Читать книгу A New Requiem - B. Lance Jenkins - Страница 6

“Excuse me?” Dwight sat there with a surprised smile on his face that soon turned to a frown when he realized this was serious. “What the hell are you talking about?”

One officer, whose name neither Ben nor Dwight knew, approached Dwight and pulled him from his seat like a rag doll. Dwight snatched away.

“Do not touch me like that, young man!” he yelled.

“Dwight, we are going to need you to calm down,” said Chief McDowell.

“This is ludicrous!” he yelled again. “I haven’t done a thing and I don’t even know what you are talking about.”

Ben, confused, interrupted to advise Dwight in the only way he knew how in situations such as these. “Dwight, stop talking.”

“I’m serious. I didn’t do anything. This is absurd!”

“Stop talking, Dwight,” Ben restated. “Let them do what they have to do, we will figure it out. This has got to be a mistake.”

Dwight attempted to calm himself. He blew and blew breaths of air in an attempt to lower his stress level. As one of the area’s cultural dignitaries stood there humiliated in front of his peers and fellow guests at the restaurant, he began to practice the art of mindfulness, trying to remain calm in the embarrassing moment of being handcuffed, and arrested, at his place. The assurance that Ben recognized what and what not to do in a situation like this certainly helped the matter.

The officer handcuffed Dwight, his arms secured behind him like nothing more than a meth-head, which of course was the usual arrestee in Freeden. Nothing as serious as murder ever happened in this town.

The police began walking Dwight out of the restaurant. Dwight turned his head back toward Ben, and shouted, “I’m going to need your help.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, slightly above normal tone but not too loud. Ben then looked around the restaurant. People gazed at him. What the hell has Dwight done? Did he actually do something wrong? There was no way, but the sad reality was that a local boy was apparently dead.

Braxton Jones, who had, according to the policy, been murdered, was the seventeen-year-old son of Dale and Lucy Jones, a prominent family in the community. Braxton was an academically gifted senior at Freeden High School, and though not very socially involved outside his music circle, was admired by people throughout the community as a young man with a promising future. He was the offspring of his father, for sure; he was set to be the valedictorian of his graduating class, a feat his father had achieved at the same high school back in his senior year.

Dale was an accomplished certified public accountant. In fact, he was the certified public accountant in town. Everyone used Dale as their CPA. Dale had been here his whole life. Every major operation farmer used him, every businessperson used him; he lacked nothing so far as respectability was concerned.

This would not bode well for Dwight. And even though Ben could not fathom Dwight committing such an awful act, it was apparently a certainty that a boy born in this community was dead, and that evidence against Dwight existed.

To imagine that a young, well-raised boy could be murdered in Freeden was simply unthinkable. Something like this just did not happen here. A fact that was quickly emphasized. As soon as Dwight was dragged out of the restaurant, the scuttlebutt began. Ben got up from his table.

“Can you believe that?” one woman said to her husband.

“I have to call Joanna… Lord, she will never believe what just happened,” another woman said. “I always knew that man was up to something.”

Ben threw a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table, assuming that would cover the tab and more. He had no desire to stick around to finish dinner or the typical it’s-been-a-pleasure-serving-you small talk with the server at the end of the meal.

Soon enough David’s did not even feel like a restaurant to Ben. Instead, it looked like a church fellowship hall, as people began getting out of their booths and walking away from their tables to others, gossiping about what they had just seen. Folks started getting on their cell phones, calling their friends and neighbors and telling them what had happened. Ben walked to the entrance, still hearing all the loud chatter, and turned back to them. The way they spoke of all this disgusted him. A young boy found dead and a pillar of the community arrested should have saddened everyone. Though it did not seem that way. It seemed to Ben as if this all was just a made-for-TV occurrence that presented these higher-end citizens with something meaningful to chat about over their late-night dinner and drinks.

Ben wondered what this might do to him and his reputation. Guilt overcame him again for worrying about this type of thing. He knew he should not care. Dwight was a friend. But a murderer? He just could not come to believe it. He knew Dwight could not have done this. Or could he? He suddenly doubted everything. Ben wondered if, perhaps, like so many others in his life, he did not know Dwight as well as he thought. No matter the case, the police had enough evidence to arrest him. Or enough of something.

Ben turned back toward the door and walked out onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to Main Street, realizing that this would likely shake this town to its core by morning.

Little did he know.

Ben arrived at the Freeden police station, which was just about a half mile down the road from David’s. He parked his truck alongside the road, and sat there, waiting for the call. He knew Dwight would reach out to him.

About two hours later, his phone finally rang.

