Uncertain Justice

He'd hung on until he could resist only by retreating inside himself. He'd closed his eyes. He wanted a lawyer, he'd mumbled slowly. He repeated it several times until they'd finally been forced to take notice.

The detectives said lawyering up proved he was guilty. They'd ridiculed him, saying child killers didn't deserve attorneys. They'd shrieked at him, wanting to know how many other kids he'd killed. A pair of big uniformed cops hauled him erect every time he slumped in the chair. They screamed in his ears but he refused to say another word to the officers surrounding him. Eventually it became clear to them he never would.

Twice on the way to his cell, he was shoved against a wall and fists hammered his kidneys when he couldn't respond to commands fast enough. He'd been uncooperative and combative, they'd said. They had only done what was necessary.

§

The ear-splitting crash arrived simultaneously with a blinding flash, leaving behind rattling windows and the acrid odor of ozone. Startled, he twisted away from the patio door and stumbled back into the living room. Turning back to the glass door, he rubbed his forearms to smooth the hair standing on end. Dark clouds had hastened the coming of night; now it and the storm were here.

The picture on the television dissolved into streaks and blurry shapes for a moment and then cleared as the static charge in the air weakened and died. He yanked the patio door shut and closed the Venetian blinds tight across the wide expanse of glass.

Intellectually, he knew it was no protection at all against another close lightning strike but he felt safer. He turned on the table lamp next to the recliner and stumbled across the room to switch on a floor lamp near the entertainment center. Still visible through the blinds, the glaring flashes of lightning were muted a little by the interior lights. He took up the remote and dialed up the sound volume to compensate for the noise of the violent storm.

The show about the hairy mammoths was over and a documentary about maximum-security prisons had replaced it. The host was busy explaining the offenses and sentences for each of the inmates he would interview. Fascinated, Miles sank into the cushions on the couch as a montage of murderers, rapists, and kidnappers paraded across the screen in rapid succession. Each was more muscular than the last and even more covered with gaudy tattoos.

They gazed out of the screen with flat, dead eyes as they explained how unfair it was to be shut way behind bars with no way to better themselves. More than one stumbled over the word "rehabilitation," but they used it anyway to explain why they shouldn't be locked away from their loving families and friends any longer. They were ready to reenter society they said. Cured, they were. They were certain of it.

After a commercial, the narrator discussed the violence the guards dealt with every day. A lieutenant in the prison guards showed the host a collection of knives made from combs, toothbrushes, stray bits of broken glass, and other unlikely materials. He spoke of how many inmates were killed, wounded, and mutilated every year by other prisoners.

Miles imagined himself standing beside each convict, or perhaps submissively behind the brute, a raped and whipped shell of a man. The terror he'd been feeling for months mounted higher as all the horrors he'd ever imagined about his fate were displayed in crisp, clear high definition on the TV screen.

Eight jurors had voted to send him to prison--he could not get past that--eight jurors! It was too much.

A flood of undigested hamburger and potatoes surged up from his stomach. He ran to the half-bath by the front door trying to hold back the sour mess. Falling to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up the dinner he'd so recently choked down. Fragments of meat and vegetables spewed forcefully into the bowl until there was nothing left.

The muscles in his stomach kept trying to bring something up, but only bile was flowing now. The acid bit at the lining of his throat. Eventually, even that bitter fluid was exhausted though painful contractions continued for long minutes.

Gradually the dry retching subsided. He stood and wiped his lips with the back of his hand while he stumbled to the sink. He rinsed out his mouth and drank a glass of water to sooth his raw throat. Stripping off his shirt, now badly stained with unpleasant bits of food and stomach acid, he held it under the faucet.

Catching sight of an ashen face in the mirror, he paused to study the reflected image. The eyes were as dead as the prison inmates he'd seen earlier; his face was pale, expressionless. It was undeniably him, but there were harsh lines and creases that hadn't been there before. He could find nothing of the satisfied Army veteran who had set out on a carefully planned retirement a few months ago.

