CROSS EXAMINATION

 

                                                                                                                              "Man On A Tightrope" by Michael J. Clark

 

A Major Work in Progress

 

 by   

 

Michael J. Clark

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mclark7@mindspring.com

 

 

 

 

"Remember, the hero keeps going, and even his ruin

Is only a subterfuge for achieving his final birth..."

                                    Rilke, Duino Elegies

 

 

"You were bred, fed, fostered and fattened from holy childhood up in this two easter island on the piejaw of hillarious heaven and roaring the other place (plunders to night of you, blunders what's left of you, flash as flash can!) and now, forsooth, a nogger among the blankards of this dastard century, you have become of twosome twiminds forenest gods, hidden and discovered, nay, condemned fool, anarch, egoarch, hiresiarch, you have reared your disunited kingdom on  the vacuum of your own most intensely doubtful soul..  Do you hold yourself then for some god in the manger, Shehohem, that you will neither serve nor let serve, pray nor let pray...?"

                                    Joyce, Finnegan's Wake

 

"Allah loves the ink of the scholar more than the blood of the martyr."

                                                            Koran

 

"Faustian architecture, on the contrary, begins on the grand scale simultaneously with the first stirrings of a new piety... and proceeds at once to plans of gigantic intention....  We may say that the Catholic faith is to the Protestant as an altar-piece is to an oratorio.  But even the Germanic gods and heroes are surrounded by this rebuffing immensity and enigmatic gloom.  They are steeped in music and in night; for daylight gives visual bounds, and, therefore, shapes bodily things.  Night eliminates body; day (eliminates) soul.  Apollo and Athene have no souls.  On Olumpus rests the eternal light of the transparent southern day; and Apollo's hour is high noon, when great Pan sleeps.  But Valhalla is lightless; and even in the Eddas we can trace that deep midnight of Faust's study-broodings, the midnight that is caught by Rembrandt's etchings and absorbs Beethoven's tone-colors.  No Wotan or Baldur or Freya has 'Euclydian' form."

                        Spengler, Decline of the West

 

 

DEDICATED TO MY WIFE, HOA-LAN TRAN, WHO HAS WALKED WITH ME EVERY STEP OF THIS NOVEL.  WE HAVE CREATED OUR NEW DREAM LANGUAGE TOGETHER AS BEST FRIENDS.

CROSS EXAMINATION

 

 

PART ONE

 

I.

 

ÒState your name and age for the record.Ó

    ÒMichael Crossmann.  I am forty-eight years old. Ò

    ÒAnd where do you live? Ò

    Ò111 Onyx Alley. Ò

    ÒIn Eugene? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒAnd what do you do for a living, Mister Crossmann? Ò

    ÒI teach English at Southwest Eugene High School. Ò

    ÒDo you remember the events of March 14, 1999? Ò

    ÒYes.  At least, I remember....what I remember.  I remember some events... Ò

    ÒOf course, we would not expect you to remember what you do not remember.  Can you describe for us what you were doing at 11:00 AM on March 14, 1999? Ò

    ÒAt 11:00 AM, my freshman English course had just ended and I was walking toward the Faculty Lounge on the Second Floor. Ò

    ÒWas that when you heard gunshots? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒSo where we you at the time you heard the first gunshot? Ò

    ÒI was at the north end of the building, going down the staircase from the third to the second floor. Ò

    ÒYou were at the top of the staircase, or in the middle...? Ò

    ÒIn the middle. Ò

    ÒYou were descending the stairs? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒAnd you heard a gunshot...?Ò

    ÒI heard what sounded like a pop.  It was followed by another.  Then a series of pops.  My first thought was that they were firecrackers.  But then I knew they were gunshots.  I heard students shouting and I saw them running down the hall. Ò

    ÒThis was when you got down to the second floor? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒWhat happened then? Ò

    ÒWhen I reached the second floor I saw students running past me to the north staircase, trying to get out of the building....running down the staircase to the first floor and the exits. Ò

    ÒAnd what did you do? Ò

    ÒI thought some of the students might need my help.  I looked up the hallway and I saw maybe seven to ten students in the hallway.  Some were lying in the hallway, some were sitting.  Some were crying out for help.  I recognized some of the students.  I saw Alison Benjamin, who had just left my class.  And I recognized Tom Bittman, Avery Noles, Lotte Schulz, the exchange student from Germany.... Ò

    ÒAnd they all had been shot? Ò

    ÒYes; well, they all were lying or sitting in the hallway.  But it all seemed unreal somehow.  I almost thought that I could fix everything just by going up to them and touching them.  It really hadn't sunk in yet what was happening, how real everything was. Ò

    ÒYou didn't see the shooters apparently. Ò

    ÒNo; not at that point.  There was some smoke hanging in the air; it smelled like a fireworks display in the hallway.  But I didn't see anyone menacing.  So I went up the hall and stopped next to Alison Benjamin, who was the first person I had seen lying on the floor.  And I noticed that Great Expectations  --the book --  was lying about three feet from her.  It was the book we had been discussing ten minutes earlier.  I couldn't believe what was happening.  When I reached her, she looked so small and so frightened.  She was having trouble talking, because she had been shot in the chest and blood was coming up in her mouth, little bubbles of blood in her mouth. Ò

    ÒDid she say anything to you? Ò

    ÒYes.  She said: 'I don't think I'm going to be able to get my paper in this afternoon.  I may need an extra day.'  She was apologizing for not being able to keep to her schedule.  She was in shock, obviously.  I took off my suit coat and tried to wrap her in it.  But it hurt her too much to move her--she scream a muffled sort of cry, like a puppy when you slam its tail in the screen door: a sharp little cry that seems to wonder why you were trying to hurt it.  I didn't move her after that, because I could tell that it only hurt her more.Ò

    ÒWhat did you do then? Ò

    ÒI turned to look up the hallway, at the other wounded students.  It was clear to me at that point what was happening.  The dream quality was gone.  And it had become a very real nightmare. Ò

    ÒThen what happened? Ò

    ÒThat was when I saw Charles Carson—ÒKitÓ Carson, by nickname--coming out of room 217 with a rifle.  He had this look of supreme satisfaction on his face.  He was re-loading.  I realized at that point that many other children in room 217 had been hurt, that I was only seeing a fragment of the damage.  I was aware also, at that point, that there were other gunmen--because I heard gunshots beyond the opposite end of the hallway, at the south end of the building. Ò

    ÒAnd what did Kit Carson do at that point? Ò

    ÒHe said--in a very deep, what I thought was a demonic, voice--'What's up, Doc?'  And I said: 'Kit, why are you doing this?' And he said: 'All things die.  All things die.  That's things, Doc.'Ò

    ÒAnd what did you do? Ò

    ÒHe looked me in the eye and said: 'You'd better run, Doc.  Because you're next.'  And I tried to run.  I was on both knees next to Alison; but I jumped up and I tried to run.  And I slipped in Alison's blood; I actually lost my footing.  And, as I was falling, I felt Kit shoot me in the right shoulder.  It was like being hit with a hammer or a baseball bat.  And I remember being thrown forward on my face.  I remember my glasses coming off my face and I remember seeing them break as they slammed up against the wall.  And then I heard the gun go off.  It was a small roar really.  It sounded like a .22 caliber rifle -- I remembered that was what I thought.  The next thing I knew I was turning myself over and pushing myself up against the wall.  I was vaguely aware that my shirt had blood on it.  And that my right arm felt numb; and it was hanging limp at my  side.  I worried that I had fallen on it and that I had broken it--although there was no pain at the time. Ò

    ÒThen what happened? Ò

    ÒI pushed myself up against the wall.  I didn't have my glasses.  But I could tell, in a kind of blurred outline, that Kit was standing over Alison with his rifle extended; Alison was pleading for her life in a very low voice, blood thick in her words.  Kit laughed a bit; then he pulled the trigger.  That was the end of Alison.  I saw her head explode; and bits of her skull and her brain flew up into my face. Ò

    ÒWhat did Kit do? Ò

    ÒHe laughed.  He said: 'Did you see her brain explode?'  I said nothing.  I was in shock at that point--like I was out of my body, expecting to die. Ò

    ÒWhat happened then? Ò

    ÒKit raised the rifle to kill me.  He was holding the rifle by one arm, extended out.  He pulled the trigger.  The bullet somehow missed me.  It hit the concrete wall right next to me; the chipped concrete flew out and hit me in the side of the face. Ò

    ÒWhat did you do? Ò

    ÒI fell over; fear came rushing in to me and I must have passed out. Ò

 

ÒWhat do you remember after that? Ò

    ÒI awoke some time after all that.  Kit was gone.  There was smoke still hanging in the air, the smell of sulfur.  I thought about leaving the building, about slipping down the stairs out the building.  I had pain in my shoulder, but it didn't seem significant.  In fact, the wound didn't seemed serious.  There was very little blood. Ò

    ÒWhat came next? Ò

    ÒI picked up my glasses.  They were broken: one of the lenses was gone, the left lens.  I put on the glasses; and I could see through the right lens.  I looked for the other lens. It was plastic, so I knew it wouldn't break, but I couldn't find it. Ò

    ÒWhat then? Ò

    ÒI looked at Alison.  But she was gone.  I remember picking up my suit coat; it was all covered with blood.  I put it on anyway.  It seemed like the right thing to do.  Then I walked down the hallway toward the other bodies.  There was no noise in the hallway anymore.  So my assumption was that Kit had gone back down the hall executing everyone as he went.  This was a thought only; I obviously didn't know that this was the case. Ò

    ÒI went into room 217.  That was the room Kit had come out of, just before he shot me.  There were at least seven dead kids there; and Mrs. Moriarty, who taught Romance Languages.  She had a bullet through her forehead, a small prick, with powder burns.  Her eyes were wide open in terror. Ò

    ÒDid you count the bodies in the room? Ò

    ÒNo.  I just looked.  I didn't even know who they were.  With all the blood,  it was hard to recognize people.  I was terrified actually, seeing all this.  I stopped to look at Mrs. Moriarty, because we were friends.  I also felt a strange kinship for her because I could have easily been in the same situation that she was in, except for some fluke of fortune. Ò

    ÒYou knew Charles Carson didn't you, Mr. Crossmann? Ò

    ÒYes, I did. Ò

    ÒHe was in your freshman English class last year, was he not? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒCan you describe your relationship with the boy? Ò

    ÒWe were...friendly.  He was an interesting young man.  He had interesting ideas.  And he took care with his writing.  He was obviously intelligent; and he seemed to have some gift for poetry.  He understood poetry better than any other student in that class.  I'd say we had a fairly good relationship. Ò

    ÒBetter than some of the other teachers had with Kit? Ò

    ÒI don't know.  Nobody really talked with me about their relationship with Kit until after the shooting.  He was not a problem student really.  He was part of the...what I might call the 'intellectual group' in the school.  He played chess; he studied German; he read philosophy.  He considered himself an intellectual, someone on the fringe of the high school society. Ò

    ÒA nerd then? Ò

    ÒNo.  Not a nerd.  The nerds are a different breed.  The nerds tend to be very good at math, with little social skills, few friends.  They tend to be masters of computing.  The intellectual group was more arrogant about their knowledge.  They looked down at everyone else--in a kind of defensive way.  They looked down at the jocks, and the popular people; but they were envious too.  They would have liked to be in the top sphere of students, the beautiful people, whose lives seemed more glamorous and adventurous.  They looked down on the jocks; but they also looked down on the nerds. Ò

    ÒThey were elitists? Ò

    ÒYes, elitists with a complex--one side of the brain told them that they were the elite, but the other side of the brain didn't believe it. Ò

    ÒWas Charles Carson a....psychopath in your English class... Ò

    ÒI object, your honor, Ò Ted Clause intervenes.

    ÒSustained.  Mr. Devlin, would you please refrain from asking an English teacher for a psychological judgment.... Ò

    ÒYes, your honor. Ò

    ÒAnd please don't lead the witness.  He is capable of telling us what his perceptions of the boy were without your putting words in his mouth.... Ò

    ÒYes, your honor.  Mr. Crossmann, did you have any sense, in your sophomore English class last year, that Charles Carson might become....dangerous to society? Ò

    ÒNo, not really.  No.  I thought he was fairly well developed socially.  He had friends.  He could express himself.  He did not seem overwrought or repressed.... Ò

    ÒWhen did you first learn that he was, with his friends, an admirer of Adolph Hitler? Ò

    ÒI don't think I learned that until after the shooting--and the aftermath of the shooting.... Ò

    ÒDid that surprise you? Ò

    ÒYes, yes, it did.  I knew that he admired German culture: classical music, the writings of Nietzsche and Goethe, German cinema.  But I didn't connect that with Nazism.... Ò

    ÒBut didn't his respect for the Nazis come out during his trial, Mr. Crossmann?  The first trial, I mean?  The trial at the high school...? Ò

    ÒOh, yes.  Yes.  My memory of much of that is....very distant to me. Ò

    ÒThat's fortunate for you, I guess. Ò

    ÒI object, your honor, ÒTed Clause comes in again. ÒThose little snipes are not necessary... Ò

    ÒYes, I agree with you, Mr. Clause.  Mr. Devlin, please do not snipe at the witness.  It is not necessary.Ò

    ÒI'm sorry, your honor.  Mr. Crossmann--wasn't the issue of Charles Carson and his two accomplices, Dieter Richards and Tommy Kuntz--wasn't the issue of their attachment to the Nazis of prime importance at the trial in the high school, the mob trial, of which you were....what shall we call it, Head Inquisitor...? Ò

    ÒI object, your honor. Ò

    ÒSustained.  Mr. Devlin, we know how you feel about the... Ò      

    ÒI apologize, your honor.  I withdraw my question. Ò

    ÒI think this is a good time for us to take a lunch break.  We'll adjourn for an hour and a half.  Let's be back at 1:30 to continue.Ò

 

II.

 

ÒMr. Crossmann, you are of German descent, aren't you? Ò

    ÒYes, I am. Ò

    ÒSecond generation? Ò

    ÒYes.  My father came to America in 1939. Ò

    ÒDuring the Nazi rule in Germany? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒWas your family persecuted by the Nazis? Ò

    ÒNot like some.  We were Germans, not Jews. Ò

    ÒYes.  But wasn't your father a communist...? Ò

    ÒI object your honor. Ò

    ÒWhat is it Mr. Clause? Ò

    ÒMr. Devlin is using that word to attempt to prejudice the jury against the defendant.  We all know Americans have a strong distaste for communism...? Ò

    ÒNo, I don't see how Mr. Devlin can make his point without using the word, Mr. Clause.  I think our jury is more sophisticated than that.  I think they will understand that Mr. Crossmann's father's politics won't shadow their view of his son.  Continue, Mr. Devlin. Ò

    ÒWasn't your father a communist, Mr. Crossmann. Ò

    ÒYes.  He was. Ò

    ÒAnd the communists weren't treated very well by the Nazis, were they? Ò

    ÒNo, they weren't. Ò

    ÒSo, why did your father come to America instead of go to Russia--since he admired communism so much? Ò

    ÒMy father was a writer, an artist really.  He had leanings toward communism.  He did call himself a communist.  But that was in the purest sense.  He had visited Russia. He didn't like the totalitarian state in Russia.  My father loved freedom even more than he loved any political system.... Ò

    ÒDid your father hate the Nazis? Ò

    ÒYes.  My father did; my mother did.... Ò

    ÒAnd did you? Ò

    ÒYes.  Yes, I did.  Not from any direct, personal experience.  But as I grew up in America I studied the atrocities committed by the Nazis and I came to hate them.... Ò

    ÒThey were the personification of evil, do you agree with that judgment, Mr. Crossmann? Ò

    ÒYes.  I do. Ò

 

ÒLet's go back to the day of the shooting, Mr. Crossmann.  We last heard that you were walking down the hallway, perhaps, what, twenty minutes or so from when you yourself were shot...? Ò

    ÒI don't know the time.  I don't know how long I passed out... Ò

    ÒWell, the police entered the building at approximately 11:24, through the north doors.  They came up to the second floor and found the bodies of the people you've mentioned at that time.  But you were not there.  In fact, you never did see a policeman during that day--isn't that right -- before you went down into the basement, that is? Ò

    ÒI don't believe I did. Ò

    ÒSo between 11:00, when the shooting started, and say 11:04 when you were hit, you may have been out maybe 10, maybe 15 minutes--does that seem possible? Ò

    ÒYes.  It is possible. Ò

    ÒThen you went into the Romance Languages classroom, surveyed the damage, the death of Mrs. Moriarty, which had a quite striking effect on you, which you have described--then what happened...? Ò

    ÒI walked up the hallway, looking at the bodies lying on the floor... Ò

    ÒYou had not instinct to run out of the building...? Ò

    ÒI don't know.  It felt like the danger had passed.  I didn't hear any more gunfire. Ò

    ÒGo on. Ò

    ÒThen I heard the voice of Thomas Henrickson.  He was standing at the end of the hallway. Ò

    ÒWhat did he say? Ò

    ÒHe called out: 'Mr. Crossmann.  We've caught them.  We're holding them down in the Boiler Room.'Ò

    ÒWhat was your response to this? Ò

    ÒI don't remember.  I was in shock, I suppose.  He told me to come with him.  He and I hurried down the hallway together.  He was trying to tell me how a group of students had jumped Dieter Richards when he was re-loading.  They had wrestled the rifle away from him.  They found a gun in his coat pocket.  All three were wearing long black trench coats, mimicking the students who shot up the high school in Littleton, Colorado.  They then got Tommy Kuntz to throw down his gun after a shoot-out in which Kuntz was hit in the wrist and the leg.  They captured Kit Carson coming down from the second floor.  He was out of bullets.  They caught him coming down to the first floor looking for his friends. Ò

