Violence

by Timothy McDougall

“Maybe if the State had given him more counseling.” Anderson suggested.

  “I don’t get you.” Crotty responded, truly perplexed now.

  “People need counseling, help to get through these things.” Anderson said evenly as he stared right at Crotty. “I mean, he was in jail for 2 years for something he didn’t do.”

  “Yeah…” Crotty returned his stare. “…well, we lock ‘em up, and what they do after that we have no control.”

  “I know, you’re one of the good guys.” Anderson stated flatly.

  Now Crotty was really confused. He sure didn’t know how to take this last comment. Was it a compliment? Didn’t sound like one. Crotty took a moment, but couldn’t get a read on Anderson, and finally said, “Anyway, good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  Anderson took a long slug of coffee as Crotty straightened his tie in the mirror above the dresser.

  Crotty eyed the stacks of court transcripts next to the cardboard box and the self-help books with the Eisenhower Public Library labels. He also spotted Al Ward’s name and telephone number on a notepad.

  “Al Ward.” Crotty picked up the notepad, and read Ward’s name aloud with some interest. “He helped you at the trial.”

  “Yes.” Anderson nodded. “He explained some things after the verdicts. It’s complex, the legal system. He sorted out the process for me. I met him through my business.”

  “Do you ever see him anymore?” Crotty asked.

  “No. I sold the business. And the trial’s over. I have no reason to hire him for anything.” Anderson replied, turning away to put a creamer in his coffee.

  “Right.” Crotty grunted, clearing his throat as he lifted a single photograph of Anderson from the cardboard box on the dresser and tucked it into his pocket while Anderson’s back was to him.

  Anderson sensed something amiss and glanced back over his shoulder warily at Crotty.

  “He’s really a resourceful guy.” Crotty continued. “He used to be a cop, then-” Crotty abruptly stopped himself from revealing anything more about Ward, only adding, “Well, talk about a guy hauling around extra baggage.”

  “How do you mean?” Anderson wanted to know.

  “I’m just talking…” Crotty replied dismissively. “…anyway, I better be going. Gotta catch some bad guys.” Crotty made this last statement while bouncing his eyebrows up and down, trying to add some lightheartedness to their strained encounter but levity was not one of his strong points. He started for the door but then stopped, acting as though he were remembering something he had wanted to say. “Oh, you know your house burned down.”

  “I know.” Anderson replied.

  “Looks like the fire might have been set deliberately.” Crotty said, pausing to reset the tension and to hold a questioning gaze on Anderson.

  Anderson just stared back at him.

  “If we ever find out who did it, whew, arson is a serious offense.” Crotty declared ominously, but he was clearly after something bigger.

  “I understand it’s a tough crime to prove.” Anderson commented.

  “If we don’t get them there, they always fuck up somewhere down the line…” Crotty offered, and then locked right in on Anderson’s eyes as he said, “…unless they never do anything bad again.”

  The silence after he said this was deafening.

  “Thanks for your time.” Crotty finally broke the uneasy quiet as he smiled, and shook Anderson’s hand. “You be good now.” And then exited the room.

  Anderson closed the door behind him.

  As soon as Crotty heard the latch click shut behind him he turned, looked back at Anderson’s motel room door, no affability in his features now. He was purely contemplative, eyes keenly set. After a moment, he continued on down the exterior staircase and got into his Crown Victoria.

  Anderson peered through a crack in the curtains in his room, watched as Crotty backed the Crown Victoria out of a parking space and drove away.

  Once it was clear Crotty was gone, Anderson walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, drained and deep in thought. He looked at the TV where the talk show featuring the mothers who abandon their babies was just ending.

  The studio audience was wildly applauding as the credits rolled for the tabloid-like sensationalistic program. A graphic appeared seeking guests for a future show which included an “800” number that interested parties could call. An announcer’s voice essentially mirrored what was displayed on the screen:

  “Hey, how would you like to be a guest on the next ‘Kari’ Show?

