Worthy

         The constant hum of chatter fell silent as a man, who looked to be in his late teens to early twenties, walked down the aisle towards the defendants’ table.  His suit was tailored to fit well, but he wore it oddly.  As he entered, one girl, dressed in her Sunday best, turned to look at him.  The rest of the room continued to keep their gaze at the front of the room where the judge looked down his nose, over his glasses, at the man.  The judge looked perplexed, perhaps because the man was wearing a suit, almost unheard of, and the shackles that most defendants were brought in with.

         “Guess that’s what comes from having a supreme court justice for the state as your father,” murmured the judge under his breath. 

         “The court will now come to order.  The Honorable Hurst presiding.  All rise,”  said the bailiff and at his words the somber crowd rose to its feet and then sat in respect for the judge. 

         “The prosecution may proceed,” pronounced the judge.

         “Thank you your Honor,” said the prosecutor, a tall man with slicked back hair and a smile that could never be genuine.  He began to pace before the jury, looking at them as if he was merely a concerned citizen, same as them.  “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, we are here today because the defendant, Mr. Worthy, killed a man.  This is a simple case of jealousy. Mr. Worthy wanted Miss Wilcox, the daughter of the oilman, and couldn’t have her.  In his rage he turned on the man who did, Mr. Gorrell, and now he is no longer with us.  This is a simple case, ladies and gentleman.  Mr. Worthy killed a man in cold blood and ought to be punished.” He smiled at the jury before turning and retaking his seat. 

         “Defense you may proceed,” said the judge in monotone.

         The defense attorney was an average man, not unappealing, but easily forgotten.  He approached the jury as he said, “Thank you, your Honor.  Mr. Matthew would have you believe that my client is a cold blooded killer.  Someone you have to watch out for on the streets or around your homes.  The notion is frankly ludicrous.  Mr. Worthy is barely a man, nineteen, who is sick.  His mother has recently fallen ill and, as you will hear from expert testimony, it has had an effect on his own psyche.  Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Worthy doesn’t need prison; he needs help, your help.”

         The case dragged on.  Days passed and still Mr. Worthy was not called to the stand.  Reporters waited for his testimony, but had to be satisfied with the testimony of Doctor Karl Menninger.  Dr. Menninger was a short man with a big beard.  He dressed the part more of a professor than a doctor, and smelled of old age.  Aged though he was, he was the highest authority on criminal sanity in the state; and a personal friend of Mr. Worthy’s father.  According to him Mr. Worthy was insane, obviously unable to be held accountable for his actions.  Mr. Worthy’s own father backed this story up, claiming that his son hadn’t been the same since his mother had fallen ill.  Finally on the tenth day of the trial it was Mr. Worthy’s turn to speak.

         The anticipation was tangible in the air.  Everyone had been waiting in the sticky summer air for days to witness this.  It seemed like the whole town was at the trial, sweating and waiting together.  He strode up to the witness stand.  He did not shake and he did not hesitate.  He sat at the stand erect, and he scanned his eyes across the jury before they fell on the prosecutor who was making his way to the stand.

         “Mr. Worthy, are you insane?”         

         “No.  I am not.”

         “Thank you.  And did you shoot Mr. Gorrell?”
         “Yes I did.”

         “Do you even regret having done so?”

         “No I don’t.”

         “Mr. Worthy, you have waived you’re right to the 5th correct?”

         “Yes, and have come to the stand despite my lawyer’s requests so that I might corr...”

         “Thank you, please answer only the question Mr. Worthy.  No further questions your Honor.”

         Mr. Worthy’s lawyer patted his forehead with a handkerchief, erasing sweat that could equally have come from the humidity or from nerves, and stood to approach his client.  He seemed to drag himself to the podium.  He was much more reluctant than his client had been.  A sigh escaped his mouth before he proceeded with his questioning. 

         “Mr. Worthy, would you please,” he paused and Mr. Worthy looked him straight into the eyes.  “Recount to us the happenings of June 17th.”