    ÒSo, you went down into the basement with Thomas Henrickson.  Did Thomas tell you what was being done with the captives down in the basement...? Ò

    ÒNo.  I said: 'Well, if you have them, call in the police.'  And he said: 'We need to talk about this.  John Preston is leading us.  We need to talk about this.... Ò

    ÒDid that surprise you? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒIt did? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒHadn't you, in fact, Mr. Crossmann, been an outspoken critic of our legal system if your classes?  Hadn't you been lecturing about the breakdown of the American legal system--wasn't that a pet peeve of yours...? Ò

    ÒI wouldn't call it a pet peeve.  I think there was clearly more to it than a peeve. Ò

    ÒDidn't you impress upon your students your belief that the American civilization would disintegrate if the justice system didn't return to a more ÔfundamentalÕ level of searching for justice, rather than....rather than what, Mr. Crossmann...? Ò

    ÒI believe that the justice system has become a game in which lawyers and judges play with technicalities as if the trial were nothing more than an intellectual chess match.  They have lost their focus on what the law is meant to be, which is a search for justice.... Ò

    ÒYou believe--and you preached to your students--that the legal system was now out of balance, with the weight being on the side of criminals.  Is that an accurate portrayal of your belief...? Ò

    ÒYes.  I believe that our tolerance of criminal activity threatens the survival of our society....?Ò

    ÒAnd you preached -- perhaps preached is too strong a word -- you made your students aware of your view, and you encouraged them to think about it...  Is that a fair thing to say...? Ò

    ÒYes. Ò

    ÒNot that many of us wouldn't agree with that position, Mr. Crossmann.  Many of us in the legal profession also believe this has happened.  You are a very popular teacher, aren't you, Mr. Crossmann? Ò

    ÒWell, I don't know how to answer that... Ò

    ÒOh, come now, don't be shy about it.  You have won Teacher of the Year awards three of the last five years.  You have been voted Most Popular Teacher four years in a row by graduating seniors.  You are a very influential man in the lives of your students--isn't that fair to say...? Ò

    ÒI object, your honor, ÒTed Clause interrupts. ÒMr. Devlin is asking Mr. Crossmann to answer what he cannot hope to really know.... Ò

    ÒYes, I agree, Mr. Clause.  Re-phrase your question, Mr. Devlin. Ò

    ÒVery well.  Do you believe, Mr. Crossmann, that your ideas, not just those about the law, but many of your ideas, have had a strong influence on your students and on the behavior of your students over the years...? Ò

    ÒWell, that is the goal of teaching. Ò

    ÒYour answer is ÔyesÕ then? Ò

    ÒMy answer is that I hope that I have had a strong influence on them.  That is the hope of every teacher.  My job is to have a strong influence on them... Ò

 

ÒPlease describe to us what you saw in the Boiler Room. Ò

    ÒI saw a mad house.  The room was packed with screaming students.  Some of them were wounded.  Some covered with blood; I wasn't sure whose blood.  There must have been 30 students in the room.  There were several teachers also: Rebecca Reed, the Home Economics instructor; Florence Crane, who teaches math; Bill Blake, the Social Sciences teacher was there; and Milt Marker, who is the track coach. Ò

    ÒAnd the shooters? Ò

    ÒThe shooters were there, tied up with what looked like electrical cable or something, something with a white plastic covering. Ò

    ÒHow did they look? Ò

    ÒThey looked small and frightened? Ò

    ÒNot arrogant any longer? Ò

    ÒNo.  Tommy Kuntz was crying.  All three had been beaten.  Kit Carson was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. Ò

    ÒDid you know who had delivered the beating? Ò

    ÒNo.  I didn't ask.  I assumed it had been the students.  The students were angry. They had just seen many of their friends murdered. Ò

    ÒWho was the leader of the mob? Ò

    ÒI'm not sure who the leader really was.... Ò

    ÒWasn't it John Preston -- isn't that what Thomas Henrickson told you?  You have testified... Ò

    ÒYes, that's what he said.  John was one of the leaders.  But David McCulloch was there, also leading.  And Jack Argyle.  And Britton Chapman.... Ò

    ÒThose are all former students of yours, aren't they? Ò

    ÒWell, I teach almost all the students in the school at some point in their education at Southwest. Ò

    ÒWas that a yes or a no? Ò

    ÒIt was a yes. Ò

    ÒYou knew all these students; and you liked them -- is that right? Ò

    ÒYes.  I still do like them.  There's no reason to put this in the past tense... Ò

    ÒAnd they respected you, didn't they, Mr. Crossmann? Ò

    ÒYou'd have to ask them about that. Ò

    ÒAnd we have, Mr. Crossmann.  And they have all said that they respected you a great deal, and trusted your judgment more than any other adult in their lives... Ò

 

Time is everything.  Then Time is nothing.  A long dark space, leading out of an existence.  A long hallway.  Broken things, lives, memories, congealing like blood -- a janitor's nightmare.  Tears -- where are they?  You should be crying tears for the broken lives, the soft incarnations, brittle little birds, all glossy on the surface, now turned into ash.  Ash.  Wednesday.  Parched.  Feeling parched.  Hubris being nothing.  Blood on my right hand.  Amounting to nothing.  Picking flecks of concrete out of my cheek.  Bits of brain in my beard.  A girl's brain.  A fifteen year old girl who had never been loved by a boy, a girl who was gifted at the piano, killed by a boy she had seen passing in the hallway several times, a boy of no consequence, a boy who did not play the piano.  Taking delight in driving a missile into her brain, for the sake of what...of experiential knowing?  Teenage rebellion?  Holden Caulfield?  L'Etranger?  Untold tales and fears of being a failure, a nothing, a wimp, a cipher, a frightened little cat in a house of dogs, moving about like Death itself now, empowered by the oracle of disease, in his black trench coat, his trench mouth, his trench mentality.  A member of the first war now, all coiled in gas and deprived of the light looking on day the next, day the eternal, day the unlimited.  Passing out of the frame, a time at a time.  Passing out of time, a frame at a frame.  Satan's puppy.  Satan's armored conception, built by dark viscera.

    Time.  Eleven twelve.  The foot in paralysis.  Horror.  Growing in the distance.  Looking for glasses.  Glasses that talk.  Glasses that can count: eleven plus twelve equals...thirteen.  Time slowed.  The frail girl: a bullet bumped into her brain, a kind of sexual conquest of a small boy armed with a massive phallic treasury.  All pretending.  Pretending at something.  Computer games.  Something.  A fantasy gone haywire.  Keanu Reeves.  Gone haywire.  Bilious thought.  Unthought.  Antic nature, turning on a point, calculated for a final archive.

    Little child, broken bird.  Savager times, savager history clotting in your hair.  Bricks of thought, congealing in your throat.  Your sister in the new clothes your mother bought at the Bon on Saturday.  In your room talking about Billy de Wolf, Bobby de Sorrow, Briscoe de Brief, Bilbao de Bobbysocker....love on a lip and flying in the heart like a crazed hummingbird.  Nothing wrong.  Nothing can be wrong when you are fifteen, and a girl, and feeling the cramps of love stirring in the soul, love for everything, for trees, for the wind, for diamonds, for the hem in a skirt.  Love being not an emotion, not a thing that happens to you.  But a person, a friend, an instinct that enters you and becomes you, making you light.  Wiped away like a stain.  One life wiped away like a stain.  By a boy in a black overcoat believing that being nothing is a sin and being something is an even greater exaggeration.

    I don't think I'm going to be able to get my paper in this afternoon.  I may need an extra day.  She said.  An extra day.  Like we all had an extra day.  When the devil was in the house.  When the devil was in your shoes, in your nightgown, fingering your mango.  Pop.  Goes the Weasel.  Pop.  Forward and Backward.  Pop.  Goes the Lesaew.  Everything down.  And nothing moving.

    No one having an extra day.  When the weasel is in the house.  Popping.  Going.  The Weasel.  Weaseling.  Winding.  Like Yeats' grimy falcon.  Unhearing.  Manifesterer of grief.  Only.

 

The door is open.  Eleven fourteen.  Someone might need to know this.  The smell is here too.  The chemistry lab smell.  Bodies opened: gas escaping.  Heritage of what?  Heritage of greed or lawlessness or isolation or consumptive rage?  Coming from where?  If it is in him, then it must be in me too, somewhere, buried, ghosts hidden in a closet, a tempest patterned on a silence.  Evil is a consumer of innocent things.  We all have it.  We all are contained by it.  But some of us are consumed by it.

    Bill Ravensburg.   Lying up against the wall, still holding a piece of chalk, like a club, trying to protect himself with a piece of chalk.  And Tami Tuttle.  Blake Tuttle's youngest girl.  A spelling champion.  Blake's little girl.  And Emily Crane.  And Lucy Rich.  Collins Rowe.  A smartass young boy who got A's in math and emulated Martin Short.  He had one of the leads in Our Town last year.  Dead.  Two wounds visible.  One in the throat.  Another in the temple.  His tongue hanging out.  His eyes wide open and bellowing for someone to help him.  His mother.  Killed by nothing, by a cipher, at the end of a canon.

    Eleven something.  Poor Alison.  Poor Alison.  They made a movie of Great Expectations and I watched it last Saturday with my dad and my sister.  My mom was at her ceramics class.  Gwenneth Paltrow was in it.  She's very pretty.  Don't you think she's very pretty, Mr. Crossmann?  Yes.  Yes, she is very pretty.  Alison.  As sweet as a berry.  Alison.  With great expectations.   Alison.  Yes.  Very pretty.

    Then he saw Mrs. Moriarty.  Helen.  One shot in the chest, the right breast.  Wearing a white dress with flowers.  Blue flowers.  Irises.  Something.  She had been lying down, her head against the wall, under the blackboard in front of the class.  Then he held out the rifle with one hand and put the muzzle point against here forehead.  Firing.  Laughing.  Knocking life right out of her, like he had swatted a fly.  Powder burns on her font--like Ash Wednesday.  A cross.  A smudge.  Cross examination.  A failing grade.  Now alone.

    Helen had taken Mr. Crossmann aside in his first year at Southwest and explained to him that there were certain people on the staff it would pay for him to avoid as they could not be trusted; they were political animals, she said.  She named names.  Meredith Rose; Thomas Stemple; Alex Venne; Elizabeth Cross.  She said: You need to be patient with other people sometimes.  You see things very clearly.  You want things to be a certain way.  Remember, not everyone sees what you see.  You need to convert them slowly.  They will eventually see what you see.  They will eventually follow your lead....

    Now she was dead.  She was a spinster.  She took care of her mother, who was eighty something, bed-ridden.  Who would explain to her that she would need to bury her daughter and her only friend?  Who would take care of Helen's mother now?

    For a second, Crossmann had the thought that he would, he would take her in to his house, as a way of honoring Helen, his mentor.  A crazy thought.  Selfishness gone.  In a moment of terror.  His senses obviously gone.  No restraints on his ability to do good.

 

It didn't end there.  Eleven eighteen.  Blood on his feet.  Making tracks up the hall.  Collecting more blood as he passes one corpse, then another.

    Tom Bittman.  Avery Noles.  Best friends.  Always together.

    Lotte Schulz, the German girl, the beautiful German girl, the girl Crossmann had thoughts about.  Seductive nature; innocent seduction.  The accent.  The bare legs under her skirt.  So mannered and well proportioned.  Now nothing.  A body.  An empty presence.  Her face bruised.  Another inconsequence.  Raped by a bullet, a bully inside a baby's frightened body.  Letting out steam.

    He thought about carrying them all out into the light.  His own arm was numb.  He tried to raise his right arm.  It came up slowly, but he could not feel it.  Not much pain.  There was no more shooting.  He wondered if it was safe.  The main doors to the school were around the corner.  Maybe Kit was gone.  Kit and his accomplice.

    He thought he heard a siren.  He wasn't sure.  It was so quiet that many sounds started to bang up against his brain, apparitions, stolen phantoms, perhaps thoughts of the dead still hanging in the hallway, screams, terrors, hopes, the siren being a hope, the acid laughter of Kit Carson being a fear, a memory, the finger on the trigger.  One more time.

 

A voice.  BANG!  MR. CROSSMANN!  It meant nothing.  Another phantom.  MR. CROSSMANN!   Coming on again like a black light.

    Thomas Henrickson.  A basketball player.  A good student.  A combination of fear and exultation on his face.

    Are you hurt?

    What?

    Are you hurt?  You are bleeding.

    I don't know.  I think I'm ok.

    Are they still here?

    We caught them.

    What?

    We caught them.  John Preston and his brother rushed Dieter Richards when he was re-loading.  They took his guns away.  They beat the holy hell out of him.  Then they.  Then they....his voice faltered.  He started to cry.

    Crossmann tried to put his arm around the boy, but his arm wasn't working.  A limp messenger.

    Have the police come? Crossmann asked.

    No, not yet.  No one knows where they are.

    What about Kit?  Did he get away?

    No, we caught all three of them.  They're down in the Boiler Room now.  John and David McCulloch and Jack Argyle think we should kill them.  Execute them.

    What?

    Yes.  A lot of people think we should execute them.

    Let's get down there.  Were there two only--two...killers?

    No, three.  Tommy Kuntz was the third.

    God, Tommy Kuntz.  He lived down the street from Crossmann.  His dad was a librarian with the city.  His mom was an organist in the Lutheran Church.

    More bodies as we passed.  Children crying.  Near the front door.  The parking lot full of children.  Blood-covered.  Children carrying bodies into the light.  Getting them outside. 

    I looked out the front door long enough to see two ambulances turning up over the curb and on to the grass near the front door.  The ambulances had beaten the police to the school.

    Then we went down the stairs to the basement, up the dark hallway to the Boiler Room door.  It was locked.

    Thomas hammered on the door with the butt-end of a steel club he was holding.

    Who is it?  The voice was also made of steel, cold and gray.

    It's T H, with Mr. Crossmann.

    The door opened.  There was some light inside--but many bodies packed together.  The door was closed behind us.  And Ted Lawson dropped a heavy steel plank back into place, locking the door.  He said: No one gets in or out until we finish this!

 

Inside the vault were at least 30 people, all surrounding three young boys who were tied up with thick electrical wiring.  Shouting, everyone was shouting. 

    We've got to take them to the police, an older voice was shouting. 

    We demand justice now! a younger voice replied.  This is against the law.  What they did was against the law.  They should be required to answer for their actions.  We know what the lawyers will do.  They will plead insanity and the judge will let them go.  It is all fixed.  They'll get off somehow.  On some technicality.

 

A tempest in the tiny tendencies of man.  And women.  Opening up something, some craving, some blood condition.  Menstrual calculation.  Men bleeding in; women bleeding out.  Everyone bleeding in the blood zone, the craving to sacrifice something.  Meaningful.

    I am weary from rolling this rock up this hill, he thought.  Meaningful man that he was.  The one that could not stop, the one the gods wouldn't allow to stop.  Because he kept the world from dying.  That was it.  That was it.  Keeping the world from dying.

 

John Preston was standing above the crowd on a long bench.

    These three killed our friends, he said.  We are not going to turn them over to the police.  We saw what happened with the Springfield kid.  They let him go because someone taped a conversation he had with his minister.  They let him go.  Even though there were 100 witnesses that eyeballed him as the killer.

    The law doesn't work anymore, Jack Argyle added.  That's why we're having all these shootings in school.  Because no one is doing anything about it.  We have to put a stop to it.  And there's only one way to put a stop to it.  Frontier justice!  If we're living on the frontier, then at least let us respond like we are.

    Bill Blake called out: This is crazy, John.  This makes you no better than them.

    And John Preston replied: That's bullshit, Mr. Blake.  We are under siege because the scum have been given a license to kill.  Mr. Crossmann tells us about growing up in America and not ever locking his door or his car or anything.  And in one generation we've gone from that to having to lock up everything.  One in three people will be mugged or robbed in their lifetime.  We have to do something.  We have to stop it.  It has to end somewhere.

    It is time for me to say something.

    Everything seems like a dream to me; it is hot in here; stuffy.  I feel like throwing up.

    MR. CROSSMANN!  MR. CROSSMANN!

    Everything is getting gray.  Then there is a trumpet.

 

III.

 

"Mr. Crossmann -- I trust you slept well...?"

    "Yes."

    "Yesterday we had begun to discuss your influence on the students at Southwest High School.  John Preston, the leader of the group of students that...."

    "Your honor," Ted Clause comes in.  "I would hope Mr. Devlin to be careful what words he chooses to represent this action.   He has used the word 'murder' in the past and I am fearful he may try to use it again.  Clearly, whether this was a murder, as Mr. Devlin likes to assert, is what this trial is supposed to determine...."

    "Mr. Clause, I believe you will need to allow Mr. Devlin the right to choose his own words.  If he chooses the wrong words, as we all hope he won't at this point, after being corrected several times already, then you can object.  We can't be censoring the prosecutor's words even before he utters them, now can we...?"