  Are you the forgiving victim of a violent crime? Give us a call at…”

  Anderson just stared at the TV deep in thought.

  Gabriel Lysander, looking leaner and meaner if that was possible, let the daylight wash over him even though it was a cloudy autumn day. Natural light always felt different on the outside.

  The two prison guards that released him hoarsely laughed like hyenas as he walked away.

  Gabriel smirked at them and took a deep breath of fresh air.

  Gabriel had heard about the death of Ruben Roney during the time he was allowed to finish out his sentence post-conviction at the Cook County Jail. The news of Roney’s death particularly bothered him because Reuben had been giving him the $50 a week he needed for payoffs to maintain his status as a “neutron” or a non-street gang member in prison.

  Street gangs ran everything in the more than two-dozen adult prisons in Illinois even though officials didn’t like to admit it. Gabriel, because of his ferocity, had managed to avoid once again having his ass-busted, that is being on the receiving end of a rape and this way, by paying off the gang leadership, he was permitted to have his own little fiefdom on his “deck” or row of cells.

  The cramped cells at Cook County were meant to house only 2 inmates but always had 4 assigned prisoners. The payoff money let Gabriel lay claim to a bottom bunk and never have to sleep on the floor where the spit, sperm and cockroaches resided. It also allowed him to be the “man” with his “boys” wherever he hung his hat.

  But when Roney died a month or so before his release and the money stopped, Gabriel took a shank to the neck fighting off a gang-rape and luckily ended up in the protective custody medical unit with a non-life threatening injury for the remainder of his stay.

  Gabriel’s brother, Derek, meanwhile had been sent to the Stateville Correctional Center just south of Chicago, a Level 1 facility usually reserved for maximum-security inmates but which also housed its share of medium-security inmates and that was what Derek was deemed after Judge Marr imposed a 10-year sentence on him. Stateville was also where that nurse killer from the 1960’s was housed before he died and where the serial-killer John Wayne Gacy was eventually executed.

  Derek maintained his non-gang affiliated status but only because Ruben was also funneling him $50 a week for payoffs and only for a short while after Roney’s death due to his strength and the fact he kept himself exceptionally dirty and smelly as most inmates did. After a while though, once the payoff money dried up, Derek was ordered to service a notorious gang leader (albeit only in front of a couple of the leader’s underlings) and had to promise to help the gang leader with his long-running appeal in order to remain “protected” but independent. It was the first time Derek had sucked a dick since his juvie days and it really made it hell for Derek’s cellmate when Derek took him up the ass.

  Derek did file his own appeal right after his sentencing and did claim he was denied effective assistance of counsel. He was leaning on the assertion that his public defender did not inform him of the involuntary-intoxication defense (which again Calcote did), and that it was “clear reversible error” because he was not apprised of the option nor was the jury given instructions with regards to this defense.

  It was always problematic to claim you were so whacked out under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol to therefore not be held liable for your actions. Also, Calcote had done such a thorough job for the defense that it was clearly a desperate bid to have t
he conviction set aside but what the heck, it was worth a shot, Derek figured.

  CHAPTER 20

  Anderson shook hands with Father Cannova as he left the evening services with the other attendees. It was a crisp fall night right before Halloween and a beautiful full moon was evident above the main spire of the church.

  “Another lively service, father.” Anderson said as he drifted past.

  “Thank you, Noel.”

  “Good night.”

  “I’m always delighted to see you here.” Cannova called after Anderson genuinely pleased to see him attend so many masses, although he felt Anderson still was more an observer than a participant.

  Anderson headed off into the parking lot where he found Jeannie fuming in front of her Impala. The hood was up on her car.

  “Fuck! Motherfuck!” Jeannie groused.

  “What’s the problem?” Anderson asked but he could already see what had happened.