919-537-0911.

He knew the number. It was the police station for sure.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Any secret as to why I’d be calling?” Dwight asked. Ben could tell he had been crying.

“I’m going to come in and see you. Do not say a word to them if they question you.”

“Ben, I swear to you, I did not do this,” he said as the bawling picked up.

“Regardless of if you did anything or not, do not say a word to them. You know how this works.”

“I have no idea how this works!”

“Well, we are in the rural South and you know how things work here. You’re guilty until proven innocent and you know it.”

“But I didn’t do it,” he yelled, weeping more and more as the conversation went on.

“I hear you, Dwight, but it doesn’t fucking matter, so don’t say anything until we are face to face, okay?”

Dwight breathed heavily, trying to reduce his emotional outburst. “Okay,” he sighed, “I-I-I… hear you.”

“I’m coming inside.” Then Ben hung up.

He got out of the truck and walked across the street and into the police station. A woman with the nametag Pam was sitting at the front desk, dressed in a pair of jeans and a Freeden Police 5K t-shirt from the annual event that took place each March.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Here to see Dwight.”

She frowned, visibly convicting him in her own mind. “He doesn’t get visitors yet.”

“Pam, I’m an attorney.”

“Well, are you going to be his attorney?”

“Yes,” he said boldly as he cut her off. Ben worried about his reputation, but in this moment felt a greater sense of duty. He needed to talk to Dwight. He needed to get the facts.

She sighed in a disappointing manner, as if she was surprised Ben would be here to help him. Ben knew what this meant. This was just a small, subtle sign of what was likely to come.

“Just a moment, Mr. Bailey.” She got up from her seat and walked out of sight. Ben often harbored sarcastic thoughts about most everything, and rarely conveyed them into words unless around his closest friends. But still he thought, I bet her lazy ass has not gotten up from that chair all day.

He immediately felt guilty for thinking this; it was a product of the disdain he had developed over time for many of those in local public service – particularly leadership. Ben had once worked as an assistant district attorney but then left to start his own firm, Bailey and Associates. He had grown aggravated with the politics of the local justice system and government. He found himself to be considerably more entrepreneurial than his colleagues, too, and he wanted to work for himself. In addition, Dr. Henson and Rachel’s family, who all were very intertwined in local politics, had added to his frustration by working to influence the local justice system. He had wanted out and bought a building downtown that became the home of his law firm.

So here he was, likely to represent a man who surely would be convicted in the court of public opinion by morning. This case would be different from any Ben had tried before. If in fact Dwight did not do it, it would be the most difficult trial in his career. And a difficult uphill battle to fight.

Ben took a seat in the lobby. It had now been ten minutes or more since Pam had walked to the back. He wondered what would happen to his firm. Dwight was very successful in his career, but Ben knew he did not have the money to pay for a trial attorney. He looked down, sighed, and covered his face with his hands.

He knew his worries were selfish. He did not get in the business to only make money and gain notoriety, but he was very worried that this case would ruin his career and firm, at least in Freeden and the surrounding area. If it became public (and he knew it would) that his firm was defending Dwight, he worried that no one would ever hire them again. Defending a gay man accused of rape and murder in this town would be career suicide. And it did not matter if Dwight was guilty or not.

Ben had always been worried about the opinions of others regarding his association with a gay man. Now, he could not hide it. The town he had grown up in, if he defended Dwight, would see him standing by this gay man’s side. Freeden would exile him just as fast as he could blink when they found out he was defending Dwight Kerry.

“Mr. Bailey?”

Ben looked up and saw a police officer he did not recognize at the door leading to the back. He nodded his head to the officer to affirm that he was the man he was looking for.

“Come with me,” the officer said.

Ben picked up his briefcase and followed the deputy through the winding hallway of the cut-up building. The deputy stopped at an old, steel door with padlocks on it. He opened the door to a depressive sight: a dark room barely lit by one fluorescent light bulb, intended to be lit by eight, with Dwight crouched over in a chair, leaning awkwardly on the table in front him. He sobbed uncontrollably.

Ben walked in, and the door shut behind him and locked. Dwight looked up at Ben, lowered his head again, and continued sobbing. It seemed to Ben that Dwight’s depressive state was growing even worse, likely because Dwight knew no one had ever seen him like this. Ben had no clue how to comfort Dwight. He cared deeply about people, but he just did not do well with helping others cope in times of strife.

He sat down across from Dwight, setting his briefcase on the floor against the table leg. Ben looked up at Dwight and then looked away. Regardless of whether or not he did it, this was miserable to see.