    "Thank you, your honor," Prosecutor Devlin responds.  "John Preston, one of the students who was involved in the retribution against the three students, one of the leaders of these vengeance-bound students, has said that your ideas were the biggest influence on the 'proceedings' in the boiler room that day.  And that you, yourself, being chosen as to serve as the judge of the trial of the three boys, you were probably the most powerful voice in the boiler room that day.  Do you think that is fair...?"

    "Fair.  I can't really speak about the first part.  Clearly I had spoken out for a swifter, clearer judicial process in my classes at Southwest.  And these ideas were certainly potent ideas, in the minds of the students in the boiler room.  I'm not sure if they were the 'biggest influence'.  I believe the biggest influence was the psychological impact of the shootings themselves.  These students had just been shot in some cases; or had just seen their best friends or their family members shot.  I think that was the biggest influence, the experience itself.  Retribution was in the air also, Mr.  Devlin; and it was at least as strong an emotion as was the idea of justice.  As far as my being the judge of the trial of the three boys -- yes, I believe I was in a position of power that day, certainly one of the most powerful.  Along with John himself, who acted as the prosecutor...."

    "You are an instructor of literature, Mr. Crossmann.  I was going to say a student of literature..."

    "Yes, I am also a student of literature.  I will always be a student of literature..."

    "In thinking about all this, I am reminded of the classic novel Lord of the Flies.  Is that what it was like in that boiler room?  Did the students become wild, primitive creatures that day?  Did everyone in that room harken back to some primitive, tribal-like existence...?"

    "I object, your honor," Ted Clause interjects.  "This is outrageous.  Mr. Crossmann cannot hope to comment on the psychological experiences of some thirty children...."

    "Your honor, I am not asking Mr. Crossmann to make a clinical judgment.  Rather I am asking him to make an observation -- to make a statement about his own perceptions...."

    "I don't think he needs to answer that question, Mr. Devlin.  I don't think it gets us any closer to the truth of what happened.  I'm not sure all the members of the jury have read the book.  You would really need to introduce the novel as evidence..."

    "Yes, I'm sorry, your honor.  Could I just re-phrase the question, dropping the literary allusion?"

    "Yes.  You can try to, Mr. Devlin.  But be careful how you phrase it."

    "Mr. Crossmann, I would like you to give me a sense of your perceptions about that day.  Did you get any sense that some of the students, and perhaps the teachers too, perhaps yourself, had slipped into a more primordial nature that day, a more primitive form of consciousness...?"

    "Your honor...?" Ted Clause objects.

    "I will allow it.  Answer the question, Mr. Crossmann."

    "Yes, I did have that sense.  It was a nightmare.  People had just been shot, and been shot at.  People were bleeding.  There was blood everywhere.  Nothing was civilized about that day.  Civilization had vanished.  We had just come through a war...."

    "And you wanted revenge...!"

    "Your honor...!"

    "Some people did...!" Crossmann responds.

    "Your honor...!"

    "The witness has answered the question, Mr. Clause."

 

Yes, a war.  Congratulatory eve.  Bitter to the tongue, the congratulations.  Concerning no one.  The heat all infective and the savage hand moving over the faces of the throng.

    The boiler room is a kind of hell, much too hot, heat and steam spilling out and hissing like a demon in love with death, eager for blood.  Shirts wet with sweat.  Water dripping on flesh.

    You know it.

    What?

    You know what they want.

    I want it too.

    You know it is not right.

    Damned conscience.  What do you know?  You are not mortal.  You cannot be touched.  Your highest ambition is martyrdom.  What does it matter to you if they run amuck, killers, bringing terror on the community?  You cannot lose.  You gain when death is potent.

    Yes.

    Yes?  Have you nothing more to say?

    Practically not.

    Practically?

    I am impractical by nature.  You understand this.

    Holy and good, the best of the best.  Able to sacrifice yourself for the sake of an idea.

    A biblical reference.  I like that.  A wise-acre to the end.

    We once were one being, friend.

    Not for many years now.

    Why?  Because I know no nationality?

    Perhaps.  Because you have no allegiance.

    I have allegiance to the eternal, to the idea.

    Pooh.  The idea.  You believe the idea is eternal.  But the idea is not eternal.  Even the idea has its seasons, its age of purity, its age of maturation, its age of fruition, its age of rot.

    Sincerely said.  Eternity being what?

    When you identify with death you identify with eternity.  You have nothing to lose; this is so because losing life is your greatest ambition.  You are begging someone to come along to kill you, so you can be the world savior again.  Ever against the body.  Ever against the order of man.  Ever against civilization.

    Yes.

    You don't argue that point?

    No.  I am chaos personified, it is true.  Material chaos is spiritual illumination.

    But there are other ideas of import.

    Such as?

    Such as the protection of the innocent.  The protection of the town.  The protection of the community against the barbarians.

    The national god, then?

    Yes.  The national god, the local god.  The family's sanctity.

    So, that is your defense for what you are doing.

   

-Mr. Crossmann.  It is good that you are here.

    John Preston was a handsome man, an athlete, a good student -- a kind of ideal high school student.  He was admired by his peers; and he was respected by the teachers.  It was not as though he were without fault.  He was a typical American teenage boy, full of crazy energy at times -- still, he was a thoughtful kid, one capable of reflection.

    -Mr. Crossmann.  We have talked this out among ourselves.  Remember our discussion in class about the kid in Springfield, Missouri, the one who killed his parents and his classmates....who was released by the police after the court decided that his rights had been violated when the police taped a discussion he had with his minister...?

    -Yes, of course: Will Bruder.

    -We don't want these guys to get away like Bruder did.

    -Yes, I understand that.  I understand your feelings, John.  So, what will you do?

    -I don't know.  We...

    -We are going to execute them, Ted Lawson called from the rear, near the door.  They need to be punished.  We need to make an example of them.

    -You have no right to do this, Kit Carson yelled at his accusers, fighting back tears.   We have the right to be turned over to the police.  We have the right to a lawyer...

    But his talk ended when Damasco Ruiz gave him a kick to the throat, sending Carson into a hunched position, battling to breathe.  The other prisoners pulled back in fear.

    -You have no rights, Mike Grubb replied.  The society gives out rights.  It also takes them back when its survival is threatened.  You came in here hunting us like we were rabbits....

    -We are not rabbits, Melanie Rose cried out, pointing at Carson.  He shot my best friend, Angela Stanley.  He killed my best friend.  And then he laughed about it...!

    -You are over-reacting here, Rebecca Reed, the Home Economics instructor said, in a quavering voice.  You are all quite upset.  We are all upset.  But we have to turn them over to the police.  We have no alternative now.  We have to believe in our justice system, even if it is imperfect.  What is our alternative?  Mob rule?  Western justice...?

    -I would speak for western justice, Mike Grubb replied.  There was less crime in the old west than there is in America today.  The men protected their women then -- and their children.  There wasn't wholesale rape and robbery and murder like there is now....

    Bill Blake was smug in his response:

    -We are just experiencing the collapse of the western moral order.  Our civilization is corrupt and it is breaking, much like Rome broke apart from within.

    This comment was not well-received.

    -Your generation has not done its job, John Preston replied.  Your generation idealized the criminal.  Your generation idealized decay.  You built a house of disease and now you want to make us live in it.  But we don't intend to live in it.  We will cut out the cancer if we have no other choice.  You idealized the cancer.  You've put us in the position of having to cut the cancer out.  We will choose life as your generation chose death...!

 

-Let's stop shouting at one another for a minute, Michael Crossmann broke in.  We are all friends here.  If our goal is to preserve civilization, then we must do so by being civilized.  John, I don't understand your intent.  Do you want to execute these three....whatever word I choose will be tainted.  Suspects?  Are we concluding they are murderers so that we can execute them?  Or are we thinking of them as suspects so we can put them on trial and seek justice...?

    -Mr. Crossmann, I can't believe you are suggesting any of this, Rebecca Reed called out.  These students respect you.  You must tell them that there is only one choice here: to obey the law and turn them over to the police.

    -Ms. Reed, Mr. Crossmann replied.  I think we need to talk about this.  I think your authority as a teacher is not enough down here.  You will not be able to scream at people long enough to make them do what you want.  If you have a logical argument that can convince these students who are holding guns that they must do as you say, then please do so.  Otherwise, I think we need to talk about what choices we do have....

    -This is the frontier, Milo Finkbinder said.  We are living in the frontier now.  This room is the frontier.

    -I don't know what that means, Bill Blake replied.  Crossmann, you have stirred these students up with your....mythologizing law and order.  Many of us saw this coming, saw you building a camp of vigilantes with your complaints about our society....

    -I think you're misunderstanding something, Bill, Crossmann responded.  You have turned the tables quite wonderfully, in your favor.  Now you have these students as a force of disorder, a kind of criminal component.  These people have just been shot at, some have been shot; I have been shot.

    He tries to hold up him arm, but cannot. 

    -This is my blood.  I had that....misfit (pointing with his left hand at Kit Carson) shoot me once, then shoot a second time at my head.  Somehow he missed.  I still have pieces of concrete in my hair from where the bullet smashed into the wall about an inch from my ear.  I saw him stand above Alison Benjamin after he had already shot her once.  She was lying on the floor.  She apologized to me that she would not be able to get her homework done, because she had a bullet in her lungs.  She could hardly speak at all because when she did speak blood bubbles came out of her mouth.  He walked up to Alison, Alison who had never hurt anyone in her life, and he shot her in the head....

    -I put her out of her misery, Kit Carson called out.

    -Shut up, you fucking punk! Mike Grubb called out.  He raised the rifle he was holding above his head, ready to bring the butt down on Carson's head.

    -Mike, don't, Crossmann said calmly.

    Grubb turned back to him.  He was crying.  He lowered his rifle.

 

-I call for a vote, Rebecca Reed called out.  We live in a democracy.  We have to honor the majority's voice...

    -Are you nuts? Bill Blake blurted out to Rebecca Reed.  Can't you count?

    -What is it you want to vote on, Ms. Reed? Crossmann asked.

    -I want us to vote on turning them over to the police.  This is not some personal vendetta, Michael.  These are lives you are playing with....

    -I am playing with no one, Rebecca.  I am trying to make sense of all this...

    -Ok.  We'll vote on it, John Preston cut in.  Everyone wanting to turn them over to the police, raise your hand...

    Six hands went up slowly: Bill Blake, Rebecca Reed, Cosmo Green, Blaze Martinez, Danny Stephens and Mickey McMahon.

    -I'm not ready to vote yet, Florence Crane said.  I'd like to know what the alternative is.  What are the students planning to do with these boys?

    -I'm with Florence, Milt Marker, the track coach, called out.  I'm not sure I want to turn them over to the police yet either.  But I don't really want to execute them.  I don't know what is right.  It is right to turn them over to the police.  But the courts will probably let them go.  They will be tried as juveniles anyway, meaning they will probably spend five years in a juvenile facility.  Then they'll be let go.  There are as many as fifty people who've been hurt.  That's my rough calculation.  I'd bet there are as many as twenty dead children.  Also Edith Hart was murdered.  I saw Dieter Richards shoot her with a pistol when she was on her knees begging him not to do it...

    -Carson murdered Helen Moriarty also, Crossmann chimed in.  There are about seven people dead in Helen's home room and another seven or eight dead in the hallway on the second floor.  Carson is responsible for all those deaths....

    -Did you see him do it? Rebecca Reed cried out.  If you didn't see him do it, then it's hearsay....

    -You've been watching too much fucking TV, Mike Grubb responded.  This is not Law and Order.  This is not a TV show, God damn it!

    -I did see him kill Alison.  He killed her right in front of me.  And then he tried to kill me -- but he missed.

    -I meant to miss, Mr. Crossmann, Kit Carson called out.  I meant to miss because you were the best teacher I had here....

    -You shot me in the back, Kit, Crossmann replied.  You didn't....

    -I did shoot you, Carson said.  But I regretted it.  When I was going to shoot you in the head, I remembered that you had been good to me.  So I missed you on purpose....

    -I saw Dieter Richards murder Edith Hart, Milt Marker repeated.  Did anyone see Tommy Kuntz kill anyone...?

    There was silence.

    -I didn't shoot anyone, Tommy Kuntz cried out.  I came along with them.  But I didn't shoot anyone.  This was all crazy.  I didn't want to hurt anyone....

    -Smell the muzzle of his gun, Richard Snow cried out.  If he fired the rifle, you'll be able to smell the power...

    -Who has his gun? John Preston asked.

    -Jack, you have it, don't you? David McCulloch asked.

    Jack Argyle was holding a rifle.  Tommy Kuntz's rifle.  He smelled the muzzle.  He ejected the clip and took out the bullets. 

    -This gun has been fired, Argyle said.  I can smell the powder.  And this is a 25-round clip.  There is only eleven rounds in the clip.  I'd say he fired at least 14 rounds....

    -I shot at the walls, at the ceiling, Kuntz responded.

    -That's not true, Gretchen Miller said.  I saw him shoot Miriam Rodriguez.  He shot her in the leg.  Right in front of me...

    -Gretchen! Kuntz cried out.

    -He didn't shoot me though, Gretchen continued.  He looked me right in the eye.  But he didn't point his gun at me.  I don't think he wanted to do it.  But I did see him shoot Miriam in the leg....

    -I only shot her in the leg! Kuntz cried.  I didn't want anyone to die...!

 

And who has made you judge and jury?

    What?

    Who has made you judge and jury?

    I don't know.  I have, I guess.

    By what right?

    By the right of being a member of my community.  By the impulse of survival.

    No one has elected you.

    That is true.

    Are you a autocrat, then?

    No.  In fact, I was elected.

    By a mob; not by the general populace.

    By a majority of those voting.

    That is a ruse.  You gather ten people in a room who all share the same beliefs, you elect one of these to an office that judges those who had no vote...?

    The issue is justice.

    The issue is retribution.

    What do you wish me to do?

    Turn them over to the police.

    Why?

    Because it is the right thing to do.

    Right, in what sense?  It is what we have been told to do, what we have been told is right.  And, in a perfect work, that is the right thing to do.  But we are under attack.  There have been no less than ten school shootings in the last year.

    Tell it to the parents.

    No.  The parents don't care.  The parent's aren't able to control their children.  The parents are, in many instances, children themselves, running from one dream to the next, one pleasure to the next, never disciplined themselves, never capable of committing themselves to actually raising a child.  Most parents are afraid of their children.  They know their children are dangerous....

    That is an exaggeration.  Most parents have no trouble with their children...

    Yes.  That is true.  Most children would not bring a gun to school.  But it is becoming more acceptable to do it, more acceptable in the teenage myth.  It is cool, in some strange way, like Jesse James is cool, like Blade Runner is cool.  It is an option for students.  They have these set of options: they can be a jock; they can be a geek; they can be a soc; they can be a brain or a techie; they can be white trash; they can be a bad ass or a hip-hop; they can be alienated; they can do dope; they can bring a gun to school.  Students, when they finish school, have these choices: go to college; join the army; get married a get a job; bring a gun to school and see how many people they can kill.  If one dead-end doesn't appeal to them, they need to choose another one....

    Turn them over to the police.

    I know how you feel about it.  You are the liberal one.

    Let the police and the parents be the responsible party.

    I know how you feel about responsibility.

    You can go to prison for what you are considering.

 

-So, what do we do? Crossmann asked the gathering.

    There was a banging on the door.

    -Police!  Open up!

    The voice was dense, with an air of authority.

    There was silence in the room.  For a second, no one spoke.

    -Police!  We know you are in here!  If you don't open the door, we are prepared to batter down the door...!

   

John Preston stepped down, toward the door.

    -We have the suspects, he responded.  Any attempt by you to open this door will result in the suspects' death.  We are prepared to kill them, unless you leave us alone for at least an hour.

    -Who is this speaking? the policeman asked.

    -John Q Citizen, Preston responded.

    -It is illegal for you to hold the suspects against their will, the policeman replied.  They are to be turned over to us now!

    -We are armed -- and we are serious, Preston replied.  You are to back away from this door -- unless you want the hostages to be hurt.

    -- How many of you are in this room? the policeman asked.

    John Preston raised  his pistol and fired it into cardboard boxes stacked in the east corner of the room.  The BOOM echoed through the room. 

    -It is against the law to discharge a firearm in the city limits! the policeman called through the door, after a shocked moment.

    -Officer, Rebecca Reed called out.  Mr. Michael Crossmann is behind this; and John Preston, Jack Argyle, David McCulloch, Mike Grubb.... We are reasoning with them to turn the suspects over to you.  But they are not listening to reason...!

    -Whoever fired that gun will be held for questioning after all this is settled, the policeman answered.

    -It was John Preston, Rebecca Reed called back.

    But then Mike Grubb stepped forward with a handkerchief and shoved it into Ms. Reed's mouth.  David McCulloch moved to Reed with more electrical cord, tying her hands behind her back, then her feet.

    -There is no room here for traitors, Preston said.  We can't open the door, or the police will get in.  We are going to try these...suspects.  Anyone not wanting to be part of it should let us know now. 

    Rebecca Reed was placed in a student desk on the far side of the room, allowed to sit; then she was tied to the chair.

    David McCulloch then turned his gun on Bill Blake, the Social Studies teacher. 

    -Where do you stand, Mr. Blake? he asked.  Do you want to be tied up too?  If you're tied up, you won't be held responsible for whatever happens.

    -Yes, I guess you should tie me up, he replied.  You don't need to gag me.  I'm not going to say anything.  Crossmann, you'll lose your job if you go ahead with this!

