’s understandable.”

  “You all right?” Roxy whispered.

  Lindy rubbed her temples. “No.”

  2.

  Seated in the far left corner, Mona thought, Yeah. Where? You got ananswer for me? It better be good.

  She tried to ignore the heads that turned her way. Friends, mostly. Well-intentioned people. But she did not want their looks right now. Why hadn’t Pastor Clark cleared this with her first if he was so concerned about her?

  And then it hit her, the reason Brad insisted she come to church this morning. Pastor Clark had called Brad. She was sure of it. And Brad hadn’t told her. So it was a conspiracy.

  She almost walked out then, but Brad deserved at least this much time. He sat silently next to her, his nose still red from her right cross with the cookbook.

  “A prophet in the Bible raised that very same question. His name was Jeremiah, and he was the prophet in Judah when the Babylonian army brought it to ruin.”

  Her mind tuned him out. She didn’t want to hear about prophets or Babylon or anything else for that matter.

  All she wanted to hear was Matthew’s voice.

  If you want to do something, God, do that.

  3.

  “Come on,” Travis Kellman said. “I want you to meet our pastor.”

  “No, thanks,” Lindy said.

  “He’d love to meet you,” Roxy said.

  The three of them were moving slowly toward the exit with the rest of the crowd. Lindy couldn’t help but notice most of them were well dressed. There was some money here.

  “I don’t want to meet your pastor,” Lindy insisted. “He seems like a very nice guy but I—”

  “Come on.”Travis was already moving ahead, like a point man in some military operation.

  “I don’t want to,” Lindy said.

  “Don’t be so shy,” Roxy said.

  “I’m not shy. I’m annoyed. I want to go home.”

  “Real quick. Do it for me.”

  “You playing that card again?”

  “What card?”

  “The do-it-for-me card.”

  “That’s a terrible thing—”

  Lindy sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Okay. I’ll say hi to the guy. Then can we go home?”

  “Sure. Come on.” Roxy started to make her way through the crowd.

  Lindy followed reluctantly. What was she going to say to this pastor anyway?

  Make it an experiment, Lindy told herself. See what happens.Maybe you’ll get a sign from God! Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head?Maybe God would deliver a little good news about how to handle theDiCinni case.

  The crowd thinned out a bit in the foyer. A relief. Travis was waving to them from the far end, where a smaller crowd had gathered. No doubt that’s where the pastor was, like some human magnet attracting the shards of humanity.

  With a sigh, Lindy followed Roxy.

  They came to the outskirts of the pack, and indeed Lindy saw Pastor Clark shaking hands and smiling in the midst. And there was something magnetic about him. Lindy likened him to some of the highly successful trial lawyers she’d seen in action.

  And then, behind her, she heard a scream.

  4.

  “Get her out of here!” Mona cried out. She could not believe the killer’s lawyer was here, in her church.

  When the lawyer turned, Mona noted with perverse satisfaction that the look on the woman’s face was as wide-eyed as Mona’s soul.

  When no answer came—the small assemblage seeming stunned at Mona’s outburst—she looked at Lindy Field directly and screamed again, “Get out!”

  Mona was vaguely aware of Brad coming up behind her. She co
uld almost feel the voice coming out of him. How is poor Mona snappingthis time?

  Or maybe Brad had given up on her.

  The killer’s lawyer stood shaking her head, like a person looking at a horrible accident from the sidewalk, speechless. Had this been any other woman, Mona probably would have felt sorry for her, maybe even rushed up to her and put an arm around her shoulder and told her everything would be all right.

  No, everything would not be all right. It would never be all right. And it would never be all right as long as she was in Mona’s church.

  And then, as if the knot of people suddenly came to collective awareness, various people rushed into the breach and started trying to bring order to the situation.

  At which point Mona lost all control. “No no no no no.” She repeated the word over and over, like a mantra. It suddenly felt like her only link to sanity. Get rid of the woman and she would be safe. Matthew would be safe. The church was stained now, stained by this lawyer.

  She had been right about Brad. He was there with his arms suddenly around her, squeezing her as if to strangle her with calmness. She struggled against his arms and broke free.

  “Get her out of here!” Mona looked at the killer’s lawyer. For a long moment their eyes locked. Then Mona was led away by some arms around her shoulders.

  5.

  Sunday afternoon.

  They let him have his half hour on the roof. The caged roof. What they called the exercise yard. He and the other K–10s, in the little cages within the cage.

  The deputy unshackled him and in he went, into the iron closet. He knew about closets. Closed spaces didn’t scare him. He’d been in enough of them, locked in darkness. What was outside the closed spaces is what scared him.

  They had a thing you could use to do pull-ups or leg raises. He’d seen the others do it, guys with big biceps covered with tattoos.

  The ones who talked to him at night.