They both sat across from one another, with not one word spoken for nearly ten minutes.

The sobbing stopped, and Dwight just breathed heavily for another two or three minutes. Finally, he spoke.

“I imagine…” he wiped away tears and tried to get himself together. “I imagine this is sad to watch.”

Ben, who had spent the last several minutes simply looking down to avoid the awkwardness of Dwight making eye contact, replied, “It is.”

“Well, damn,” Dwight wiped away the last of his tears, “try not to be too sensitive.”

“You know I’m not too good with stuff like this.”

“That’s why you became a defense attorney I imagine. Damn near emotionless, I see.”

“I have emotions,” Ben replied. “I just don’t know how to show them sometimes.”

“You’re risking a lot being in here with me, you know?”

Ben responded, “And what do you mean?”

He wiped at his face, trying to get it back to normal. “You know what I mean.”

Ben sighed. “Dwight, I have to set aside our friendship for just a moment and be totally objective, okay?”

Dwight looked down at the floor, chuckled in disgust, and said, “I know what you’re going to ask me.”

“I have to ask you, Dwight. Did you do it?”

“No.”

They both paused. The room was silent.

“Okay, any idea why they think you did?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you know Braxton? Surely you knew him.”

“Of course I knew him! He was a student of mine.”

“What classes?”

“Music. He played the piano for the school choir, too.”

“Were you friends?”

Dwight teared up again. “He was one of my best students. An avid learner for sure. Intelligent, quiet, but so loving. He understood how to be loving and kind well beyond his years.”

“What else did you know about him?”

“He was a troubled young man. It was tough for him to grow up here.”

“What does that mean?”

“He reached out to me once this past semester,” he paused, “explained that he was gay and had loved a boy, a fellow classmate, for years, and that he had come out to him and wanted my advice on what to do moving forward.”

“Did he tell you all this?”

“Yes, he had no one else to talk to.”

“Is it protocol for a teacher to counsel a student in this capacity?”

“He was a student and a friend, Ben. I was his mentor. And he had no one to talk to. Take it from me, there are not a lot of people around here to talk to talk to about things like that. At least not that I know of.”

“Does anyone know about this? That he confessed this to you?”

“No, I never told anyone! I have always believed it was up to an individual as to when they elected to ‘come out’ to the public. This was not my decision to make, and I would never have told anyone this.”

“Would he have told anyone that he spoke to you?”

“I don’t know,” he paused, “I cannot tell you for sure if that happened or not.”

“When he confessed this to you, what did you say?”

“I told him the same thing I’ve told other students who have come out to me.”

“And that is?”

“That they may be judged just for being different and that they had to come to terms with whether or not that was okay with them. That it’s a constant struggle in a town like this, but that I have found happiness in being my true self, and that they can too.”

“Is such authorization given anywhere?”

“Not particularly, but–”

“Do you see, though, how this might not work well for you?” Ben asked.

Dwight grew defensive. “Ben, I have never been one to do only what I was authorized to do. I believe in doing what is best for the students as learners and as young people trying to find a way in this often cruel world.” His voice was rising. “I mean, damn!” He leaned back in his seat and shouted. “What would you have expected me to do?”

“I am not saying what you did is wrong, Dwight. Truth be told, what you said… it’s the right thing to say, okay? But this is not going to help you here. Let’s just hope no one knows about this.”

“And if they do?” he asked.

Ben sighed again. “Dwight,” he started, “you’re a gay man in the fucking Bible belt of America.” He paused again, leaned forward, and continued, “And you have just been accused of raping and murdering a boy who no one else likely knew was gay. Now I don’t know all the facts yet, and you can bet your bottom dollar I will find them out, but your sexuality alone is going to hurt you. When the story hits tomorrow morning’s paper that the legendary chorus director Dwight Kerry has been arrested for the rape and murder of a local boy whose parents happen to be elites in this area, you will be glad your ass is in jail, because you likely won’t want to see the reaction from all this.”

“And how do you think you’ll fare out there, defending the community faggot?” Dwight asked.

Ben looked bewildered. He was surprised he asked the question the way he did. Ben was very worried about how this would work out for him. He was, however, embarrassed to admit it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know.”

The room fell silent. Dwight needed Ben’s help, but he worried about putting Ben in this situation. “Ben, if you can’t do this, I understand. It will likely ruin you and your career.”

For a brief moment, it satisfied Ben to hear Dwight recognize the impact this would have on his life and career. But in that same instant, Ben had never felt so ashamed. Here was a man whose life was on the line for something he claimed, determinedly, he did not do. And this was the same man who had befriended Ben and been someone to turn to during all his personal strife, and now all Ben could do was think about himself. He was ashamed.