    -There are worse things than losing a job! John Preston replied.  I lost my girlfriend.  I watched Monica get shot in the head by that little fucker (pointing at Dieter Richards).  I had Monica die in my arms today.  She was fine, laughing; and then she died in about ten seconds.  Because of that little fucker....!

    John Preston was crying.

    -We've all lost friends here today, Ted Lawson called out.  We're not just going to take it quietly and let it happen again somewhere.  We have to take a stand against this.  Put an end to it...!

    -Remember, our goal here is not vengeance, Mike Grubb reminded the group.  We need a defense spokesman for these...suspects.  We need someone to state their case....

 

That's not easy.

    What?

    That's not easy.  Defending this...scum.  Teenage scum.

    They should defend themselves.

    You could do it.  The students admire you.  If you step forward and agree to defend them, the whole tenor here will change.  You might be able to de-fuse this situation.

    Yes....

 

-I will defend them, Michael Crossmann said, hesitantly.

    A hush went through the room.

    -No, John Preston replied.  You will be the judge.  Mr. Blake, you will defend them.  We don't need to tie you up.  You won't lose your job if you defend them.

    -I'm not sure I want any part of this, Blake replied.

    -You can use your mind to try to get them off, Ted Lawson called from the door.

    -And who will be the jury, Michael Crossmann asked.

    -Mr. Crossmann, you are the judge.  You will preside over this trial.  Nothing more.  Mr. Blake will defend the three killers.  The rest of us will all have a vote one guilt; and then on sentencing....

    -Listen, here, John Preston! a voice came through the door.  John, this is Principal Ickes.  We know you are upset.  We are all terribly upset.  But this is not the right response to have...

    -Remember Will Bruder, Principal Ickes...? John Preston called through the door.

    -What?

    -Will Bruder...?

    Silence.

    -No, I don't.  The name sounds familiar....

    -In Springfield, Missouri, Ted Lawson cried out.  The high school killer in Missouri who got off because....

    -Oh, yes, yes.  I recall him now....   But this case is nothing like that.  We have many eyewitnesses here today.  These young men won't get off...

    -They will be tried as juveniles, Britton Chapman cried through the door.  Britton Chapman was a pretty blonde girl, delicate.  She was a senior; and a member of the National Honor Society.

    -Who is this speaking? the principal asked.

    -Jane Q Public, Britton answered.

    -Is that you, Britton, Principal Ickes asked.  What are you doing in there, dear?  You have to use logic now, dear.  We are all overwhelmed with emotion.  But emotion will just lead us all down a very dark path if we are not careful.  The police are trained to deal with this, Britton.  The police....we cannot turn out backs on our institutions, Britton.  We have designated that the courts make the determination of guilt or innocence....

    -I saw Dieter Richards murder my best friend, Principal Ickes.  Marilee Edmonds.  Marilee and I were sitting in the student lounge.  Dieter came in and shot her in the face with a pistol.  I watched my best friend's face explode, Principal Ickes.  I have her blood all over my dress, all over my face.  I can taste her blood still, Principal Ickes.  What are you saying....?

    -I am saying that the police must handle this...!

    -We have nothing against the police, Mike Grubb called through the door.

    -Who is this speaking? the principal asked.

    -Harry Q Public, Mike Grubb responded.

    -This is good, the principle replied.  We are at least communicating....

    -We have nothing against the police.  They do their job for us.  It's the lawyers.  And the courts....

    -The courts are us, Principal Ickes replied.  We are the courts.  We are the juries....

    -But then the courts overrule the juries, John Preston cut in.  The lawyers are out to protect the criminals -- because the criminals pay their salaries.  The game is fixed.  Lawyers need a society of criminals, rich criminals.  That's what keeps the lawyers working.  Of course the playing field has been tilted in favor of the criminals.  If we didn't have criminals we wouldn't need lawyers...

    -We've seen what happens to student killers, David McCulloch called out.  They either get off entirely, like Bruder.  Or they get treated as juvies; and they get off in five years....

    -Michael Crossmann?  Are you in there? the principal called out.

    -Yes, Michael Crossmann responded.

    -I am expecting you to use your leadership with the students to get them to open this door!

    -We are discussing our options, Crossmann responded.

    -Discussing your options!  You have no options!  Your only option is to obey the law...!

    -Some of the students believe that they are the law in this instance, Michael Crossmann responded.  And the are armed.

    -They are the law!  They are not the law!  They are students only.  They are subject to the law!  And you are subject to the law also, Michael!  You are not above the law, Michael!  I want you to open this door, now!

    -We will vote on it, Crossmann replied. 

    Then he turned back to the group in the room: We have not finished our vote.

    He turned to John Preston.

    -John, I think we need to finish the vote.

    -We are voting on whether we should turn them over to the police, now, open this door and turn them over to the police; or whether we should hold our own trial here.  Everyone can vote.  Ms. Reed's vote is to turn them over to the police.  Who else wants to turn them over to the police?

    Bill Blake's hand went up.  Florence Crane.  Milt Marker's hand also went up.  This made Crossmann the only teacher who had not voted.  Cosmo Green, a smart black student, a whiz kid in math.  Danny Stephens, whose dad owned one of the Ford dealerships in town.

    Five in all.

    -Who votes to keep the suspects with us until we have a trial?

    Hands went up, more than twenty.  Michael Crossmann did not vote.

    -Principal Ickes! Michael Crossmann called toward the door.  There has been a vote to keep the three suspects here for a trial of their peers.  We will take another vote after the trial to see if we wish to release them to the police then.

    -Crossmann, you have a responsibility to keep these students out of trouble! Principal Ickes called out, angry.

    -This is not my decision, Mr. Ickes, Crossmann replied.  We are a democracy.  We have voted.  We abide by the majority decision.

 

 

IV.

 

It gets worse.  The memories rush away somehow.  Pictures of dead things.  Small children.  Bosnia.  Sarajevo.  Pictures of inhumanity.  Voyeurs.  We watch it all, taking it all in.  Pictures to make us accept it all.  Torture.  Feeding the black angel inside.

    It gets worse.  All structure can be lost.

    It can get worse.

    As bad as it is, as bad as it seems.  It can get worse.

 

Hallucinations.  The heat is terrible.  A strong smell.  Worms left in a can in the hot car for a week, after a fishing trip.  A memory.  Something horrible.  Death.  Not the passing.  But the staying.  The remaining behind.  The body of the worm, achieving some gaseous plane, cooked by some demon until beyond done.

    Grief.  Swirling.  Something is swirling.

    The good man speaking.  The angel of the view.

    You are black.  Turning black. 

    The black angel of the new.

    Order.

 

A white woman, a girl, in a white gown.  Fragile,  Floating.  I see her coming down a staircase, carrying a book.  A thick book, black covers.

    "Where is the spring?" she asks.

    "Convenience," I say.

    "Mother is in the winery," she says.  "Sampling wine."

    A vat of red wine.  A fat man stirring the vat with a long-handled oar, like the ones used in rowing boats in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

    The scent.  Strong.  Disguising something.

    "You have an arrow in your arm," the fat man says.

    I think of Falstaff.

    "An arrow in your arm.  (A false staff.)"

    I look.  A pencil is sticking into my shoulder, my right shoulder.  It has a brand-new eraser on the end.  And I think: I wonder if I can erase the stains on my white shirt, the wine stains.  Red wine.

    And Falstaff says: "You can't teach any longer if you have an arrow sticking out of your arm."

    I look in the vat I have been stirring.  My wife's face is reflected in it.  My wife, Irene, her sharp face flashing a smile. 

    I look up, to try to see where she is standing above, believing her face is merely reflecting from above.

    Principal Ickes is standing on a beam high up in the air.

    He says: "One wrong move and the whole structure might fall to the earth."

    It seems funny.  His logic seems wild.  A misstep would result in the end of the world.  Not in the end of himself.  But then it seems to make sense.  There is no structure without the mind holding it together.  Lose the perceiver and lose the perceived thing.

    "Mother is in the winery," the girl says again, re-appearing in her white gown.  "She is cramping again."

    A soiled sheet, red on white.  A beautiful naked female form running out of the room, blushing.  Ashamed.

    Everything hot.  Sweating.

    I run my hand against my forehead, feeling water.  Then licking the back of my hand.  Thirsty.

 

Spinning.  Spinning.  Sounds coming back.  Rocks pelting the brick back wall of the school.

    Pelt.  Pelt.  Pelt pelt.   Pelt pelt pelt pelt.....

    A group of school children pelting rocks against the wall, laughing.

    A solitary boy standing against the wall, frozen in terror.

    The school children throw large rocks at the boy.  But he moves in a kind of strange rhythm which allows him to avoid the rocks.  And the more he avoids the rocks, the more the school children laugh.  And the harder they try to hit him....

 

-Mr. Crossmann!  Mr. Crossmann!

    -What?

    Michael Crossmann is lying on the floor of the boiler room.  The room is spinning.  He is having trouble breathing.  What has happened?  What has happened...?

    -You passed out, Mr. Crossmann, Britton Chapman says.  She is holding a wet handkerchief to his forehead.  John Preston has cut open Crossmann's shirt with a pocket knife.  He and Mike Grubb are washing his wound with a bottle of water.

    -It is hot, Crossmann says, dreamily.  I am thirsty.  I need to drink.

    Crossmann drank water, just a little bit.  Then he began retching, throwing up an acid moisture, leaning away from his body.  Twice.  His head was spinning still; and he was light-headed.

    -Good God, man, Milt Marker said.  He's been shot.  He needs to go to the hospital...!

    -This is insane, Bill Blake replied.  Open the door.  Let's end this madness now...!

    -What are we going to do with you, Mr. Crossmann? Britton Chapman asked, smiling a sweet smile.  Seductive.  Beautiful and clean.  Do you need to go to the hospital...?

    -I don't know.  I think I just need some room so I can breathe.  I need some water.  I'm dehydrated....

    -Your wound is clean, David McCulloch reported.  David had hunted since he was four-years-old.  It was a twenty-two round.  It went right through the meat of your shoulder.  It's bleeding a bit, but not too much....

    -We're going to get you out of here, Mr. Crossmann, John Preston said.

    -No, Crossmann answered.  No.  I'll go when everyone else goes...

    It was out before Crossmann realized what he was saying.  Some kind of nobility speaking.  Some kind of romantic remnant, left inside his aging hulk, a figure he didn't know still existed.

    There was something about the teenage years: the romantic was ruling, for the first and last time of life.

    -We don't want you getting sick, getting an infection, Preston said.

    -Christ, man! Bill Blake said.  Give up this hero act.  Get your ass out of here to Sacred Heart...!   Think about your daughter...!

    His daughter.  He had dreamed of his daughter; he had seen her when he fainted.  She was very close, hanging in the air somewhere.

    -I am thanking of my daughter, Crossmann replied.  I am thinking that I don't want someone to walk into her school with a gun and shoot her down like they did Alison Benjamin...!

    -You think what you're doing here is going to change that! Blake answered.  This is just a footnote in a trend.  America is like Rome.  It is breaking up from within.  Before long the Goths, the Visigoths and the Franks in Texas and Wyoming and Idaho will be building city states and the whole continent will be sinking into a dark age....!

    -Not without some of us at least resisting that! Mike Grubb replied.

    -Resisting what?  Resisting destiny?  Resisting history? Blake responded.

    -Resisting your abdication to Disorder, Grubb replied.

    -Oh, it's like the boy with his thumb in the dike, Blake answered.  Look at your leader, here.  He's lying in his own vomit, lying in this bloody boiler-room, sick to death of the heat.  He is a symbol of our future....

    Michael Crossmann rose, helped up by McCulloch and John Preston.

    -Are you staying, Crossmann? Milt Marker asked.

    -Are you? Crossmann replied.

    -Well, I voted with the minority.

    -But you're staying? Crossmann asked again.

    -I guess I am, until this is settled.  We need to have a few voices of reason present.  Where would we be if all the reasonable people left...?

    Michael Crossmann smiled.  He had always like Milt Marker.  Marker was always underestimated.  He actually had a lot of strength, a lot of character; but he liked to stay in the background.

    -Well, I'm staying if you are, Crossmann said to Marker.

    Marker touched Crossmann's elbow in a gesture of support; then he said to David McCulloch: Get him a chair, one of those desks.  If he's going to be the judge, we need to make him comfortable.  We don't want our judge passing out again....

 

Let the trial begin then.

    What?

    Let the trial begin.  You can make this a lesson in civics if nothing more. 

    What do you mean?

    I am trying to see how to turn this disaster into something positive, for the students, that is.  How to turn it in to a better light...

    Go ahead.

    Make this trial be a lesson in citizenship.  Everyone participates.  Everyone plays fair.  The suspects get their chance to speak.  The goal is to search for real justice, to really get at the truth.  The sentencing is not the real issue.  The trial is what matters.

    But we have all seen that they are guilty of murder.  The trial is just a formality.  The sentencing is what matters.

    Vengeance, then?

    If that's the word you like.  Justice, perhaps.

    If you execute these boys, their act will pale by comparison.  You will be remembered for the execution.  People will feel sorry for three sixteen-year-olds executed by a mob....

    It doesn't seem to matter much what other people will think.  This is not about our image, how good we look to outsiders.  Our leaders have reached a point where they won't act without taking a poll first, to see whether their "leadership" is going to be acceptable to the voters.  Popularity is first.  One's image.  But that isn't leadership.  That's....servility to...the mob....

    To the populace, you mean.  That's democracy.  What you're doing is anti-democratic.

    I am not anti-democratic.  A legal system that promotes crime is, in fact, anti-democratic.  We have passed laws through a democratic process.  But the legal system does not respect the democratic process.  It presents, as the highest force of government, a system of interpretation of those laws.  Individual judges interpret what the democratic process produces.  And if it falls in line, not only with the constitution, but even more with the series of precedents established by earlier interpretations, then the judges allow democracy to rule; however, these judges do have, in fact, the line item veto.  They are able to veto the democratic process, the will of the populace.  And they have been doing this regularly for the last thirty years.

    Not with the intent of subverting democracy, surely?

    No.  I don't believe the intent has been to subvert the law.  The intent has been to protect the rights of the individual, which is inherent in the constititution.  The result of much of this decency of intent has been to endanger the society.  The result has been to liberalize crime, to legitimize the rights of criminals....

    Do you believe criminals have no rights?

    I believe suspects have rights.  But I believe individuals are responsible for their actions.  We went through a generation, our generation, in which individuals were absolved of all responsibility for their actions -- because the society wasn't perfect.  The logic of the generation was that the society should be perfect; and if the society wasn't perfect, then the individual could break the laws (which were imperfect laws by definition); and, by breaking these laws, the individual became, not a criminal, but a revolutionary, the highest good of the generation.  Every criminal was a revolutionary, by definition.  We have been trying to recover from that illusion for the past thirty years.  That is why we have had to endure a crime-wave like none in human history.  Because of a lie, a misperception.  The underlying logic is that, if a society is imperfect, then it deserves to be destroyed by criminality.  Destroying the society will ultimately free the people from the tyranny of the imperfection....

    So, you are going to make these children pay for the mistakes of the past generation...?

    We did not make these children take up guns, come to their school and slaughter their peers.  Life is not television.  Every act is real.  Every act has real repercussions.  It is time to grow up, time to be adults.

    You believe these three need to pay with their lives...?

    I don't know.  I know there is a good side in each of these students.  But the bad side, the destructive side, is apparently stronger.  A society doesn't have to accept destructive acts, and destructive individuals, as a part of its landscape.  We have career criminals walking the streets.  Why?  Because the courts feel that we need to be liberal about crime.  But I say we don't have to be liberal about crime.  We need to be liberal about everything else -- but not crime.

    So history will know you as the Hanging Judge?

    I don't care how history knows me.  History will not know me.  But Alison Benjamin's parents will know that their daughter had some measure of justice.

    So, you are committed to their execution?  Will nothing change your mind in this?

    Clearly I am of two minds.  But your argument does not seem strong to me.  Your argument seems strong in the scenario of the poor man who steals bread for his family.....the Jean Valjean story.  But reality is not like this.  These children were all from wealthy parents.  These children were never hungry a day in their lives.  These children were probably bored with their lives, because they had so much.  These children did nto kill to eat, or for some political motive, the freedom of their persecuted race.  They killed only to experience it.  It was a kind of rollercoaster to them.  They wanted pleasure.   I had a friend who I went to college with in the 1970's, our friend, Shelly Wolf, who dedicated her life to the law, who graduated first in her law school class, who passed up jobs on Wall Street and in Washington DC to work with the poor and the non-white who were being persecuted by the system.  Remember the last time we saw Shelly: she had quit the law; she was sick of representing the poor criminals because almost all of them were guilty.  She didn't find much evidence of what she took to be the rule: the poor, nonwhite innocent person accused of a crime by the corrupt society bent on mistreatment of the minority.  She found guilty people she did not want to get off.  She did not want to be responsible for turning killers, rapists, thieves and junkies back out on the streets to cannibalize her society.  She gave up the law.  But most lawyers except this role, without qualms, for it gets them their new car, their four-bedroom house in the suburbs, the country club, the beautiful wife or husband....the American Dream.

    When you were young and idealistic, I was in command.

    I know.  That is how it should be, when one is young.  When one is young, he should be idealistic.  When one is older, he should be intelligent instead.

    You are paraphrasing Winston Churchill.

    Yes.  I am paraphrasing Winston Churchill.

    You are not acting like Winston Churchill.

    What does that mean?

