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Inspired by a true story A Technicality by Terry Wright
In the darkened room of a rundown house on the forgotten side of town, forty-one-year-old Jenny Vandenburg lay curled up on a tattered mattress, her body wracked with chronic pain from an old bullet wound. Her wheelchair was parked an arm’s reach away, and in her right hand, she clutched a bottle of pain pills. It had been an agonizing five years since the shooting, and tonight, for the first time, she knew peace would come to her. She shed no tears, as she’d already cried enough: for herself, for her growing sons, and for the stranger whose life she’d tried to save. Back then she was a heroine, a Good Samaritan they’d called her. She was honored by the city’s mayor, showered with praise and financial assistance, and as she convalesced, her optimism and fighting spirit were an inspiration to everyone. However, after countless surgeries, the doctors finally told her they couldn’t fix her spine. They prescribed her an array of pills that did little or nothing to relieve her suffering. The public’s attention soon waned, and she found herself left with the crushing reality of getting through each painful day. Through it all, her sons had grown out of childhood, and now she lay in bed, hardly able to sit up. Today’s news had dealt her the final blow. She’d thrown the newspaper on the floor when she saw the headlines: Burnham Freed. Now despair over her agonizing paralysis and the outcome of the trial made her contemplate the only remedy she had left. She just wanted to get it over with. “Mom, can I have a Hot Pocket?” It was her fifteen-year-old son who’d poked his head in the bedroom door. “Yes, dear,” she said weakly. “Are you all right?” “I don’t want to live anymore.” “You always say that, Mom.” “Where’s your brother?” “Watching TV in his room.” “Go to bed soon, both of you.” “Goodnight, Mom.” He closed the door. “Goodbye,” she whispered to herself. Mostly she feared what would happen to her boys for whom she’d endured all this misery to raise. They were nearly young adults now, forced to mature much too quickly due to the circumstances that arose from that fateful night. If she had it to do all over again, she wondered if she would have turned the other way when those skinheads accosted the black stranger? Right now, she didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t care. The pill bottle came up to her lips, and with a mighty gulp, she took the last medication she’d ever need.
In the afterlife, the light flickered and glowed, an indication to Justin that there was something he needed to know. He sat in his favorite recliner, which the light had supplied him, and set his cowboy hat on his knee. “A hate crime was committed five years ago,” the light said. “Its final victim has just died, and she will come to you, Justice. While you are waiting, I want you to see what happened.” The light parted and showed him a scene from the past in the land of the living. A bus stop appeared on a downtown street corner. It was after two o’clock in the morning, and the area was only lit by a dim streetlamp. A slight-framed black man wearing a baseball cap sat on the bench. “His name is Edmond Day,” the light said. Justin noticed how unassuming the man appeared, almost frail. “He has just finished his shift at the hotel where he works as a bellhop,” the light explained. “He sends his wages to his village in Africa where his wife and three children still live.” Justin nodded in admiration and then noticed a woman approaching the bench. “Her
name is Jenny Vandenburg,” the light said. “She is a single mother
of two fine boys and a nurses’ aide at the hospital nearby. It is a
paycheck-to-paycheck existence for her, but she is determined to make life
better for her family.” “Hello,” she said to the black man, Edmond Day. He tipped the bill of his ball cap, and she sat next to him. Then a commotion down the street quickly drew their attention to two men walking toward the bus stop. Justin’s throat clutched at the sight of them. They wore chain-laced leather vests, camouflaged pants tucked into their combat boots, and black gloves with the fingers cut off. Their heads were shaved, and more alarming, on their arms, they displayed tattoos of swastikas, exploding bombs, and racial atrocities. They’d just left their jobs at a gas station and were headed for the Fourth Reich Bar, a mecca of white supremacists and the Neo Nazi movement. Swapping obscene words and laughing, they bantered back and forth as they approached, but when they spotted the small black man sitting on the bus stop bench, their demeanor suddenly changed. Justin felt the air become charged with tension. “What do we have here?” the larger of the two skinheads said and elbowed his buddy. The shorter skinhead stepped in front of the black man and loomed over him. “Niggers don’t belong downtown,” he growled. “This is white territory.” “Leave him alone,” Jenny said to the skinheads. “Stay out of this, bitch,” the larger man spat. Jenny glared at them both. “I am a peaceful man from Africa,” Edmond Day said in his own defense. “It is good that I see you, yes?” “Ah, shut up!” The larger skinhead grabbed little Edmond Day, punched him, choked him, and then frisked his pockets. In the struggle, the hat fell off his head, and Jenny retrieved it from the ground. “Stop it,” she shouted. She was trying to give the hat back, a clear attempt to distract the skinheads, when the shorter skinhead pulled out a gun and shot Edmond Day four times. “Come on,” the larger skinhead said, holding up a few dollars and a cheap watch. The gunman cast Jenny a menacing glare. “She’s a witness.” “Hurry up and shoot the bitch.” To Justin’s horror, the skinhead shot her, not once but three times, though