Without thinking, his hand still wrapped in the foul shirt, he cocked his fist and smashed the face in the mirror into a thousand shards.

It was deliberate destruction that served no purpose. It was a mess that he'd have to clean up himself. It was sudden; he hadn't thought about it, fretted over it, wondered what was the best thing in the world he could do.

The sudden physical action felt good to him; in fact, it felt great. He wanted more.

Twisting to the side, he set his feet and threw hard punches at the wall beside the mirror. He pounded fist-sized holes into the sheetrock. It was a long while before he could stop.

But as good as it was to finally lash out at something, he had to stop. He was going to break some bones in his hands if he hit a two by four stud in the wall. Panting, he looked around, holding tight to the ember of anger that remained after his exertions. It was good to feel some emotion other than despair.

He looked his hands to see if he'd cut himself with the mirror glass. His fists still clinched tightly, he held his forearms up. Rotating his wrists, he flexed the muscles in his forearms, checking to see if there was any pain or blood. The small cut on one knuckle needed only a quick rinse and a small band aid.

He stalked to the kitchen and glared out the window at the breaking storm. He couldn't have said how long he watched but at some point he found himself reveling in the violence of the storm. Powerful and impersonal, it had no agenda other than the cold reality of wind-whipped rain and lightning.

It was fresh and clean--in stark contrast to the months of anguish since the young girl's death. Its vastness reminded him of how small he was in the grand scheme, but there was comfort there too. At least that scheme had a place for him. He'd been lost for so long.

He opened the door to step outside, only to be greeted by a fresh thunderbolt that struck no more than a block away. Point taken. The might of the storm was not to be trifled with.

Miles prudently retreated to the cover of the doorway. Even there, the wind drove spikes of rain into his face as he watched electrical energy streak from cloud to cloud in intricate, sometimes delicate patterns. The booming thunder made the windows rattle in their frames. He closed the kitchen door to mute the assault.

He poured a glass of milk, assembled a couple of sandwiches, and carried the replacement meal to the living room. Changing his mind about shutting out the storm, he opened the mini-blinds covering the patio door. He sat in the recliner and watched the lightning dance while he chewed on dry bread and leftover roast beef.

Through the protecting glass door, he could see his carefully mowed and cultured lawn with its well-trimmed shrubbery and attendant rose bushes. The carefully arranged scene was the result of many hours of labor spent on his hands and knees last spring. The backyard was an alien landscape tonight lit by irregular bright flashes, ripped apart by hurricane-strength winds, and drowned by torrential rain.

Green and familiar in the daytime, it was unknown and forbidding tonight. Full for the moment, he dropped a half-eaten sandwich back on the plate and drank the last of the milk before it got too warm. Pulling up on the handle to thrust out the footrest on the recliner, he settled into the overstuffed cushions.

He probed for the anger he'd felt earlier. It was there, tucked away in a corner of his mind, waiting for a summons to reassert itself. Reassured, he relaxed completely and closed his eyes for better concentration.

He thought of the documentary he'd watched about prisons. There wouldn't be any backyards or ice-cold milk for him there ... no compassion, no understanding either, and no second chances. The thought came to him that he would not live very long in that environment either. If the show could be believed, inmates challenged each other daily for small possessions, power, or sex. Street gangs banded together for safety and greater power, according to the commentary.

Miles would be the odd man out in any scenario he could think of. The U.S. Army didn't have any associate organizations in the prison system. A smoldering anger burned hotter, beginning to bore through veils of pain and bewilderment that had clouded his mind for too long.

Abruptly, the television screen flickered and came to life. He hadn't noticed the cable network had gone down. The system's return was an intrusion and he scowled in irritation at the screen. The ten o'clock news was just starting.

He watched a repeat of the announcement of his new trial date. The scenes of the prison were still vividly clear in his mind. The new trial could easily return a guilty verdict. There were only four more jurors to convince and the truth seemed not to be terribly important. The prosecutor hadn't even tried to hide his intent. "If we get the right jury," was what Brady had said ... not a fair jury.