    You are acting, instead, like Adolph Hitler.  You are making yourself an autocrat.

    There is a war happening; only many do not understand that there is a war.

    The war, of course, is going on inside yourself, inside of us.  You and I are at war.

    Are you the conscience then?  Or am I?

    Each is each.  You are the father-mind; and I am the mother-mind.

    We have understanding; but that does not make acting easier.

    Because there is doubt?

    Yes.  Yes, because there is doubt.

    If you must act in this way, if you must have a trial here, in this dark place, make sure that your trial is better and more fair than the one these children might receive in the higher world, the world of light.  You are the judge here.  You can determine if this is justice, or merely retribution.

    Is there anything else?

    Yes.  Please see that the woman is untied and allowed to speak.  Or at least allowed to leave.

 

 

V.

 

"Mr. Crossmann, is it true that Rebecca Reed, on of your colleagues, a colleague with an acknowledged heart problem, was bound and gagged in your self-styled courtroom...?"

    "I object, your honor," Ted Clause broke in.  "I'm not sure that we've established that Mr. Crossmann has styled anything that happened that day as being his courtroom..."

    "No, I agree with you, Mr. Clause.  Mr. Devlin, please re-phrase your question."

    "The main emphasis of my question, Mr. Crossmann, was on the issue of whether or not Rebecca was bound and gagged.  Was she?"

    "Yes, she was," Michael Crossmann admitted.  "For a time."

    "How long would you guess that to have been...?"

    "It is hard to say.  As I said, I did pass out for a few minutes.  And my sense of time was distorted a bit...."

    "Passed out?" Devlin seemed surprised.  "I heard you say you threw up.  But I didn't hear that you passed out...."

    "Yes.  I did pass out for a few minutes.  When I awoke, I vomited...."

    "Your honor, Mr. Devlin is not paying attention.  Either that or he is trying to confuse the jury, or represent my client as one who is not telling the truth.  Could the transcript of Mr. Crossmann's testimony be read to Mr. Devlin...?"

    "Mr. Devlin, would you like us to read from the transcript?" Judge Brink asks, smiling wryly at Mr. Devlin.

    "No, your honor.  I'm starting to remember it now...."

    "It clearly doesn't benefit your case if you fail to remember the testimony accurately, Mr. Devlin."

    "I stand chastised, your honor."

    There is laughter in the crowd.

    "Mr. Crossmann -- how long do you believe she was bound and gagged?  Would you say five minutes...?"

    "At least five.  Perhaps fifteen."

    "And you did nothing to stop this....kidnapping?"

    "I object again, your honor," Ted Clause begins. " If my client was being accused of being a kidnapper, then we will need to present this to a grand jury.  No kidnapping charge has been filed against my client.  Is Mr. Devlin admitting that the current charges against my client are lacking in evidence -- is he attempting to introduce another crime into the landscape;  or is he again deliberately attempting to prejudice the jury...?"

    "Mr. Clause, I agree with you," Judge Brink replies.  "I do believe that our jury is more sophisticated than to be prejudiced by your opponent's, Mr. Devlin's, poor choice of words.  Mr. Devlin, please desist in choosing defamatory words that have no point but to inflame emotions.  Mr. Crossmann is not being charged with kidnapping.  In fact, no one has been charged with kidnapping.  Your office had the power to charge Mr. Crossmann or anyone else with such a crime and chose not to...."

    "Yes, I apologize, your honor," Devlin replies.

    "Do not apoligize to me, Mr. Devlin.  Your insult was sent at Mr. Crossmann.  I think your apology should be directed at him; and perhaps at the jury...."

    "Mr. Crossmann, I am sorry for suggesting that you were a kidnapper; that is how it may have appeared; but that was not my intention...  And ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please forgive my choice of words.  It was irresponsible.  And I am sorry.  Although, clearly, the mob, of which your seem to have been a leader, Mr. Crossmann, did take away a woman's freedom, turning her into a virtual slave, a slave with a heart condition, which you apparently assented to, Mr. Crossmann, since you did not stop the students (Michael Grubb's testimony indicates this expressly) from binding and gagging one of the dissenting teachers...."

    "Your honor, Mr. Devlin is not asking the witness a question, he is making editorial comments...."

    "Yes, Mr. Devlin: please keep such analysis for your summary; please ask Mr. Crossmann a question; or let him step down..."

    "Mr. Crossmann, did you order than Ms. Reed be unbound and ungagged...?"

    "Yes, I did."

    "After, what....fifteen or twenty minutes...?"

    "Yes, approximately."

    "Was she the only dissenting voice that was bound and gagged...?"

    "Yes."

    "Clearly the students in the boiler room admired you, Mr. Crossmann.  You demanded that Ms. Reed be released -- and she was released.  Was there any argument about this...?"

    "No."

    "None of the students tried to stand up to you?  None of them threatened you...?"

    "No.  I believe all the people in the room felt it was a good thing to do.  Her being bound was an overreaction to the stress.  People were worried that she was giving out names to the police that might have a negative effect after everything was resolved...."

    "Yes.  So you all knew it was illegal, what you were doing...?"

    "We didn't talk about that much  -- but, yes: everyone knew that we were....expressing dissent against the current state of the justice system...."

    "Expressing dissent?  Is that what you're calling it...?"

    "Yes."

    "Your honor..."

    "Mr. Devlin...."

    "Your honor, I am merely expressing surpise at the witness's choice of euphemisms."

    "Mr. Devlin, please don't be argumentative with the witness."

    "So, Mr. Crossmann, you all knew that you could get in trouble, that you were doing something wrong?"

    "We knew there could be repercussions."

    "And you have stated that you had enough influence to get Ms. Reed released from bondage.  Could you have probably, by speaking up, kept her from being bound at all...?"

    "Perhaps."

    "And could you have, had you spoken up when you first entered the boiler room....could you have used your influence and had the three shooting suspects released to the police...?"

    "I don't know."

    "Is it possible that the students might have listened to you?  They did, in fact, listen to you when you demanded that Ms. Reed be released...."

    "It is possible."

    "The students in the boiler room were minors, of course; and since minors, whether rightly or wrongly, are not perceived by the law as having as much responsibility as adults, a reasonable man or a reasonable woman might view your failure to insist that the minors in the boiler room obey the law -- the law, too, in fact, might view this as --your inaction, I mean -- leading to the delinquency of a minor.  Essentially you urged them to disobey the law..."

    "I object your honor," Ted Clause comes in.

    "Mr. Devlin, I did not hear a question in that exchange.  Do you have a question you wish to ask Mr. Crossmann?"

    "Yes, I do, your honor," Devlin replies.  "Mr. Crossmann, what other adults encouraged, by their vote, that the minors in the room disobey the law?"

    "I don't remember," Michael Crossmann replies.

    "You don't remember?"

    "No.  I don't remember."

    "You are under oath!  You are not trying to protect anyone, are you, Mr. Crossmann?"

    "No, I am not, Mr. Devlin."

    "But you, yourself, encouraged the students...."

    "I did not vote," Crossmann replies, cutting Devlin off.

    "What?"

    "I did not vote."

    "Surely you are not declaring here that you did not encourage the students in the boiler room to hold their own trial...?"

    "The students were armed and intent on holding a trial."

    "And you claim no responsibility for any of this?" Devlin asks.

    "I clearly was responsible for the fact that the students were thinking about the viability of their own justice system," Crossmann replies.  "I had encouraged them to think about this."

    "You were the judge, man!  You were the judge in this sham trial...!"

    "So I was responsible in this sense.  As you are responsible, in some measure, for the demise of our justice system, being a lawyer; clearly, however, you are not the only person responsible...."

    "Oh, I see.  You have now deftly shifted responsibility for your own vengeance on myself.  That is a very slick move, Mr. Crossmann.  But do you really believe the jury is going to judge me guilty of murdering children because I happen to be a lawyer...?"

    "The jury will decide what it will decide.  But I believe the jury will at least thoughtfully consider all the actions in the case, where the actions came from, and what they were meant to be."

    "I would like a recess, your honor," Mr. Clause intones.

    "Yes, I agree with you, Mr. Clause.  Let's take a couple hours here for lunch."

 

Nothing makes sense here.  Not the heat, the steam, the voices, the circulating dust, the children armed with rifles and pistols.  Nothing makes sense. 

    My arm is now stiff.  I can't even raise it.  My right arm.  There is something symbolic in this perhaps.  My conscience would say that there is something symbolic in the fact that my right arm is paralyzed.  But I don't believe it.  It is the right hand that demands this act.  The left hand has counseled patience, nurturing, mothering the beast.  And the beast is now eating its world.  The right arm is weak.  It demands protection.  Perhaps that is the symbolism in this.

    -The first thing we need to do, Michael Crossmann says, is immediately to free Ms. Reed.  Mike, untie her and take out that gag.  We are attempting to present a better model of justice here; and gagging an outspoken voice is absolutely the wrong direction to take.

    Mike Grubb unties Rebecca Reed.  He takes the gag out of her mouth.

    -Rebecca, you can participate, if you wish.  You can work with Bill Blake to defend the suspects, if that is your wish.

    -I wish to leave, Rebecca Reed replies.

    -No one leaves, John Preston responds.  Preston looks at Michael Crossmann, his eyes presenting a policy.  Crossmann sees in Preston's eyes a hint of fanaticism.

    -If we open that door, the police will rush in, Preston explains.  We are not opening that door until we finish our work.

    Ted Lawson, the guard at the door, is about 6/4" tall, about 245 pounds.  He is a tackle on the football team.  And he has a touch of meanness in his nature.

    -It is ok to release Ms. Reed, John Preston says, re-establishing himself as the voice of authority.  But he looks deeply into the eyes of Rebecca Reed.  You can participate, Ms. Reed.  But we won't tolerate hysterics.  And we won't tolerate your superior attitude.  We are equals here.  You have no more authority than anyone else here.

    Preston's glance at Crossmann is not necessarily one of brotherhood.  It is one of warning.  And Crossmann understands that they are not of one mind.  Crossmann has doubts.  Crossmann is undergoing a grave struggle with his own sense of morality, his own sense of civilization and law.  Preston is not having that same struggle.  This alarms Michael Crossmann.  He had thought he could help guide this ship through the rocky shoals.  But now he wonders.  He might not be the captain of the ship.  He might be, instead, merely the scribe, the one who lives to tell the story, a kind of Ishmael.

    The image of Frankenstein creeps into Michael Crossmann's consciousness for a moment.

 

-Alright.  The trial is to begin, John Preston announces.

    Three desks are set up on the elevated floor, in front of the great boiler, next to where Michael Crossmann is sitting.  The three suspects are each placed in one of the desks.

    Then there comes a pounding on the door. 

    -Michael Crossmann, are you there?  This is Chief Burns.  Michael, are you there...?

    -Yes, Ed.  I am here.

    -We can't let you keep up with this, Michael.  This is ridiculous.  You're making us look like a bunch of idiots.  The press is all over us on this one, Michael....

    -Tell them that the shooters are holding the entire room hostage, John Preston cuts in.  The shooters are holding about 30 people hostage in the boiler room...

    -Who is this I'm talking with...?

    Silence.

    -John Q Citizen, Preston finally says.

    -It's John Preston, Rebecca Reed cries out in a loud voice.  Preston and Crossmann and Mike Grubb and Ted Lawson....

    Mike Grubb's open right hand lashes Rebecca Reed across the mouth.  A loud pop, a frightened scream.  Rebecca Reed slumps to the ground.

    There is a collective gasp among the students and teachers.  But no one says anything.  Rebecca Reed is not well-liked.

    -Open your mouth again, Grubb says, leaning down close to Rebecca Reed's ear.  And I'll stuff this in your mouth again and tie you to that chair.  He shows Rebecca Reed the handkerchief.  She turns silent.

    -What was that...? Chief Burns asks, an agitated voice.

    -The shooters are holding about 30 people hostage and are demanding a few hours, some food, and water, John Preston repeated.  That's all you need to tell the press.  And you need to bring us that food and water and first-aid kits, Chief Burns.  Some of the people here are wounded....

    -Who is this speaking?  Is this John Preston...?

    -It doesn't matter who is speaking, Chief Burns.  We have no argument with the police.  Our argument is not with you.  It's with the courts....

    -I understand your frustration, John, Chief Burns calls.  But this is not the right way to handle it.  You are breaking the law, son.  There will be repercussions for this.

    -If you get up some plan to rush us, John Preston continues, we will have to execute the prisoners.  No tear gas, no attempts to batter down the door.  Don't cut off the electricity.  If you do, you will paint us into a corner.  We are going to hold a trial of our own.  It will be a fair trial.  We are not seeking vengeance.  We are only seeking justice....

    -Crossmann, talk to these kids! Chief Burns cries through the heavy door.  They will be ruining their lives doing this.  This is not some fantasy.  There are laws against this kind of vigilantism.  Everyone is this room will be held responsible if anything bad happens to these suspects....

    -Save your rhetoric for the news report, Chief Burns, John Preston replies.  We want a radio also.  Food for thirty, water for thirty, and a radio.

    -I want you to keep talking with me, son, Chief Burns cries out.  Keep talking with me son.

    -We have work to do, Chief Burns.  I can't stand here and talk with you all day.  Tell the press that the shooters are still in control of the basement.  We need a few hours to do our work....

 

Crossmann watched a new person coming out of John Preston.

    Preston was a good student; he was a very good athlete; in fact, he was the ideal student type: handsome, smart, well-liked, admired; everyone wanted to be his friend.

    Crossmann realized that many of the students in the room were under Preston's spell.  They were doing what Preston wanted them to do because they wanted to follow him, they wanted him to be their leader, they wanted to be his friend.  And then it struck Crossmann that the students in the room, most of them at least, would follow John Preston to their death if necessary.  There was this romantic quality about teenagers.  Death was not something to fear.  Death was a kind of romantic friend in the minds of teenagers.  The closer to death one came, in the teens, the more real life seemed; and, therefore, death was valuable.

    The students in the room, typified by John Preston, were not so different than the three shooters.  The shooters had romanticized the role of the destroyer of life, the dark angel, as much as John Preston romanticized the role of the preserver, the role of the light angel.  There was a kind of war in heaven going on here, a war bettween the angels of light and the angels of darkness.  The fire in the boiler was blazing in the background, grotesquing everything.  And John Preston stood tall, his white shirt covered with blood, a rifle in his hand, the leader of the foces of right.  Nothing would deter him from his mission.

    Michael Crossmann felt a wave of despair run through him.  Of weakness.  There was really nothing he could do to short-circuit this.  He was not in command.  There was a force in the room, larger than himself, larger than John Preston too.  The force was sweeping up everyone in the room.  The voices of dissent would get weaker and weaker.  Fate was turning; and nothing could disrupt Fate's irresistable pull.

 

The three suspects, the three boys, are each placed in a desk on the raised floor in front of the boiler.

    Michael Crossmann feels the heat on his back.  His shirt is soaking wet with sweat, with wet blood.

    -Let's begin, John Preston says.  The room grows silent.

    -Which of these three was the leader? Preston asks  Does anyone have any sense of that?

    -I saw them come through the side door, Manny Cruz calls out.

    -What floor? Preston asks.

    -First floor.

    -Who was leading them into the building?

    -Carson, Manny Cruz says.

    -Kit Carson is their leader, Margy Block says.  I know them.  I've been friends with them for the past year...

    -What does it matter who the leader is? Bill Blake responds.  Are you going to kill the leader twice instead of once...?

    -The leader will be tried first, Preston replies, since he is the most responsible.  Ok, Kit Carson is being tried.  Does anyone want to testify about Kit Carson?  Does anyone know him...?

    -I know him, Gretchen Miller replies.  He lives three houses away from me.

    -What do you want to say about him? Preston asks.

    -About the shooting?

    -About anything, Preston replies.  What kind of person is he...?

    -He is smart, Gretchen Miller says.  And rich.  His dad owns the computer store on thirteenth street.  They have a lot of money.

    -You say he's smart, Preston says.  Smart in what way?

    -Smart in school.  He gets mostly A's.

    -Does he act like he's smarter than most people....?

    -I object, Bill Blake begins....

    -There are no objections allowed here, Preston responds.  If you have information to add, you can speak.  But you don't stop other people from talking with your lawyer tricks.  No lawyer tricks here.

    -He and his friends were fascinated by Adolph Hitler, Gretchen Miller adds.  They always talked about the Nazis, about how the Nazis were good.  Kit even told me once that he was the reincarnation of Hitler....

    -Is that true, Kit? Preston asks.  Do you think you are the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler....?

    Kit doesn't know what to say.

    -Now is your chance to be honest with us, Kit, Preston says.  Now is your chance to defend yourself.  If you choose silence, then we won't hear your side of the story.

    -Hitler was good for the Germans, Carson replies.  The Jews own all the publishing companies and the television and movie companies.  They make Hitler look bad.  But he did a lot of good things for the German people....

    -I don't thnk Kit's admiration for Nazis is the real issue here, Bill Blake cuts in.  That just confuses the issue here...

    -Which is? Preston asks.

    -The real issue is how did Kit get from there to here, Blake answers.  How did the tree get so twisted...?

    -You can tell us about your childhood if you want, Kit, Preston says.  We want to know why you did what you did....

    Kit is silent, not knowing what to say.

    Preston turns to Tommy Kuntz.  Kuntz is bleeding from the left arm and from the left leg.  He has been shot twice, during his capture.  Neither wound seems serious.  He has not asked anyone to dress his wounds or to get his medical help.

