The rusty old Pontiac made grinding sounds whenever his mother changed gears. The shock absorbers were so ancient that ever bump on the pavement jarred the two occupants like they were on a fun-house ride. This particular ride, however, was no fun at all.
Her passenger was her son, a man in his late twenties. His hands and hair had gone unwashed for weeks. His stained, smelly trousers had a tear running all the way up his right leg. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot from many nights without sleep. He was wearing only one shoe and had mismatched socks.
He had stopped taking his medication, like he had many times before. His condition had improved in the past few months, so he had decided he didn’t need them anymore. His mother had witnessed her son walking in this endless circle for many, many years. Every time, she would spend sleepless nights worrying that he might become suicidal, or worse. The first sign of trouble was the ranting and raving.
“Think about it, what if the pills don’t correct any imbalance? What if they are nothing but an addictive substance? That way they can control us by controlling the supply. I’m not going to be a patsy again; I’m going cold turkey. Even now, the voices are coming back. As soon as I can hear them clearly they will tell me what do. The voices are my spirit guides, they keep me in touch with God. No shrink is going to stop this now; I’m going all the way.”
Spittle flew as he spoke. It was late in the afternoon and he had been talking like this for hours. It had already become background noise to his mother, who was parking the car in the lot of a local mall. This was her shopping day, and he had insisted on coming along for the ride.
Neither of them noticed a young man approaching them as they stepped out of the car. He was at tall black teenager with a hood concealing most of his face and the standard baggy pants of a gangster rapper. The assailant grabbed his mother by the hair and held a gun to her head.
Her son acted instinctively, with the insane strength of someone who’s mother was in danger. He reached up and twisted the gun out of his hand, and then, using an arm lock for leverage, slammed him into the car. He then repeatedly slammed the door against his head until he went limp and collapsed on the asphalt. A pool of blood quickly collected around his head.
Our society has always had a double standard regarding aggression. They tell us that some things are worth fighting for, that we should stand up for ourselves and that we shouldn’t take crap from anyone. They encourage us to fight, but God help us if we do. The kind of violence seen now on TV and in video games has gradually become more intense and dangerous. Any fight that occurs that way in real life inevitably ends with one of the combatants in prison and the other in a body bag.
Even if someone is only defending himself, there are always questions to answer, and criminal charges can be laid if he used any more than necessary force. This was what he faced now; a formal hearing to determine if he needed to kill his mother’s attacker.
It was determined early in the proceedings that his presence was very disruptive to the hearing, so he was led into a waiting area until such a time he would be called upon to testify. He was taking his medication again, and was mortified by the memory of his recent behaviour. He appeared to be a changed man. He was clean and well groomed. He wore black clothes out of respect for the deceased.
There were many people milling around, most of them were complete strangers. He could catch snippets of conversions: “ …it was racially motivated…” “ …a danger to himself or others…” None of it sounded good.
Meanwhile, in the courtroom, the family of the teenager were having histrionics over his death. Some of this talk was making its way into the waiting area, making him very uneasy. Then, a young woman in a batik dress and wearing beads entered the room with a guitar and began to play a folksy version of “Ebony and Ivory”. Then someone forced his way into the room with a video camera and stuck it in his face. “How long have you been insane?” the investigative journalist asked before being dragged out by one of the guards.
Finally, he was called to the stand. When he was led into the packed courtroom loud insults and threats erupted while the judge pounded his gravel and demanded order. As he took the stand, he searched the crowd for his mother, and saw instead a middle aged black woman weeping on her husband’s shoulder, who was eying him with daggers.
After he was sworn in, the DA, a lean hungry man in a blue suit and a red tie began his attack. “In the statement you made to the police, you claim that Mr. Williams was carrying a gun, and that he threatened your mother.” He nodded. “Then, how do you explain the fact that there was no gun recovered at the scene?” His eyes grew wide and he squirmed in his seat. “ It’s the conspiracy” he began. “They’ve been after me for years.”
The DA then picked up a stack of paper from the table and handed it to him. “Do you know what this is?” He looked down at it. “Yes. It’s a story I wrote called Necessary Force.” “Can you read the highlighted section to the court?”
He started reading paragraphs five and six from the manuscript. “ Neither of them noticed a young man approaching them as they stepped out of the car. He was at tall black teenager with a hood concealing most of his face and the standard baggy pants of a gangster rapper. The assailant grabbed his mother by the hair and held a gun to her head.”
“Her son acted instinctively, with the insane strength of someone who’s mother is in danger. He reached up a twisted the gun out of his hand, and then using an arm lock for leverage, slammed him into the car. He then repeatedly slammed the door against his head until he went limp and collapsed on the asphalt. A pool of blood quickly collected around his head.”
“How can you explain how the attack you described to the officers who arrived at the scene is exactly the same as a story you wrote two weeks ago?”
“I get these flashes” he replied. “I saw this in a dream and wrote it down.”
“Did you find it significant that the assailant in the dream was African-American?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered, I just wrote down what I dreamt.”
‘Yes, but you didn’t dream that no gun was found at the scene, and that your mother has testified that she never saw a gun.”
Things only got worse for him after that. His legal aid defence cited diminished capacity, so the judge sent him to the State Hospital for evaluation and care. Everyone went home and the media circus that had gathered for the hearing scattered back into the woodwork. Everything seemed to be over, except for one man who still had his doubts.
He was the police detective who was first at the scene and took the statement. He and his partner visited the home of Mrs. Carmichael, the young man’s mother. When she answered the door, they were invited into her modest bungalow where she had lived for many years alone. The detective said that had more questions that needed answering, which left her perplexed
“I don’t understand officer,” she asked over a cup of tea. “I thought the case was closed.”
“I thought so too, but then I decided to read the rest of your son’s manuscript, something nobody else bothered to do. Tell me, do you know how it ends?”
‘No, I found the first page more than enough. It was too disturbing to read, even before the attack.”
He leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye. “Mrs. Carmichael, where is the gun? In the story, it turns out that you took and hid the gun before we arrived at the scene.”
She set her teacup down and stood up, looking out of her picture window. The late afternoon sun shone on a face that looked desperately tired. “My son is ill, Detective. He has been that way since he was teenager. He hears voices, he thinks the government is after him, he behaves like a lunatic in public. It was bad, even before my husband’s death, and now it is simply impossible to care for him.”
“He needed to be hospitalized, but the institution just turns him away, they say he isn’t dangerous, so they can’t commit him against his will. Now he is in hospital, and getting the care he needs. That is all I have to say. Will that be all, officer?”
He pondered what she said for a moment. She hadn’t admitted to anything, and she couldn’t be charged with obstruction based solely on a prophetic short story. In a way, he couldn’t blame her for what she did. He had seen many mentally ill people in his line of work and felt powerless to help them.
“All right. I guess we are finished here.” He and his partner rose.
“One more thing,” she asked at the door, “How does the story end?”
“It ends like this ma’am, goodbye.”
Jon David Welland (above, left) is editor of
Information Matters, the SSNS's quarterly newsletter. More of Jon's work can be found at
Electric Fire and
mediawatch. To the right of Jon is
Randy (Patrick Roach) of
Trailer Park Boys.