The fury Miles thought he had contained in a corner of his mind blazed hotter with the realization of the prosecutor's goal. There was no conceivable way he could change the district attorney's mind on the matter, of course. Brady had already seen all the evidence. If he was not swayed by that, what more could Miles do?

Miles suddenly could see his destiny. He saw it so clearly, it might already have happened. He would be convicted and sent to a prison like the one in the documentary. It didn't matter he'd done nothing wrong.

The prosecutor wanted him in prison, the judge didn't care one way or the other, and his attorney was barely interested. Eventually, in the upcoming trial--or the one after that--all twelve members of a jury would be convinced he was, indeed, guilty.

He shook his head as he saw himself bleeding and dying on a shower room floor, killed by one of the tattooed, muscled monsters he'd seen on TV. Miles clicked off the television, plunging the room into a silence broken at intervals by the slamming thuds of heavy thunder. With only himself for company, his mind raced.

Frustrated, he gave vent to a wordless roar. The earlier resentment was only a taste of what he was feeling now. He held up his hands. They trembled uncontrollably. Fury threatened to overwhelm him. It had been lurking in the darker recesses of his mind and now it spread fiery tentacles to pull him into the comforting embrace of insanity. His hands gripped the ends of the chair arms, clutching them tightly as an anchor against the tempest. His eyes flicked from one corner in the room to another without pattern or purpose to the search.

Something within him strengthened and demanded immediate release. He pounded the chair with both hands until blood from the cut on his knuckle began to flow. It stained the fabric but he had no energy left over to regret the damage. He screamed ... and then collapsed, slumping back into the seat cushions.

He lay panting, dizzy and exhausted by the intensity of the emotion that had escaped from inside him. Slowly, he gathered himself and sat up in the Lazyboy. He set his feet firmly on the floor.

His eyes were alert now. The cleansing anger had sharpened his senses and his wits.

Without his conscious participation, decisions were reached deep inside him--in that place where civilized logic and reason are checked for validity against animal instinct. He saw ... and understood.

Trapped animals will gnaw through their own legs to get free. He'd read that somewhere. Truly, he was as desperate as those ensnared animals--and he could do no less than they would.

His body might not be caught in the steel jaws of a hunter's trap--not yet--but it was coming, and he badly wanted out. He ached with the desire to run, and run hard. It was clear he could not trust the courts to see him acquitted of the charges.

The system was flawed. It had, in fact, already failed him. Therefore, he would no longer plead for a justice that could be denied, that would be denied.

Miles smiled quietly into the darkness. He was going to retake control of his life, beginning now.

He began to consider how to make the resolution a fact.

It isn't terribly difficult to disappear in a free country. It had been done before. Sixties radical Howard Mechanic assumed a new name and lifestyle. He was able to hide in plain view for thirty years before making a critical mistake. In his arrogance, he decided to run for election to a local office and gave a local reporter an interview.

Had he stayed below the radar horizon in a safe, innocuous job, he might still be enjoying a good life in Arizona instead of serving time in a federal prison.

Moving to another city and starting over didn't appeal very much to Miles though. He picked up the sandwich he'd been unable to eat earlier and wolfed it down. An appetite he'd not felt for months resurfaced full strength.

The thing was ... he didn't want to be among people at all. People could not to be trusted. What he wanted to do was to disappear. He could do it too. He could walk into the high Rockies, for instance, and simply ... vanish!

The Army had trained him to fight and survive in all types of climate and terrain and he'd learned well. It had been a long time since the training, and a while since he'd practiced the skills he'd learned there, but there were men who had managed to get away into the wild with a lot less.

Eric Rudolph, Miles mused, had fled into the Smoky Mountains after bombing several abortion clinics in the nineties. Hordes of FBI agents and other federal officers searched hard for him, but the closest they ever came to finding him was an abandoned pickup at the end of a logging road deep in the foothills.

Years later, Rudolph came down from the hills and was caught hiding behind a garbage dumpster. The small-town cop who'd taken him into custody was as surprised as Rudolph. The authorities hadn't even been actively looking for the fugitive by then.