    Tommy, it seems that you really didn't want to hurt anyone, Preston says.  That's what people are saying at least.  Why did you guys do this...?

    Tommy Kuntz looks sheepisly at Kit Carson, afraid to betray his friends. 

    -I don't know really, Kuntz answers.  It got out of control.  It started out as a fantasy, getting even with people who didn't recognize us.  People who bullied us.  Do you know what it is like to be bullied evertime you come to school -- or at least to live with the fear that you will be bullied evertime you come? Kit was bullied regularly by Roman Gaines and Rich Manning.  The plan, the fantasy, began with Kit talking about coming to school and killing Roman and Rich, shooting them dead on the spot.  We all had bullies that we didn't like.  Mine was Teddy Williams; and a few others.  And Dieter was afraid of Elton Rusch.  He had trouble with Roman and Rich too.  So we used to have fantasies about killing these people.  We'd smoke dope and talk about how we'd kill them.  It was a great fantasy, getting even.  Then Kit started bringing others into the picture.  Kit hated the blacks, and jews and orientals.  And jocks.  All jocks should get killed.  Then Kit started buying guns on the internet.  He'd steal money from his parents to pay for it.  They next thing we knew, we had guns and a plan.  We'd go out along the McKenzie River to practice shooting.  We had automatic rifles and pistols.  It started out as a dream, a fantasy.  But them it started to become real....

    -Did you ever try to talk Kit out of this? Preston asks.

    -Yes.  But he and Dieter were determined to do it....

    -Fucking pussy! Dieter Richards mutters under his breath, glaring a black hole in Tommy Kuntz's forehead.

    -I tried to get them to drop the whole idea.

    -Why did you come with them? Preston asks.

    -I don't know.  I thought we'd stop at the door, I guess, Kuntz replies.  It didn't feel real to me.  Even when we entered the building and started shooting: it all felt like a movie to me at that point....

    -Like a video game? Ted Lawson ask bitterly.

    -Yeah, like a video game.

    -Were you all three Nazis then? Preston asks.

    -No, not really.  Kit was the Nazi.  He used to salute us with the German salute in his basement room.  He had pictures of Hitler; and he'd read his biography.  He fantasized about gaining power after his attack on the school.  He called it the Day of Glass.  He told us to shoot out as many windows as we could, so this would be remembered as his Day of Glass, like the Nazis Night of Glass when they broke the windows in all the shops and homes of the Jews back in Germany...

    -Dieter wasn't a Nazi, Preston asks.

    -Oh, sort of, Tommy Kuntz continues.  Dieter's family is German.  Dieter spoke German with Kit.  I never did learn German, so they sort of looked down on me.  I was like a second cousin or something.  They never really totally accepted me.  I could play chess well; and I could play the piano.  I could play Bach and Beethoven.  That made up somewhat for not knowing how to speak German.  They felt that Germany was the greatest country in the world.  They hated America.  They called America the mongrel race.  And the melting pit.  The bedroom of kikes and niggers....

    -Did you share this view with them? Preston asks.

    -I don't know.  They were my friends.  I wanted to be their friends....

 

Michael Crossmann is sitting in his desk, watching Tommy Kuntz's admission.  Kuntz is a hesitating little fifteen-year-old, with mussed blonde hair, pimples on his forehead.  He has been punched; and he has a black eye and a split lower lip that is swelling up.

    Crossmann is paralyzed.  He has not said a word.  He doesn't know what to say.  He feels like making himself invisible.  He doesn't want to be where he is.  He can't move.  He feels a sharp pain in his shoulder whenever he tries to move; and he feels the hot fire on his back, turning his shirt to a wet rag.

    -Your family is German, too, isn't it? Preston asks.

    -It was, several generations ago, Kuntz replies.  But my greatgrandfather came to America.  I've never been to Germany.  I don't have much in common with the Germans....

    -So you came here this morning with the intention of what....killing blacks, orientals, jocks, Mexicans...is that right.  And jocks.  And teachers...? John Preston asks. 

    -I don't know why I came here? Kuntz responds.  I didn't really come here to kill anyone.  I just came here because my friends came here....

    -But you did shoot people...? Preston asks.

    -I don't know.  I...

    -You did shoot people, Tommy Kuntz, Gretchen Miller responds.  I saw you shoot Miriam Rodriguez in the leg.

    Tommy Kuntz is silent for a moment.

    -Yes, I did shoot her, Kuntz admits.

    -Because she is a Mexican? John Preston asks.

    -I had to shoot someone.  Dieter was watching me.  He told me to shoot someone.

    -So why did you pick Miriam? Preston asks.

    -Because it was her or...or Gretchen.

    -Why did you choose Miriam then?  Was it because she was Mexican...?

    -No, not really.  I didn't want to shoot Gretchen, Kuntz admits.  I...I like Gretchen.  I've liked Gretchen for a few years....

 

-We found a list of people in Kit's pocket, Preston says.  I am assuming this was a list of people Kit wanted to kill...?

    -Yes, Tommy Kuntz replies.  Kit and Dieter.

    -And Tommy, too, Kit Carson replies, glaring death at Kuntz.

    -And you, too, Tommy? Preston asks.

    -Yes.  There are names from me on the list too.

    -I have twenty-six names on this list, John Preston continues.  I am assuming that these are death sentences passed by your committee of death then?  Is that right?

    -Sort of, Tommy Kuntz replies.

    -I'm going to read you the list of names, Tommy.  I want you to tell me which name belongs to which of you three.  Ok?

    -Ok.

    -Now, I'm assuming that when you got here, when the shooting began, that you didn't really get to kill all the people you wanted to.  So you just started shooting everything that moved.

    -Yes.  That's what happened, Tommy admits.  It got chaotic the minute we walked through the door.

    -But I want to establish your intent here.  First on the list is Principle Ickes.  Who did he belong to?

    -Kit, Tommy Kuntz replies.

    -You fucking liar, Kuntz, Kit Carson interrupts.  Ickes belonged to all three of us.

    -Ok, Tommy, is that right?

    -Ickes belonged to all three of us, Dieter Richards agrees.

    -Yes, well, quite a few of the names on this list were in agreeement, Kuntz admits.  Partly because I didn't think it was any more than just talk...

    -Number Two, Preston continues, is Coach Redding.

    -All three, Carson says.

    -Number Three, Peter Blackmond.

    Peter Blackmond was the Student Counselor.

    -All three, Carson says.

    -Not really, Kuntz says.  Blackmond was more for Dieter than anyone else.  Because Blackmond called his parents several times to complain about Dieter's admiration of the Nazis....

    -You're dead, Tommy, Dieter Richards says quietly.  You're fucking dead...!

    Tommy looks twice at his friend, clearly fearing him.

    -You have no reason to be afraid of him now, Preston says.  Tommy, you have more reason to be afraid of us.  Dieter can't hurt you now.

    Kuntz is clearly disturbed by his friend's cold warning.

    -Roman Gaines? Preston asks.

    -Carson.  Carson mostly; but also Dieter.

    -Rich Manning?

    -The same.  He bullied Kit and Dieter -- he and Roman Gaines.

    - Elton Rusch?

    -Dieter.

    -Teddy Williams?

    Silence for a moment.

    -The coward, Kit Carson breaks in.  Tommy Boy.

    -Was that one yours, Tommy? Preston asks.

    -Yes, Kuntz replies.

    -John Preston.

    There is a pronounced silence.

    -All three of us, Carson says.  Too bad we didn't get you...!

    -Is that right, Tommy? Preston asks.

    -We all agreed to kill the jocks, Tommy answers.

    -Mindy Rosenburg?

    -Kit.  He hates Jews.

    -David Martinez?

    -Dieter.  He hates Mexicans.  And David Martinez beat him up in a fight last year in a fight in the parking lot....

    -Helen Moriarty?

    Michael Crossmann can't believe that Helen Moriarty is on the list.  Sweet Helen Moriarty. 

    None of the suspects wants to answer this.  Finally, Tommy says:

    -Kit.

    -Why? Preston asks.

    -I don't know, Tommy answers.  Let him tell you.

    -Kit?

    -None of your fucking business!

    -I think I know what it was, Gretchen Miller says.  Dieter told me why Kit hated Ms. Moriarty.  Kit was window peeking on Judy Reeves last summer.  And Ms. Moriarty lives next door.  She saw Kit looking through Judy's window.  He ran away.  But Ms. Moriarty called Kit's mother and told her.  Kit got in all kinds of trouble for that....

    -Ted Lawson?

    Silence.

    -All three, Tommy says finally.

    -Rex Lawson?

    -All of us.

    Rex was Ted Lawson's little brother. 

    -Mike Grubb?

    -All of us.

    -David McCulloch?

    -All of us.

    -Bill Blake?

    -I'm on that list? Bill Blake asks, shifting in his chair, growing noticeably paler.

    -Kit and Dieter, Tommy says.

    -And Kuntz, Kit adds.

    -Why did you want to kill me? Bill Blake asks, beside himself, shocked. 

    Blake felt he was a good man.  He could not believe anyone held out anger against him.

    -You're a fake liberal, Kit Carson answers.  You're all gooey about this race and that race.  We got sick of how fake you were....

    -Is that a reason to kill a man? Blake asks.

    -Yes.  It is to me, I guess, Kit Carson answers.

    -Roberto Escalante?

    -Kit.  He hated the fact that Roberto was dating Emily James, a white girl.

    -Mi Wing?

    -Kit.  He was attracted to Mi.  But he felt guilty about being attracted to an Asian girl.

    -The boy is insane, Florence Crane mutters.  She sits down on the concrete floor.

    It is too hot in the room.  Many people look weak.  Everyone is sweating.

    -We need to get some water and some food, Ted Lawson says. 

    Milt Marker and a few students carry Florence Crane away from the boiler.  They lay her on the floor, with someone's coat under her head.

    -John, we need some food and water, Ted Lawson repeats.

    -Just a minute, Preston says.  I want to finish this.  Betsy Schwartz?

    -Kit.  He hated Jewish girls.

    -Michael Crossmann?

    A gasp in the room, running like a wave.

    Michael Crossmann felt an extra blast of heat hit him from the front.  Confusion.  Building anger.  A sense of vulnerability came over him again, making him feel small and insignificant.

    -Kit.  He didn't like Mr. Crossmann being so popular.

    -Tubby Greely?

    -All of us.  He was a jock.

    -Roosevelt Taylor?

    -Both Kit and Dieter.  He was black; and he was on the chess team.  They hated blacks who didn't keep in their place.  Blacks who thought they were intellectuals.

    -Angela Stanley?

    -Kit.  He asked her out on a date and she refused.

    -Edith Hart?

    -Dieter.  She refused to go out on a date with him.

    -Eddie Wang?

    -Kit.  He hated Asians.

    -Coach Black?

    -All three of us.  He was the king of jocks.  Kit also hated him because he was black.

 

It isn't easy to get Chief Burns back to the door.  Apparently he is out supervising the purchase of hamburgers for thirty people.  Either that or he is in the bathroom somewhere.  No one knows where he has gone.

    When he finally does get back to the door, John Preston says:

    -We need that food and that water now, or some people might die in here of dehydration!  I need the God damn radio, now!  And I need a complete list of people killed and wounded today...!

    Chief Burns can tell from the sound of his voice that Preston is losing his composure.

    -John, I had a hell of a time getting you food and water.  The state police wanted me to starve you all out.  I had to talk like hell for them to give in to your demands.  The food is on the way -- the food and the water.  I have a radio out here right now.  I can hand it to you if you want....

    -No!  I want all of your men out of the landing, out of sight.  When I open this door, we will have a gun at the head of each suspect.  We will execute them on the spot if you do anything funny...

    -We won't do anything funny, Chief Burns says.  We really believe you have too many calm heads in there for you to do anything to the suspects.  Michael Crossmann and the other teachers will see that you do the right thing....

    -I need the list of those killed and wounded immmediately, Chief Burns, Preston added.

    -I'm not sure I can get that for you, John.  They are in three different hospitals.  I'm not sure we've compiled such a list yet.

    -We need it now! Preston shouted.  We need the God damned list now...!

    -Ok.  Ok.  I'll do what I can.

    -That's not good enough!  Preston looks at his watch.  It's almost ten-thirty, Chief Burns.  I want the list by eleven o'clock.  Do it yourself, if you have to.  The sooner I get the list, the sooner this door will open and you'll have your killers....

    -Ok.  We'll get to work on it.  We'll do the best job we can on it....

    -Now, get your men out of the basement.  Leave the radio by the door....

    John Preston waits for a minute or so at the door, listening for movement.  Then he signals to his friends.  Mike Grubb moves up to Kit Carson; David McCulloch moves up to Dieter Richards; Domingo Ruiz moves up to Tommy Kuntz.  Each puts a gun at the head of his prisoner.

    -If anyone tries to break in, kill them! Preston commands.

    Ted Lawson unocks the heavy metal door.  There is no one in the hallway, just an old portable with a metal jacket and a weathered black cord held together by a rubber band.

 

Preston turns the radio to KUGN.  The shooting, and the subsequent siege, are being covered minute-by-minute.  The radio is reporting that the shooters are holding about 30 students and teachers hostage in the basement of the school.  The radio is also reporting that as many as 25 people are believed dead in the shooting, and as many as 40 people are wounded, many seriously.

 

 

VI.

 

When I was a young man, growing up in Wyoming, I met a man who had no home, who carried everything he owned in a big sack on his back.  A water-bottle dangled from his belt.  He also had a large hunting knife in a sheath on his belt.  He had several sores on his face, swollen with pus.  His lips were cracked and bleeding.  He was only about thirty years old, but he looked fifty.

    I gave him some candy.

    I was about sixteen at the time.

    He appreciated my friendship.

    He said: "I have been walking for the last seven years."

    "Walking where?" I asked.

    He didn't know.  "All over," he said.

    "Why?" I asked.

    "Why not?" he answered.  "Why shouldn't I?  Who makes up the rules on how one lives his life?"

    I didn't know.

    He said: "The best utopia is the one in which individuals are allowed to build their own utopias.  Socially-engineered utopias always fail.  Look at Stalin, Mao; look at Hitler.  My utopia is just being free to wander.  I may not look good.  I may have sores on my face.  And my hair may be dirty, my clothes may smell.  But I don't hurt anyone.  Some day I will probably grow tired of wandering.  But, for now at least, it is all that I desire."

 

I remember watching him walk through town.  And I remember watching the town children, younger than I, about ten or twelve years old, boys mostly....I remember the town kids gathering on the street, throwing rocks at the solitary man, screaming at him: "Get out of our town, bum!  Get out of our town...!"

 

Wake up, man!

    What?

    Wake up!  You want to merely evaporate now?  You are a leader now; you sought leadership; you talked big about leadership and about doing the right thing; now you must be leader!  I know you are afraid; I know that you feel you are less significant than these children with guns.  But that is no excuse.  You must rise up again!  You must exert yourself to have some influence over this situation!  This is a very dangerous thing you are doing.  Anything could go wrong.  The police could rush the building, break open the door.  The kids with guns might go crazy.  What makes you think they are so much better than the children they judge, the ones who have just poured 200 rounds of ammunition into this building?  A week ago these children, too, would have been judged normal, would have been judged rational.

    Please, be quiet.

    I will not.  I will not sit quietly by and allow you to disappear.

    You know so little about this.  You do not understand.

    What if they shoot tear-gas into the room?  And students begin to run to the door to get out?  And the students with the guns become alarmed?  And the the police rush the room?  And then the shooting breaks out....?

    I have nothing to say about that.

    What is the matter with you?

    He intended to kill us.  You realize that, don't you?  He came here to kill us too.  We were on his list.

    He did not kill you.  Don't dramatize yourself.

    The little bastard....

    He could have killed you.  He did kill others.  He shot an inch or two away from your head.  He chose to let you live.

    Don't you think I understand that?

    So there is still a decent cell within him, somewhere.  That is why you should spare him.  Spare them all.  They are all children.  They are filled with hate -- but they are not devoid of decency....

    A typical liberal thought.  The kind of liberal thought that tolerates one murder and ends up with ten more somewhere down the line.

    And you?

    I don't believe that capital punishment will end crime.  But it will end crime by the person in question.

    At what cost to the society?

    What is the cost  to society if murder is allowed to flourish?

    That is the issue here, isn't it?

    Yes.

    That is the issue with which we grapple.  Is the society hurt more by a lack of compassion than it is by a lack of discipline...?

    You phrase it that way.  But picture the families and friends of the twenty-five people who have been killed here today, the forty-five others, some of whom may also die today.  You speak about compassion.  Where is your compassion for these many people...?

    I do have compassion for them.  But killing the killers won't bring them back.

    I am not concerned with bringing them back.  Nothing can bring them back.  I am concerned with ensuring they don't kill again.  And I am concerned with making an impression of others who might do the same thing.  Those lost kids out in television land, watching punks like this get twenty-four hour coverage from the news media.  If there is no clear punishment of bad behavior, then bad behavior flourishes.  If people see that bad behavior is not punished, then they lose respect for the power of punishment.  Then anarchy triumphs.

 

See how strange the memory works?

    What do you mean?

    Somehow your mind has fused two incidents into one.  The story about the bum passing through Sinclair.

    I don't understand what you mean.