the last two times he pulled the trigger, the gun was empty. The murderers took off running in opposite directions, and Justin felt a suffocating chill. “Did they get away with it?” he asked the light. “The killer was convicted and sentenced to life in prison,” the light explained. “But this crime is not about him; it is about his cohort, Gary Burnham. He too was convicted and sentenced to life plus forty-eight years, but his lawyers won him a retrial based on a technicality.” “And...?” Justin prodded. “Instead of going to trial again, he copped a plea and got a twelve year sentence. With time served, he is getting out of prison today.” “I don’t understand,” Justin said. “The law specifically states that if a murder occurs during the commission of a felony, all participants are considered equally guilty of the murder.” “But in this case, the District Attorney did not want to put Jenny through another trial.” “Why not?” “She was willing to testify again, mind you, but because of her previous outbursts in court, the DA elected to accept the plea bargain.” “What happened?” “You see,” the light began. “Jenny is a flamboyant and outspoken woman who sometimes made her point with profanity. In the original trial, when Burnham’s defense lawyer attacked her credibility as a witness, she raised a verbal ruckus that some feared might have prevented Burnham from getting a fair trial.” “Is that why he got a new trial?” “No,”
the light said. “The appeals judge did not even consider that argument
because the technicality issue was enough to warrant a new trial.” “What was the technicality?” “The trial judge wrongfully accepted into evidence a video confession made by Burnham’s accomplice to a television station, and though he did not implicate Burnham, it was a video that the defense claimed could have prejudiced the jury to the notion that Burnham was guilty by association.” Justin began to get the picture. “And in the end, he got away with murder.” “Exactly. It was a tremendous blow to Jenny’s crusade to see that justice was served for Edmond Day’s murder.”
“But the shooter was put away for life.”
“Even so, the instigator of the violence was freed. That
injustice and the constant pain of her affliction were more than Jenny could
handle.” The light dimmed. “Here
she is now.”
“I can walk,” Jenny said as she stepped from the light and stood before
Justin. She wore a long white robe and held her palms out, upturned. “There’s no pain. I’m light as a feather.”
Justin stood. “There are no
wheelchairs here, ma’am.”
Her rosy cheeks glowed for a moment, and then as if she came to a sudden
realization, her smile of amazement vanished. “Gary Burnham is back.”
The Greyhound bus squealed to a
stop in a downtown terminal, and as the doors opened with a hiss of air,
passengers began to disembark. Burnham muscled his way down the aisle, pushed a
couple college kids out of the way, and knocked an old lady back into her seat.
“Young man?” As his combat boots hit the blacktop, cool autumn air brushed over his clammy shaved head. Earlier, on the bus, he’d changed into his leather vest and camouflaged pants and tossed his go-to-court clothes out the window. Now he was headed for the Fourth Reich Bar. He’d convinced the parole board he’d abandoned his white supremacist beliefs; all men were created equal, he’d told them. And he’d told them how sorry he was about what happened to Edmond Day. It was all bullshit.
Truth
was, for the last four years, he’d relished the thought of shooting another
nigger. In prison, the black inmates couldn’t get to him because he’d kept a
circle of compatriots around him. His peers looked up to him, thought he was a
hero for the Aryan cause. They’d kept him safe from black retribution, but
working in the prison laundry, he was forced to wash the niggers’ stinking
socks and underwear. It was humiliating, and though he couldn’t do anything
about it then, now he was free, and he would get his revenge; he was going to take back the city for the white people.
The Fourth Reich Bar was busy as usual. Heavy metal music assaulted the air;
bourbon and schnapps flowed freely. A giant swastika hung on the wall behind the
bar, and black and white photos of Nazi storm troopers and the holocaust were
displayed all over the place. Pool balls cracked together, and boisterous cheers
rose. Burnham saw many familiar faces: Spike and Dutch, and the Dayton brothers;
Haskins and his clan were there too. In the war for white supremacy, they’d all
committed so-called hate crimes and never got caught. Then, to Burnham’s delight, he
saw many new
faces, which meant the movement had grown in his absence. Everyone’s heads
were shaved, and they all displayed their racist tattoos proudly. He felt right at home
exchanging knuckle greetings with fellow compatriots, and he was quickly invited
to the bar where a boilermaker awaited him.
“Welcome back,” the bartender said. His name was Mitch, and he was the
baddest son of a bitch in the place. He slid an army issue Colt across the bar,
and Burnham put it under his vest, offered Mitch a salute, and downed the drink.
Pats on the back and high-fives went all around. Two more drinks awaited him,
and another three after that. Before long, the whole room was spinning. He laid
his head on his arms on the bar, closed his eyes, and welcomed the sensation.
About that time, the music suddenly changed to rap, and a sharp pang of anger
stabbed his guts. When he looked up, he froze. There was a black bartender
standing in front of him. Burnham jumped up, staring in total disbelief, his
heart beating hard. The bartender looked like Edmond Day. At first Burnham
figured it was the booze wreaking havoc with his mind, but when the black man
said, “It is good that I see you,
yes?” Burnham knew that something incredible had happened.