There were two lessons there--one, a trained woodsman could evade law enforcement in the wild and, two, you can't relax for any reason. A second sandwich tasted so good Miles went back to the kitchen to make a third. He brewed a pot of coffee.

He could get away! He would!!

The urge swept through him, gaining power and depth. He throttled the passion back a little. This couldn't be a snap decision--too much was at stake. Forcing himself to sit quietly at the table, he sipped his coffee. He was an animal escaping a trap but he was a thinking animal.

Most people believe the original unsettled land in the United States has been overrun by civilization. Actually, forty percent of the nation is still wilderness--as wild as it ever was. That was more than enough territory for his purposes. The rough country was dangerous, and survival out there difficult, but he would have a lot more control over his life than he would in prison.

He shook his head. What the hell? If he died out there, chances were it would be a cleaner and more dignified death than the one he could expect in prison.

The decision was made. He would make his way deep into the mountains and live on the land.

The third sandwich was good, but he was full now. Absentmindedly, he carried the plate to the sink and rinsed it in hot water from the faucet. He freshened his cup of coffee and sat back down at the kitchen table.

There were plans to make now. How to get out of town, how to get to ... Colorado. Yeah, Colorado would be his initial goal. The state was familiar to him. He'd driven out there a number of times for vacations but he'd spoken of the trips only to family members and a very few close friends.

They might or might not remember but they surely wouldn't have those conversations in the forefront of their minds. By the time some detective stumbled on the right question to ask, he would be gone, secure in the vastness of Colorado's mountains.

He got up to pace, coffee cup in hand, and walked around the home he'd be leaving behind. He would have to abandon possessions that had taken a lifetime to accumulate; the house and furniture would be auctioned off to pay the bail bondsman.

Anger flared high again. He'd worked a long time to be able to afford what he had. When he retired from the Army, he'd searched for exactly the right furnishings. He'd put a lot of work into the new home. He suppressed the resentment. He told himself if he escaped into the mountains, he wouldn't have to deal with prosecutors, juries, or prying reporters ever again.

"A fugitive from the law, huh? A fugitive."

He said it aloud. He wanted to hear the words in his ears; he wanted to taste the words on his tongue. He checked out the concept and measured its fit.

He laughed. Actually, it wasn't half bad.

It was a lot better than the alternatives the prison documentary suggested. They would call him 'convict' there, he'd be someone's 'bitch', and eventually ... they'd call him 'dead'.

Running would be taken as proof of his guilt. That troubled him. If he ran, he'd be giving up any chance he had of clearing his name--whatever that meant. Well ... so what? If he were pronounced not guilty today, this very moment, what would change?

He already knew he was innocent but the best he could get from a trial was a verdict of not guilty, and 'not guilty' wasn't the same as 'innocent' in people's minds. Even his brother and sister would never look at him quite the same again. They'd carefully herd their children away from Miles ... just to be sure. His neighbors, his erstwhile friends and acquaintances would be even less understanding.

Deliberately, he let a portion of the anger wash back over him. His facial expression hardened to reflect his thoughts.

Screw other people's opinions. He knew he hadn't hurt that young woman, and that was enough. He turned to the issue of getting out of town quickly and silently.

He had no experience at avoiding law enforcement officers but it occurred to him the first rule was to avoid notice. He'd watched all the "cop" reality shows on TV and observed that most criminals didn't act very smart sometimes. Stealing cars and driving them around at high speeds with broken windows and cracked steering columns was like waving a sign begging to be arrested.

It was an easy resolution to not drive over the speed limit, not drive recklessly, and to not carry any contraband--other than himself, of course. He chuckled at the small joke before he went on.

Rule number two, he decided, was to be where the cops weren't. Avoid high concentrations of people, and you sidestepped much of the law enforcement in the country. Traveling quietly and carefully on poorly patrolled rural roads should take care of the problem.

But ... no ... wait a minute. Perhaps one could go too far in that direction. Maybe the best bet was to not be in too rural a place. If there were fewer people for a lawman to watch, each individual in his sight was given that much more personal attention.