  “Somebody stole my battery.” Jeannie seethed, putting her hands on her hips and giving him a look as if he were something foul. “Am I somehow in your way again?” She asked, referring to the time not so long ago when she pinned-his Mercedes in with her lousy park job.

  “No.”

  “Good.” She said, throwing glances in every direction as if she were scanning for a tow truck or some friend who was coming to help her, neither of which was occurring. “Shit!” She spewed, shaking her head back and forth with irritation.

  “What are you going to do?” Anderson asked bluntly.

  “First I’m gonna find out who fucking did it and then I’m going to fucking kill them!” She hissed contemptuously. “What the fuck do you think I’m going to do?!!”

  “I’ll give you a ride to get another battery, if you want.” He offered patiently.

  “’A ride’?” Jeannie asked suspiciously, implying he was just a lecherous creep with ulterior motives.

  “A ride.” Anderson repeated disdainfully, now dishing her surly attitude back at her. “But first I have to get something to eat because I’m starving. Okay?”

  It took a good five minutes of riding in silence before Jeannie relented and apologized.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s not your fault.” She muttered as she continued to stare out the window, arms folded tightly. “Okay?” She snarled as she turned her head and looked at him directly using the same condescending intonation he used in saying the word in the parking lot.

  “What kind of food do you like?” Anderson asked evenly, accepting the peace offering.

  “Seriously? You want to know?” She responded derisively.

  Anderson just kept driving, not taking the bait.

  “I got a mouth on me, I know.” Jeannie acquiesced and explained. “But it’s just, you know, I use it to like weed out the creeps, that sort of thing, scare them away.”

  Anderson nodded, unperturbed. There was no offense and none taken as far as he was concerned.

  Jeannie softened a bit and brightened as she caught sight of a place to eat, and pointed. “That’s a good place right there!”

  The restaurant Jeannie had selected was the Metroville Diner, an old railcar-like eatery that played music from the 1950’s located in a gentrified area of the city where you could see the Chicago skyline in the distance.

  Jeannie sat in a booth and was completely absorbed at the moment as she picked up the salt shaker from the Formica table-top and quickly set it down… then did the same thing with the pepper shaker… before continuing the identical pick-up-and-drop procedure with the ketchup bottle… returning to the salt shaker and continuing the odd ritual in rapid succession a series of four times in total before finishing with two light taps on the corner of the table.

  Anderson waited patiently and simply stared at Jeannie impassively from his seat opposite her in the packed restaurant.

  Jeannie took a packet out of her small purse, tore off the top, removed the towelette inside and washed her hands. She finally looked up and smiled.

  “You think I’m crazy.” She said, self-consciously. “See, there’s three bottles on the table so I look under each one four times which is twelve, then I touch the edge of the table two times, that’s fourteen, plus adding the three bottles again is seventeen, but I have to count the bottles again, 3 times 17 is 51, but you add in the fact that I washed my hands twice equals 53. Five plus three is eight which is a good number.”

  Anderson just looked at her after she finished her explanation.

  “I know it sounds complicated.” Jeannie conceded.

  “Sounds like a colossal waste of time.” Anderson opined.

  Jeannie had heard this before and was not insulted. “Believe me, it’s not as bad as when I was a Buddhist. You had to chant the same thing over and over. It was the pits.”

  “You were a Buddhist?”

  “Yeah, then I did yoga, at some temple, but they burned all this incense, it gave me a headache.” Jeannie recounted, making a face. “Have you tried aromatherapy? I did that for awhile. That’s pretty good. I’m thinking now of following the Dalai Lama, emancipation from desire, I like that.”

  “I thought you were a Charismatic?”