“Hey, boys,” Burnham
shouted over the rap music. “We got us a nigger in here.” Cackling, he
looked to his left and couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked right, and panic
swelled inside him. There wasn’t a single white man in sight, just stern black
faces with white-ringed eyeballs. He whipped around only to find more
black brothers gathering. With venomous glares, they were inspecting the tattoos
on his arms: the swastikas, the storm troopers, and the nigger with a noose
around his neck. The rap music was getting louder, and he began to sweat.
“Mitch!”
But Mitch didn’t answer, and Burnham’s anger flared. His compatriots
had betrayed him. Obviously, they’d slipped out of the bar while his head was
down, and the blacks came in to...to what...to get revenge...?
Suddenly, a nauseating smell assailed him, the air wreaking of dirty
socks and piss-stained underwear, but a million times worse than anything he’d
encountered in the prison laundry. He cupped a hand over his mouth and swallowed down
a wave of vomit. Then he spotted the only other white guy in the place,
an old cowboy approaching from a dark corner. At least he looked
as if he might have been white at one time. He wore a bullet riddled long
coat that drizzled dirt and debris, and his face appeared to be more bone than
flesh. Tangled gray hair reached down to his shoulders. As he neared, the stench
grenaded, but for some unknown reason, the blacks paid him no mind. “Who are
you?” Burnham demanded.
The ghoul came within spitting range. “My name is Justin Graves,” he said in
a grating voice. “But you can call me Justice.”
“What do you want?” “I talked to Jenny Vandenburg and Edmond Day.” “That’s not possible,” Burnham replied. “They’re dead.” “I talk to dead people,” Justin said. “Because I’m dead, too.” “You’re just a crazy old man.” “Maybe you think I look like this because it’s fun.” The words hissed through Justin’s exposed molars. Grimacing, Burnham looked the ghoul up and down. “You’re looking really gnarly, man. You should see an undertaker.” “I saw what happened that night; I know you were the instigator of the violence.” “So what? I got away with it, didn’t I?” He glanced at the crowd of black men around him. “Where did all these niggers come from?” “They’re friends of mine,” Justin said. “And they’re not very happy with you right now.” “Screw ’em!” “I’ll make you a deal: denounce your Aryan allegiance, and I’ll assure you safe passage out of this bar.” “I can take care of myself,” Burnham said and slipped his hand under his vest where the Colt was hidden. “Better yet, I’ll help you start a new life,” Justin said, sweetening the pot. “I’ll line you up with a good job where you’ll meet a beautiful woman who’ll love you and give you children." “You can’t do that.”
“I
have the power to do anything.
I’ll even rid you of
those hateful tattoos.”
“You ain’t touching my tattoos, mister. What are you, some kind of nigger
lover?”
Justin simply nodded. “Then you’ll die with the rest of them.” Burnham pulled the Colt and shot Justin first. He staggered backward and clutched his chest. Satisfied, Burnham whipped around and shot the bartender right between the eyes. A feeling of power came over Burnham, and he twisted left, now aiming at a wide-eyed black man sitting on the barstool. The gun banged again and again and again. Black bodies were falling everywhere, and Burnham let out a holler of total elation. But the next time he pulled the trigger, the gun only clicked. Alarmed, he looked up and saw Justin at the front door, waving goodbye.
“JUSTICE!”
The rest of the black men jumped him and beat him unconscious.
Two days passed, and yellow
police tape remained strung across the entrance to The Fourth Reich Bar. On the
corner, the bus stop bench still stood, a stoic reminder of where so many lives
were ruined. Justin sat on the bench between the misty forms of Jenny Vandenburg
and Edmond Day, and he realized there were actually two people murdered that
night; only
Jenny’s death was not as instant as was Edmond’s. Hers had dragged on for five
torturous years.
“Hate is like a disease,” she said to Justin. “It spreads with no
compassion. I’m just glad Burnham is in jail where he belongs.”
Edmond put his arm around her and asked Justin, “Why did this man kill so many
of his friends in that bar?”
Justin shrugged innocently. “The police are baffled. Burnham wasn’t
even drunk when he started shooting everyone. Sometimes hate has no boundaries.”
“But he killed a lot of innocent people, right?”
“Don’t you fret about them none, Mr. Day.”
Justin shook his head.
“They were
all guilty of something.”
Jenny sighed. “Are you sure Burnham won’t get off on a technicality
again?”
“He’ll spend his final days on death row,” Justin assured her. “I’ve always wanted him to pay for what he did,” she replied. “Even though he didn’t pull the trigger that night, he was just as guilty of the crime.” Justin tipped his hat to her. She’d done the most courageous thing anyone could ever do; she’d put herself in harm’s way for a stranger and paid dearly for doing the right thing. With a gust of wind, the ghoul was gone.
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