Dwight interrupted Ben’s deep thought. “Seriously, Ben, I understand. Just please, I beg you… put me in contact with someone who can save me. I swear to you, Ben, I had nothing to do with this.”

Ben realized what he had to do. Dwight was perhaps the most unorthodox teacher that had ever taught – certainly in Freeden. He always went above and beyond the call of duty; in many cases, he had become the only father-figure some of the local children had in their lives. And while it was not ideal to counsel students in the ultra-sensitive climate of the modern day, particularly on issues of sexuality, he knew Dwight did it only because he wanted what was best for his students. And it was time show Dwight the same kind of love he showed so many others.

“Dwight, you have always been good to me. And to so many others.”

“Well, thank you, but–”

“Let me finish,” Ben interrupted. Dwight’s eyes widened. Ben continued, “When this God-awful town and its backward, selfish people brought me down, you always found a way to bring me up. And as simple as I can put it: when I was struggling with my marriage, you found a way to bring me up from my lowest points and keep me going. I owe you, and I am going to help you. But not because I owe you. I’m going to do it because I believe you.”

“Thank you, Ben. That means so much to me. I want you to know upfront I don’t have much saved and–”

“Your money is no good with me.”

Dwight began to tear up again. “Oh my… you can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“Ben, I cannot thank you enough.” Dwight rose from his seat, and walked over to give Ben a hug. He stayed seated, and Dwight wrapped his arms around him and held on as if Ben was his only hope.

Then Ben rose from his seat, and wrapped his arms around Dwight. Once the two finally dropped the embrace, Ben stood about two feet from Dwight, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “Now, it only gets tougher from here.”

Ben still worried how this would look, but knew this was the right thing to do. If Dwight truly did not do it, he deserved Ben’s help. No one else here would defend him, other than a public defender who was forced to, and Ben knew it. And with the public defenders they had in this area and the influence the wrong people had over them, Ben believed Dwight had just as well tie his own noose.

Ben patted Dwight on the back and picked up his briefcase to leave. Dwight walked over to his chair and leaned against it with his arms straight and his hands grasping the back of it firmly. Ben knocked and the officer immediately opened the door, joined by five other officers standing outside the door. Next to them stood the Freeden Tribune editor Preston Hall, a representative from the local television station, and three reporters from newspapers in the surrounding area, all decked out in their company attire, their necks adorned with lanyards featuring their press badges. Ben did not believe the press was usually allowed in this part of the police department, but, sure enough, all of them were present, waiting for anything newsworthy that might come their way.

Dwight could not see the reporters from where he was standing, nor could they see him. Ben looked at them, hesitant to walk out for concern of what they may ask him. He had committed to defending Dwight, but he suddenly felt unready for the stigma that would accompany his defending an accused murderer. This accused murderer.

When Ben took a step forward, Dwight yelled, “Before you go, tell me you truly believe me, Ben.”

Ben had his back to Dwight, and once Dwight asked the question, he stood there in front of the officers, four of whom he knew personally, and the media representatives, realizing he had to say something.

He turned back to Dwight who now sat alone in the dark room. A man who had built his entire career in this community would, as Ben expected, now be shunned by it because of an accusation that would label him guilty no matter what. Ben realized that if he was going to truly give everything in defending Dwight, it had to start now.

Ben turned his head back to Dwight, cameras and recorders now rolling from the reporters, and said to Dwight, “I most certainly do.”

One officer walked forward, shut the door, and the reporters flocked around Ben like vultures on a piece of road kill. Ben avoided them, and continued to walk as they came after him down the hall and ultimately out of the building. The reporters followed him right up to his truck, yelling questions, and he hopped in, locked the door, and drove off, answering none of them.

As he drove home in the early hours of the morning, he realized that life would never be the same again. For Ben, the days of taking a stroll down the sidewalk to 3rd Street Cafe for lunch were likely over. Drinks at David’s were a thing of the past. He feared that he would no longer be welcomed here in Freeden.

Ben had once really loved his hometown, but with the realization that the town was full of people who could not move past old practices and discriminatory ways of life, he knew by morning that Freeden would have already convicted Dwight in the court of public opinion. Dwight was the only openly gay man in Freeden, and Ben believed that most people in town would likely think he was the only person sick enough to do something like this.

He knew the townspeople. He knew Freeden. And he knew they would think the only person who would do something like this was “a gay.”

Freeden would believe it was Dwight.

Dwight the gay.