    The bum you describe, the philosophical man, the wanderer: you met him in Eugene, the first year you moved here.  But the bum you describe as being pelted with stones by the town children: that was back in the mid-1950's.  I remember it as clear as day.  Why do I remember it so clearly?  Because we were with our friends that day.  We were the ones throwing the stones.  We were the ones screaming at the top of our lungs, telling the bum to get out of our town.  No one really wants to be on the wrong side.  That's how the memory tries to order things, trying to perfect things, so that we will be able to live with our mistakes.

 

 

VIII.

 

There is a pounding on the door.

    -Move away from the door, John Preston calls through the door, signaling the other students with the guns the guard the prisoners again.

    -I'd like to talk with you, John.   Chief Burns' voice comes in a blurr through the metal.

    -No way.  All of your men need to be out of the hallway when I open this door, Preston orders.  If there is a mistake made, some of these people will get hurt.

    -Ok.  But we need to know how long this will go on?

    -I don't know, Preston answers.  Did you bring water?

    -Yes.  We have water for an army, and cups.  We have food in boxes....

    -And the list?

    -Yes we have the list.

    -Is it complete?

    -Yes, as far as things go.  Some of the wounded are seriously hurt....there may be more fatalities.  But this is what we know right now.

    -Good, Chief Burns.  I appreciate your good judgment.  Now please get yourself and your men out of the basement.  Come back in an hour.

    -Don't do anything studid, son, Chief Burns warns Preston in a good, fatherly voice.  If you take the law into your own hands, that will be a crime; we'll have to arrest you if you do....

    There was no answer.

    -Ok, we're going.  I put a cell phone in the box with the food.  I wrote my number on the phone.  If you need anything, let me know. 

 

Ted Lawson and Roy Cruz pull the boxes of food and the water jugs into the boiler room.  Lawson hands a file folder to John Preston.  Preston has been watching the movements of Rebecca Reed, watching to make sure she doesn't make a move for the door.  But Rebecca is now quiet, sitting with her back against the north wall, away from the boiler.  She seems to be in shock.  Apparently being slapped in the face has taken some of the fight out of her.

    Lawson slots the metal plank in place against the door again, locking the boiler room.

    Everyone eats.

    Preston reads the file as he eats a hamburger.

    Michael Crossmann also eats.

    When Florence Crane approaches the prisoners with food, John Preston shakes his head no. 

    -They don't eat, Preston says.  The prioners don't eat.

    Florence Crane backs off, her former confidence gone.

    -They need to eat, Michael Crossmann says finally.

    -They're not going to starve if they don't eat for a day, Preston replies.  Give them water.  They can have water.

 

-Ok, does anyone want to say anything before we continue? John Preston asks.

    -I'm wondering about the structure of this trial? Milt Marker asks.  Are we going to have a structure?

    -I'm not sure what structure we're going to use, Preston replies.  We'll make a case against them.  Then they can make a response.  They will definitely have a chance to speak, to say what they want in their defense.

    -What role are we supposed to have? Bill Blake asks.  You appointed me to be their defender -- but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do.  It will be difficult for me to defend three young men who have just admitted their intention to kill me.  For that matter, I think Michael Crossmann should step down as the judge here, since he is in a comparable position.  He has, in fact, been shot by one of the men on trial.  Do you think this trial will stand up to some kind of legal or public scrutiny if the defendants are being defended by a man they intended to kill and are being judged by a man they shot....?

    -We are not interested in public scrutiny, Preston replies  Everyone in this room is intimately involved in this tragedy.  My girlfriend was shot dead in front of me.  I'm not impartial.  They are being judged by their peers, peers they have wronged.  They issue here is will they get a fair trial, have a fair hearing -- not that the hearign be stacked in their favor.  Are they guilty? -- that is the issue.  Have they broken the law? 

    -I'd like to know where you stand on all of this, Crossmann? Blake asks.

    -I have mixed feelings, Bill, Michael Crossmann replies.  The defendants need to be allowed to make their case also.  I think we all agree on this.

    -This is ridiculous, Blake cries.  We know they are guilty.  They have admitted as much themselves.  This is a sham trial.

    -What do you suggest we do? Preston asks.  Let them off because they have admitted their guilt?

    -Turn them over to the police, Blake repeats.  They're no good -- these kids are no good.  Why are we putting ourselves in a position to ruin our lives over them.  Let the police take the responsibility....

    -Don't you get it? Preston asks, angry.  There won't be justice if we hand them over to the police.  Their lawyers will just prove that Kit's dad butt-fucked him when he was three; and the jury will cry and say it was inevitable that Kit became a killer, that Kit is, in fact, the victim....

    -I would ask you to watch your language, Florence Crane says quietly.  We are not uncivilized cretans here, just becaue we're beginning to look like we are...

    -I'm sorry, Preston apologizes.  But you understand what I'm saying?

    -Yes, Ms. Crane replies.  I think we do understand why you are holding us here.  But what is the answer to this?  I mean, we vote to convict them, because we all know they did it.  Then do we have to execute them, to meet your demands?  Or can we convict them, make a recommendation for imprisonment, or even execution, and turn them over to the police, to let someone else carry out the punishment?  That is the million dollar question....

    -We will vote on their guilt, Preston says.  And we will vote on their sentencing.  The majority will rule.  You can all make an impassioned plea for your position.  The prisoners will also be able to make a plea regarding their sentencing.

 

-I have a list of the killed and wounded, Preston begins again.  My thought is to go down the list, matching this with the list of intended targets, to get some sense of who killed who, and if the murders were premeditated or just what...situational....

    -Start with the list of intended targets, Blake suggests.

    -Ok.  First, Principle Ickes: he was unharmed....

    -Not really, Melanie Rose calls out.  She is listening to the radio.  That is her assignment. 

    -The radio just reported that Principle Ickes was admitted to the hospital with symptoms of a heart attack, Melanie continues.

    -Clearly, these boys are not going to be held responsible for a heart attack, Bill Blake says.

    -Why the hell not, Mike Grubb responds.  They caused the stress that led to the heart attack....

    -That would be hard to prove without a doctor's statement, Blake answers.

    -I think you could make a case for saying that they are responsible, Michael Crossmann replies, finally coming out of his fog.  But I'm not sure we need to make this an issue now, given all the other evidence.  Go ahead, John....

    -Coach Redding, unharmed.  Peter Blackmond: dead.  That was one of Dieter Richards' targets.

    -You have no right to judge me, Dieter Richards responds, finally breaking his frightened silence.  I don't accept this tribunal.  There is no constitional right for you to convene this trial....

    -Shut up, shithead! David McCulloch orders.

    -Wait a minute! Bill Blake cries out.  Crossmann, tell McCulloch to shut his mouth.  The defendant has a right to speak....

    -Ok, David, Crossmann replies.  Mr. Blake is right.  The prisoners can speak when they want....

    Preston continues:

    -Roman Gaines: dead.  Kit Carson's target.  Rich Manning: dead.  Carson again.  Elton Rusch: unhurt.  Teddy Williams: unhurt.  John Preston: unhurt.  Mindy Rosenburg: unhurt.  David Martinez: unhurt.  Helen Moriarty: dead.  Again, Kit Carson's target.  Ted Lawson: unhurt.  Rex, his brother: also unhurt.  Mike Grubb: unhurt.  Bill Blake: unhurt.  Roberto Escalante: unhurt.  Mi Wing: wounded.  Carson's target.  Betsy Schwartz: wounded.   Michael Crossmann: wounded (but not on the wounded list).  Tubby Greely: dead.  Roosevelt Taylor: wounded, critical.  That was Carson and Richards...

    -That was all of us, Carson replies.  Tommy wanted that nigger dead too...

    -I did not, Tommy Kuntz answers.  I had nothing against Taylor. 

    -Angela Stanley: unhurt.  Edith Hart: unhurt.  Eddie Wang: unhurt.  Coach Black: unhurt.

   

-I'm not sure what this exercise is all about, Bill Blake says.  We know they did it, the shooting.  We caught them in the act.

    -This is the first level of conspiracy, Preston says.  They conspired to kill these people.  They premeditated to kill these people.  All three suspects conspired in the killing of Tubby Greely.  Those of you who might argue that Tommy Kuntz is less guilty (and perhaps he is less guilty) he has admitted that he agreed that Tubby Greely should be killed -- and Tubby was killed.  Even he is guilty of this conspiracy, whether he actually shot someone or not....

    -Oh, I see, Blake replies.  This is your way to get Kuntz too.  Even though it seems he did not kill anyone....

    -He may be less guilty, Mr. Blake, Preston says.  But he is guilty nonetheless....

    -And, because he is less guilty, then his sentence might be lighter....

    -That is a judgment we will have to make, Michael Crossmann says.  As a group.  As a democracy.

 

Preston reads the list of the dead.

    People listen in stunned silence.  Kit Carson has a smug look on his face.  And he is encouraging Dieter Richards.

    Eddie Monroe, a small, friendly freshman with big glasses was one of the dead.  Hunter Theodoropoulos too.  Michael Crossmann had taught Hunter earlier in the year.  Rick Meeter, a mediocre student who loved working on cars.  Ophelia Grant, a pretty black girl who was a cheerleader.  She dated Roosevelt Taylor.  Apparently they had been shot when they were together.  Robert March, a janitor.  Lucy Fleenor.  Marissa Thomason.  Carney Gaines, Roman's younger brother.  Edith Plant, who taught math, algebra and trigonometry.

    Carson is smiling as the names were read.  He and Dieter Richards are talking under their breath, laughing.

    David McCulloch steps up to Carson and hits him with a short right cross, striking Carson on the forehead, above the left eye.  He then backhands Dieter Richards with his right hand, wiping the smile off Richards' face.

    -Stop that! Bill Blake calls out.

    Carson is bloody, on the face and on his shirt.  He is clearly stunned by the blow.

    -You fucking insects, he mutters.  You fucking insects.  I should have killed you all....

    Dieter Richards is no longer laughing.

    Michael Crossmann says nothing about David McCulloch's striking of the prisoners.  He has no will to defend the killers.  Names move across the room like smoke, each triggering in Crossmann a picture, a memory.  The toss of a head.  A shoe.  A car the student drove.  A smell.  Rosewater.  A terrible paper.  A laughing face....

    Crossmann knows nearly all the names, has had nearly every name as a student -- or as a colleague.

    Then comes the name Alison Benjamin.  His memories all come flooding back.  And it is only now that Michael Crossmann realizes that he is in a kind of shock.  All the sounds are still alive in him.  Mr. Crossmann!  Mr. Crossmann!  The words gurgling in her thoat.  The look of fear in her eye.  The injustice of it all, taking her life like that.  Like she were a fish, and he were the fisherman, little Kit, enlarged with a big rifle.  Little dick but a large rifle.  A deadly combination.

    Then the smiling boy.  Blood splattering his face.  An orgy of noise.  He is loving it. 

    Michael Crossmann turns to run.  Everything is in slow motion.  He runs.  His left foot slips in Alison's blood.  Alison's blood literally saves his life.  As he slips and falls, the shoulder experiences a thud and a surgical kind of precise disturbance.  Like an ice pick has been plunged in and then removed.  Right through the meat, not hitting the bone.  He is falling.  Slow-motion.  Sounds.  Screams.  The hall is full of screams.  He hears pops going off all around him.  Pop pop pop.  Pop pop pop.  Hell sounds.  People at the other end of the hall are running and screaming.  The memory is coming back now and it is hellish.  Crossmann cringes, holding the edge of his desk, afraid he will fall off his chair.  Holding the desktop violently, afraid to fall.  People crying.  He is down, down on his face.  He fears most that the boy in the black trenchcoat and the mirror sunglasses will step up and shoot him in the back of his head.  So he tries to turn, to see the shooter.  He doesn't know who it is at this point.  At least it doesn't register.  But he can't turn.  His right arm is a mess; and he has no strength in his hand.  He can't push himself over.  He knows he is lying in blood.  He is not sure if it is his own, or the poor young girl's.  Everything happens slowly.  Even turning his face to the left to try to look over his left shoulder, to see the boy with the gun.  It happens too slowly.  Time is an illusion.  Movement is an illusion too.  He rolls on his left shoulder; then pivots his weight clockwise.  Weight is an illusion too.  He turns, feeling fat, bloated with gravity.  Turning.  Hearing the girl talking in blood.  Homework.  Homework.  She will need some extra time.  Yes, he understands that.  Try not to talk.  Bubbles of blood.  Red blood, with black in it.  Remembering the blood of fish when he takes out a hook, or when he breaks a neck, or when he slices the belly to remove the eggs and the organs.  Hazy.  Smoke in the hallway.  He turns; and he pushes himself up against the wall.  The boy's gun is being held out at arm's length.  The rifled muzzle held up against Alison's small friendly head.  She doesn't beg him to stop.  She begs him to give her some more time to complete her assignment.  He is laughing.  He is a devil.  He pulls the trigger.  The little girl's head explodes.  Bits of bone and brain flying out everywhere.  Like a cherry bomb just went off inside a tub of red jello.  Except for the bones, the flying bones, which hit him in the face, stinging, like a bee sting, many bee stings.  He even sees Alsion spirit escape.  He sees a phantom of light, a small phantom of light, like a fairy light, rise up out of the abandoned body of the girl.  A light of high speed, a kind of comet.  Rising and going, rushing out of the room.  Everything is slowed down.  He can see things he can't ordinarily see.  The comet is in the sperm.  That's what he understands.  The comet is in the man's sperm.  The light is inside the sperm.  He thinks of his own daughter, Christina.  Something is good, even in this.  But someone is laughing. Kit Carson.  Now he recognizes the boy.  Kit lowers his sunglasses so that Crossmann can see his eyes.  He raises his rifle, pointing the rifle at Crossmann's forehead.  He aims at Crossmann's brain too, just above the eyes, between the eyes.  Then he moves the rifle calmly, to his own right.  Moving it a little, intentionally.  A light, the bucking of the barrel, a sound later as bits of plaster and concrete explode near his ear, sending sparks up against his skin and back into his brain, like a roaring train that is still running, still roaring.  And always will roar.  Always will.

    It is only now that Michael Crossmann realizes that he has lost his hearing in his left ear.  He can hear nothing out of his left ear.

   

The reading of the names lasts very long.  Students in the room are crying, as they understand now that many friends are either wounded or dead.  Tommy Bittman, Avery Noles, Lotte Schulz.  Michael Crossmann sees them lying is the sticky red-black blood at the end of the hallway.  Passing them.  A cold wind blowing in through the window.  Thomas Henrickson standing in the light.  A kind of angel, clean, untouched.  He is holding a sword and a torch.  It is a kind of dream.

    -Now, he seems to say, I will escort you into the underworld.

   

Kit Carson is bleeding badly from a wound over his left eye; but no one cares.  Blood is dripping from his eyebrown down his cheek, then on to his black trenchcoat.  He wants to wipe the blood off his eye, as it is disturbing him.  But he is bound.  His hands are tied.  And he cannot relieve himself.

 

-So, do we need more testimoy than this? John Preston finally asks.

    No one replies.

    -I think we do, Michael Crossmann says.  I think we need to hear from eyewitnesses in the room what they remember.  Does anyone want to tell use what they remember?  Did anyone else see them enter the building?

    Russell Sanders saw them enter the building.  He is a rugged senior, quiet, who has been standling in the back of the room all day.  He has dark brown hair, a thin face, the face of a rancher's son.  There is not an ounce of fat on his body.  He someimes chews tobacco.  But he is not chewing today.  He seems a little pale.  He says:

    -They came in at the north entrance.  I was standing near the top of the stairs on the second floor.  Richards and Kuntz went straight ahead, on the first floor; Carson came up the stairs to the second floor.  He was running, like he was energized by what he was doing.

    -Were they shooting at that time? Crossmann asks.

    -They were shooting even before they came inside the school.  I heard shots outside.  I heard a couple of dull pops; I didn't know what it was at the time.  Then they were inside the door, with their rifles.  Carson shot someone on the stairs, a girl.  I remember her falling.

    -Who was it? Crossmann asks.

    -I don't remember.

    -It was Carla Gonzalez, Kit Carson answers, cocky now even despite his blood.  I shot her right through the left tit.  I saw her grab her left tit.  It was a great shot....

    -You killed her, Kit.  You admit this, then?

    -Of course, Carson replies.  He has no remorse.

    -Kit, you don't care that you killed people, do you? Crossmann asks.  You don't feel bad about it...?  

    -No.

    -Why did they deserve to die? Crossmann asks.

    -They're maggots, Carson answers.  They are dark-skinned maggots. 

    -Alsion was very blonde, Crossmann replies.  And I watched you kill her.

    -She was a little whore, Carson responds.

    -You know that's not true, Crossmann says.  She was a sweet, innocent girl...

    -I hate innocence, Carson says.  I hate the innocent.  The innocent are so deficient....intellectually.

    -You are the king, intellectually-speaking, is that right? Crossmann asks.

    -I'm smarter than the ones I killed, Carson says, smiling.  Isn't that obvious.  Our country has become a mediocre nation because we push this false equality.  Nature has no equality.  Nature has a hierarchy, a food chain....

    -And you're at the top of the food chain, is that right? Crossmann asks Carson.

    -That's how it should be, Carson answers.  I should be at the top of the food chain.  Because I know how to think. I have a brain.  And I have a gun...

    -You are the lion, then, Kit? Crossmann asks.  The human lion at least?

    -Yes, I am the lion, Kit Carson  responds.

    -What else do you remember seeing? Crossmann asks Russell Sanders.