  “Right, well that, too. I am.” Jeannie nodded. “I’m just not real comfortable with the whole Jesus thing yet. I feel like God, He’s judging me all the time. I dream about some day, you know, getting to a place where I don’t have to feel bad about myself. I feel like the devil is there all the time, you have to pray constantly. I hate it the most when the devil does things to kids, makes there be a bad thing happen, then they feel bad forever, when they’re just a kid, you know? I mean, they’re just a kid, then they ruin their lives, never do anything, just hide because they think people will find out the bad thing they did or they think they just don’t deserve anything good. Do you believe this is a school, that everything that happens you somehow wanted it, it’s supposed to teach you something?” She suddenly slapped her forehead when she realized her mistake. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I didn’t mean you wanted what happened to you! I guess it’s sort of a dumb idea.” She sighed apologetically.

  “No, it’s interesting.”

  “Are you rich?”

  “Not really.”

  “You gave all that money to the church. What do you do?”

  “I was a builder.”

  “’Was’? What about now?”

  “Now, I’m nothing.”

  “You’re not going to stick me with the check?” Jeannie inquired directly, sitting up, not even taking the time to measure his statement. She had her body leaning sideways with one foot slung out of the booth like she was going to leave “It’s just I don’t have that much money on me and I’d like to know now. I’m not the smartest person in the world and there’s people who take advantage of that.”

  “No, it’s my treat. I promise.” Anderson calmly assured her.

  Jeannie sat back, relaxed again.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “You’re sort of inside yourself.” Jeannie observed, fixing him with a studious look.

  “I didn’t know it showed.” Anderson admitted ironically and grinned.

  “Oh, big time.” Jeannie said as she fluttered the fingertips of one of her hands at him. “Yeah, there’s this whole negative energy thing going on with you. Like at church, you kinda watch everybody, like you’re judging, like you sorta don’t really want to fit in.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Anderson thankfully accepted her appraisal.

  “I don’t get you.” Jeannie stared at him askance.

  “There’s a lot of society’s rejects floating around over there, don’t you think?” Anderson asked.

  Jeannie sat up again in her seat and stared intently down her nose at him.

  “It’s the ‘Island of Misfit Toys.’” Anderson continued. “Former addicts, former homosexuals, former convicts, former prostitutes-”

  “I don’t think because someone has found our Lord and Savio
r Jesus Christ they are somehow… rejects!” Jeannie defiantly challenged him.

  “There are a lot of lost souls in that place.” Anderson stated emphatically.

  “So what are you doing there?” Jeannie shot right back at him.

  Good question. Anderson didn’t have an answer. Anderson chuckled slightly and carefully considered her. He obviously didn’t have a ready reply but he appreciated Jeannie’s straightforward approach.

  Jeannie leaned thoughtfully forward, locking in like a laser on his stare to force an answer from him. She put her face under the overhead light to try to compel him to match her action, not hide in the shadows as a waitress moved up to their table.

  “Good evening. Sorry for the wait.” The bright-eyed waitress apologized, fanning herself with the menus before dropping them in front of Anderson and Jeannie. The waitress mirrored the perky energy of her sock hop outfit that was complete with a pink satin jacket. “Something from the bar?” The waitress asked.

  “Nothing, thanks. Water.” Jeannie answered, sitting back.

  “I’ll have a double Jack on the rocks.” Anderson made his request.

  “Sounds good.” Jeannie interjected.

  “Order one.” Anderson suggested.

  “Can’t. I was in A.A. Pretty bad, used to have blackouts.” Jeannie revealed, unashamed. “You don’t want to know.”

  Anderson was already looking at the menu, so the waitress inquired, “Would you like to order your dinner now?”

  Anderson looked over at Jeannie who gestured for him to go ahead.

  “I’ll have the steak sandwich.” He said, closing the menu and handing it back to the waitress.

  “You can’t eat meat!” Jeannie exclaimed. “You’re eating the animal’s fear! Animals aren’t stupid, they know they’re going to die and their brain blasts them with some internal chemical just before they’re killed so you’re just eating their fear!”

  “Medium rare.” Anderson confirmed his order to the waitress, stone-faced.

  Jeannie opened her menu but she already knew what she wanted and quickly said, “I’ll have a dinner salad.”