    -I don't know.  I was running.  I turned and ran as fast as I could.  I could hear the shooting behind me.  And I was yelling at everyone to run, because he had a gun and was shooting people....

    -What else did you see? Crossmann asks

    -I heard Carson shooting behind me; but I ran as fast as I could down to the first floor.  And there was shooting down there too.  These other two.  I got down the stairs at the end of the second floor and I was sprinting toward the front doors; but these two (Kuntz and Richards) had made it all the way down to the cafeteria.  And they were shooting it up.  Kuntz had the front door covered and was shooting at anyone trying to get out the front door.  And Richards must have been in the cafeteria, because the sound of gunfire was coming out of the cafeteria....

    -Did you see Mr. Kuntz shooting people? Crossmann asks.

    -I don't know.  There were maybe fifteen people down in the vicinity of the front door.  But this might have happened when Kuntz and Richard came sweeping in toward the cafeteria.  I saw Kuntz shooting, and people running. He was trying to keep them from getting out.  I didn't stand and watch whether he hit anyone.  I ran back to 111, the administration office; and I climbed out of the window out into the parking lot.  I helped Janice Evans and Molly Cartwright get out the window.  And I ran to my car.  But by then a lot of people were gathering in the parking lot.  I met John Preston in the parking lot.  He was with David McCulloch.  He wanted to know what happened.  So I told him what had happened.  He said he wanted to go in and try to help inside the building.  He asked me if I'd go back in with him.  So we went back in through the same window I'd just come out....

    -I'd like to come back to you in a minute, Russell, Crossmann says.  He has now taken controll of the hearing.

    -Has anyone else anything to add about witnessing the three men as they came in to the building? Crossmann asks.

    -Yes. 

    Richard Snow is a small boy, with orange hair.  He is a junior.  On the golf team.  His dad is an engineer working in the Sony plant out in Springfield.  His mom teaches drama in the French School, an elementary school taught entirely in the French language.  His shirt and his neck are stained with dried blood.

    -I was in the bathroom on the first floor.  I heard the shooting; I was with my friend Ben Webb.  We both came running out of the bathroom together.  It was like the running of the bulls in the hallway.  Someone ran into me and I fell down.  I almost lost my glasses.  But I held on to them.  When I got up I saw those two (Richards and Kuntz) coming up the hallway shooting automatic rifles.  I saw people falling.  He (Richards) aimed at me.  But someone passed right in front of me.  It was a girl.  And she got hit, right in the chest.  And she fell right into me.  She fell on me.  And they kept moving up the hall.  I couldn't get up.  I just laid there under her.  I laid there for quite some time.  Then she started moving and moaning.  So I pushed myself out from under her.  It was Edith Hart.  I didn't really know her -- but I'd seen her around.  She was just sort of whimpering.  I tried to pick her up but she asked me not to move her, because it hurt too much.  I went into the bathroom and soaked my hanky in cold water.  And I kept wiping her face.  There were other people wounded all around the hallway.  Some of the wounded people were going down the hallway away from the front doors, toward the side doors.  I didn't want to leave Edith there.  I felt she had saved my life.  I held her head in my arms for awhile.  Later the shooting stopped.  But by then she was dead.  I walked down toward the front door.  And I saw that John Preston and some other guys had captured Dieter Richards and the other guy.  I just followed everyone here.

    People laugh at his innocence.

    -Did you see Tommy Kuntz shooting too? Crossmann asks.

    -I didn't know who they were when they were shooting, he answers.  Both of them had black coats on and both of them seemed very big, old, and dangerous.  Both were shooting.  I didn't see anyone shooting in the sky or anything.  They were both shooting to kill and injure, right into the pack.

    -He's not a very good witness if he can't even recognize the shooters, Bill Blake says.  He saw them as being bigger and older than the boys we are holding....

    -Well, are you suggesting that there were other shooters in the building? Crossmann asks.  That these suspects were framed by some other shooters...?

    -I'm just saying, if this was a real trial, his testimony would be suspect because he wasn't even sure who the shooters were.

    -You'd make a good lawyer, Mr. Blake, Mike Grubb says.  You're good at disfiguring the truth.

    -Well, Blake responds.  That's the lawyer's job, to disfigure the truth.  It's the lawyer's job to disfigure the truth; and its the jury's job to re-configure the truth.  There's nothing wrong with that system.  As long as the jury does its job....

    -We've made a football game out of jsutice, John Preston says.  It's about who plays the best, who looks the best -- not about what is true, what actually happened.... 

    -Well, the facts of the trial should determine who plays the best, Blake argues.

    -But the rules are tipped toward the defendant now, Michael Crossmann responds.  And this determines what facts the jury gets to hear.  The jury almost never gets to hear all the facts.  That is the problem.

    -This discussion is stupid, Kit Carson says, still bleeding.  You just want some intellectual justification for taking us out in the parking lot and shooting us.  You don't need that intellectual justification.  You have the guns.  You can just do it.  Whoever has the guns has the power.  The guns get to make the laws....

    This pleases no one.

   

-John, Ted Lawson calls out.  He has been listening to the radio, while he guards the door. 

    - They're interviewing Ms. Lawrence, Lawson says. 

    Ms. Lawrence is a school counselor.

 

-This is Randall Whipple, with KUGN, at Southwest Eugene High School.  I'm standing actually across from the school with Rita Lawrence, one of the Counselors at the High School.  Thank you, Ms. Lawrence, for joining us.  Can you tell us what happened this morning?

-Well, I was at my office.  It was just about 11:00 when everything happened.  I was drinking a cup of coffee, working on a report on the computer.  I had an appointment with a student scheduled for 11:00.  That was when I heard the shooting start.  I didn't know it was shooting when it started; but then I could hear the students running through the hall screaming -- then I knew it was probably what we had all dreaded. 

-What did you do when you heard the shooting start?

-In all honesty, I froze.  I didn't do anything.  I thought about climbing out the window.  But I didn't do anything.  I just listened to the footsteps running up the hall in my direction.  I don't think I really believed it....

-When did you believe it?

-I really think I only believed it when one of the shooters came into the office shooting.

-Do you know who that was?

-It was Dieter Richards.

-How do you know Dieter Richards?

-I had had several meetings with him during the term.  He was missing class.  And his attitude was bad.  He had been a very good student for his first two years.  But this year, his junior year, he was involved with...well he was under a bad influence.  We knew there was some problem.  But he wouldn't talk about it....

-We have talked with some students who say he was a neo-Nazi.  Is there any truth to this?

-We knew he was experimenting with some extreme ideas.

-And he came into the room shooting.  Who was he shooting at? 

-He shot Peter Blackmond twice.  Peter had been in his office.  He came out into the main office when the shooting started.  He started out the door, but then he came back.  He told us all to get down.  He was moving back toward his office when Dieter came in to the room.  Dieter yelled: Blackmond!  Peter turned back to him; and Dieter Richards shot him in the chest two or three times.  It was an automatic rifle and it fired shots very fast so it was hard to keep track of everything.

-Did Dieter Richards then turn his gun against you?

-No, he didn't.  Dieter and Peter had had trouble in the past, exchanged heated words.  I got along with Dieter quite well.  He just looked at me, smiled, and said: Don't worry, Ms. Lawrence.  I won't hurt you.  He dissed me too many times.  That's why I had to get him.

-Then he left the office?

-Yes.

-Then what did you do?

-I went to help Peter Blackmond.  But it was too late.  He was delirious for a few moments.  Then unconscious.

-Was there anyone else in your office?

-Just Nora Glass, our secretary.  She hid under her desk.  I told her to come out.  I helped her out the window.  Then I called the police.  I wasn't sure if anyone had botherted to call the police. 

-Was there still shooting going on?

-Yes.  I could still hear shooting when I climbed out the window.

-Have you heard stories -- we've been told by several students that the shooters were actually disarmed by some of the students, and that they were taken down to the basement, down to the old boiler room.  Have you heard anything about that?

-I have heard that story.  I wasn't in the building when the shooting stopped.

-The police are saying that the shooters have taken hostages down in the basement; but some of the students are saying that some students have taken the shooters down there.  What do you make of these conflicting stories?

-Well, I hope the students have the shooters in the basement.  I hope we don't have any more injuries today.  It has been bad enough already.

-Thank you for joining us on this very painful day for all of Eugene.

-You're welcome.

-This is Randall Whipple reporting.

-Randall, this is Loren Hill back at the station...

-Yes, Loren.

-Can you tell us more about this report that the students are holding the shooters hostage?  Do you believe there is any truth in this...?

-It's hard to tell, Loren.  Many students apparently witnessed the disarming of two of the shooters, who have been reported to be Dieter Richards and Tommy Kuntz.  Richards is a junior at Southwest; Kuntz is a sophomore.

-Is there any speculation on what they would be doing with these shooters in the basement of the school?

-That's a hard one, Loren.  There has been some speculation that they might be interrogating the shooters.  We should add that the third shooter has been identified as Charles Carson, nicknamed Kit, who is also a junior at Southwest.  He has been identified as the leader of the group.  They have been said to have had some ties to neo-Nazi groups, at least on the internet.

-So, it sounds to me, and you tell me if I'm wrong, Randall, that all those students can't be wrong.  If they saw the shooters disarmed, then they must have been disarmed.  Who were they disarmed by?

-We hear the names of John Preston, a senior at Southwest, Mike Grubb, also a senior, David McCulloch, another senior.  We heard that one of the shooters had been wounded in a shootout, Tommy Kuntz.  Several students say they witnessed him being shot once in the leg and once in the arm.  We have heard other reports that there are teachers down in the boiler room with the students.  These are teachers who followed the students and the shooters down into the boiler room.  They were not, apparently, involved in the disarming of the shooters.  We had been told that some students have identified that, among other teachers, Milt Marker, the track coach, Florence Crane, a teacher of math, and Michael Crossmann, an English teacherr,are also with the students in the basement.  Michael Crossmann was covered in blood and seemed to be wounded when he went down into the basement.  He was apparently having trouble with his right arm.  That has not been confirmed, however.  I want to stress this.  I am repeating perceptions of some of the students who have survived the shooting at Southwest Eugene High School today....

-Randall, some students believe that the intent of the students was to take the shooters down into the basement an put them on trial or even execute them...?

-Well, that is really just speculation.  We have talked with one student, Marion Miller, who said she heard John Preston saying to some of his friends that they needed to hold their own trial, that if they turned the shooters over to the police the shooters would just get all the publicity they were after and that they'd be out of prison in five years.  Most everyone at Southwest today lost someone close to them, friends, lovers, teachers, even family members.  Marion Miller said the students who captured the shooters were mad and looked like they wanted vengeance....

-Randall, NBC is reporting now on national television that the students are holding the shooters in the basement, having some kind of mock trial.  They got that story, apparently, from someone working in Chief Ed Burns' office.  So it looks like some of your speculation is more than just speculation...

-Well, that's very interesting, Loren.  One has to wonder how the police will respond to this, beyond their first intention to cover up the situation, claiming that the shooters were holding more hostages....

-Perhaps the students demanded the police voice that story.  Perhaps the police just didn't know when they released that statement.  We need to cut away for a break, Randall, but we'll be getting back to you in a few minutes.....

 

-It doesn't matter who knows what, John Preston offers.  There are no secrets in this society.

    It does matter, Bill Blake replies. 

    No, it doesn't, Michael Crossmann agrees.  In fact it takes the pressure off the police.  No one is going to demand that they rush this boiler room, as long as the public knows that we are safe and the shooters are under house arrest.  This takes a lot of pressure off everyone.  But I need that phone, John.  I need to call my wife and tell her I'm alright.  So do all the rest of you.  Everyone needs to call home.  We're going to adjourn for a few minutes.  Everyone gets a phone call, except the prisoners.  Anyone who wants to leave can leave.  But I would ask you all to stay.  We all need to act as a jury now, now that we are having a real trial for these young men.  Rebecca...?

    Rebecca Reed is sitting up against the wall, seemingly entranced.  When she hears her name called, she turns to Michael Crossmann.

    -I hope you'll stay with us.

    She is resolute, despite her pallid appearance.

    -I am listening to every word spoken, she replies.  I take my role as a juror very seriously.  I hope that everyone stays.  Because those of us who are opposed to the death penalty -- even opposed to the existence of this so-called trial -- need to be present and involved to make sure that this proceeding does not sink into the hell of these surroundings....

    Everyone laughs a bit.  Ms. Reed seems to be back to her old self.

    Michael Crossmann can feel the relief in the room.  The announcement on the radio has helped lift a shroud off the room.  Everyone can now feel a real tangible fact: they are part of a trial, a very justifiable act of civic duty.  Their duty is to make an unprejudiced judgment on these three boys.  The society will thank them for doing the right thing.  They are helping to make America a decent place to live, living up to its ideals. 

    That, at least, is how Michael Crossmann feels at the moment.

    He is the first to make a phone call.  He reaches his wife, explaining in about two minutes that he has been wounded, he is alright, the bleeding has stopped; that they are indeed holding a trial; that they will finish when they finish; that no one is in any danger; and that he loves his wife, Irene, and his beautiful daughter Christina, whom he and his wife have named after Christina in the famous Andrew Wyeth painting.

    When Crossmann finishes, he hands the phone to Bill Blake. 

    -Everyone has two minutes, he says.  Keep the calls short and to the point.  We still have a lot of work to do before we can call it a day.  Then he adds:

    -Get the prisoners some food and water.  We don't want to be uncililized here.  We'll treat them better than they have treated us.

 

 

IX.

 

Civilized is as civilized does.

    Irene Crossmann does not take her husband's explanation easily or quietly.  He is wounded.  He must get to the hospital immediately.  She is vociferous.  He is breaking the law.  What does he think he is doing?

    It is not an easy call.

    He finally ends the call by telling Irene that he loves her and hanging up on her screaming voice.

    Certainly, he can understand her worries.  But she is rude; she makes no attempt to understand him.  And he remembers something about his marriage, about his life.  Something is wrong.  He has ignored it for many years now.  But it is hard to ignore at the moment, when his death is so close, when the immediacy of life has seemed so clear and demanding.

    He is weary of his life with his wife -- because she has become so demanding in her own way, pushing him this way, that way, demanding in her quiet, insistent way that he live according to her dreams.

    He does not really love his wife any longer.  His marriage is little more to him than a social contract, a contract with the society to do the right thing, to do what he is told, to marry, to have children, to buy a house, to buy a new car, to consume goods, to cut his lawn regularly....what is real about his life now?  What gives his life real meaning?

    He doesn't know.   He knows that the social contract does not give his life real meaning however.

    Real meaning comes from the inside.  And, of course, he has his daughter....

 

John Preston dresses Michael Crossmann's wound, taking his shirt off carefully, washing the wound with water thoroughly, applying a thick layer of salve on both the entry and the exit wounds, wrapping the wound in gauze, then elastic bandage, tape.

    Tommy Kuntz is untied by Mike Grubb; and Gretchen Miller cleans his wounds.  The wound in the left arm is insubstantial, a graze; and the bleeding has already stopped.  Kuntz has taken off his shirt; and his skinny body portrays a boy only, an insignificant-looking child, without power, without physical attributes. 

    That is the problem apparently, for all three boys.  They do not have physical properties that can impose power.  Only guns can give them substance, in a world which idealizes physical power.  The teenage world is a physical world, a realm ruled by the body, in its many manifestations, athletic prowess, physical toughness and manhood, sexual realization.

    In these areas of expression, each of the three shooters cannot measure up.  Each is a good student; each is smart; each has a sense of humor; each is handsome enough; but each is lacking that one essential which gives a teenage boy a positive identity: physical power.  The gun appears; and the gun takes away the deficiencies of each.

 

-I'm helping you, Tommy, Gretchen Miller says, because I feel sorry for you, that you were so pathetic a person that you had to do this....

    -I'm sorry, Gretchen, Tommy begins.

    -Don't say anything.  I don't want to talk with you.

    She looks him in the eye.

    -I despise you for what you did, she says.  Your arm is ok.  I'm going to put a bandage on it.  But it is ok.  What about your leg?

    There is a bullet in his left leg, below the knee.  It is still bleeding.

    Mike Grubb uses one of the hunting knives that Kit Carson carried to school to cut open Tommy Kuntz's pants.  Gretchen Miller pours water over the wound.  There is no exit wound.  The bullet is still in the leg.  Tommy Kuntz begins to wimper.

    -Don't cry, Tommy, Gretchen says.  Not after all the pain that you caused today.

    Tommy bites his lip, wipes tears from his eyes.

    -Did you kill anyone, Tommy? Greatchen asks in a hushed voice.

    -No.  I did not! Tommy answers.

    -Liar! Dieter Richards replies.  I saw you blow Jimmy Nash's brains out.

    -That's a lie, Dieter! Kuntz replies.  You killed Jimmy Nash.

    -Shut up, both of you! Mike Grubb demands.  Gretchen, how is the leg?

    -I don't know.  There is no exit wound.  The bullet is still in the leg.  He probably should see a doctor.

    -No way, Grubb replies.  He'll see a doctor when we're finished here.

    Gretchen Miller washes the wound and bandages it.

    -Gretchen, Tommy Kuntz begins...

    -Don't speak to me, Tommy, she answers.  I have no reason to talk to you now.

    -I'm sorry for what I've done, he says.  I'm really sorry.  Please forgive me...!

    Tommy Kuntz is crying like a baby.

 

-How much more do we need to hear? John Preston asks.

&n