         “It starts before then, really.  You see, while Mr. Gorrell and I were never really friends, he had too much given to him if you ask me,...”  

         “Please just stick to the facts,” his attorney pleaded.

         “Like I was saying, we were never really friends, but we did have friends in common.  He came up with some half-brained scheme to kidnap Miss Wilcox.” 

         Gasps errupted from the audience. 

         “Could it be true?”

         “What an excuse.  This kids full of it.”

         “My Virginia?” squealed the elderly man sitting next to Miss Wilcox.

         Heads swiveled around to look at Virginia and then quickly snapped back as they remembered their manners.  Virginia’s stayed trained forward.

         “He decided that he was growing tired of their relationship and his dad was threatening to cut off his money and he figured why not kill two birds with one stone.  I got dragged into the whole scheme with my friends, but I promise you I had no intentions of letting it proceed.”  He scanned the jury with these words, the gleam that had been in his eyes quickly fading to a solemn look.  “And thats why I was in the scuffle with him to begin with.  I went to confront him about it, see?  And he pulled a gun on me.  To be honest, I should be dead right now and it should be him whose up on this podium.  Doubtless his money would have prevented that though,” he said the last comment aside and caught a harsh look from his lawyer for it. “See, his gun jammed.  And I took that chance and stole the gun from him and shot him back in self defense.  It was him or me at that point, he wasn’t...”

         “Yes, thank you Mr. Worthy.  No further questions your honor.”

         The clack of metal on concrete echoed throughout the cell and a man stood in the doorway looking into the dim lighting.  The jailor walked away without a word, but cast the man who was sitting in the cell already a pitying look.  Urine and sweat coated the concrete floor and were a shock to the nose upon first arrival, but quickly faded into the background.  Both men wore the same rags, brown pants and a brown shirt, though the seated man’s looked almost black and were visibly tattered.  After only the breathing of the two men was audible the newly entered man walked to the corner adjacent to the others’ in the back of the cell.  His eyes started to close as his back slid down the concrete, every once in a while catching slightly on an etched tic-tac-toe game or the name of an old inhabitant, but they jerked back open as the other man spoke.

         “What’re you in for,” he asked quietly.

         There was a pause,  the shallow breathing of the man who had spoken was all that one could hear.  The newly arrived man turned to his counterpart hesitantly, and then began to breathe again before responding, “Armed robbery.”

         “I’m in for murder.”  There was a visible movement of the newcomer’s adams apple at these words, but his eyes remained cold and trained on his cell mate.  “Don’t worry though, it was in self defense.  I’m not crazy or anything.  I’m James.”   As he spoke James dragged himself the short distance over to the other man and extended his hand.

         The man’s muscles relaxed and he grasped the hand that was offered.  “Rayshawn.”

         Each man smiled at the other, but silence followed the brief exchange of words. 

         There were no clocks in the cell, no sunlight by which to tell the passing of the day.  Interaction with the guards was limited and it never occurred to the inmates to ask about time.  They were all in there for a long time, though few knew how long long was.  Thus neither cellmate really knew how much time had passed when Rayshawn finally spoke, “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

         “Huh?”

         “During the robbery.  I wasn’t going to hurt nobody,” said Rayshawn, his voice scratchy and his face wet.  “It was supposed to be easy.  They were rich, they didn’t need that money.  H-h-he waawannted to be heherroo I guess,” Rayshawn cut himself off, his words starting to become inaudible.

         “Typical rich boy.  Thinks he’s entitled to be a hero.  They’re all the same,” spat James.  “Wait, I thought you said...,” he cut himself off as he turned to look at Rayshawn and saw the tear stains.

         James sat in silence, only interrupted by the occasional snuffle from Rayshawn. 

         “No one deserves that fate, rich or poor.  You look like you’re from the middle class anyways.  Prison may have washed away the cleanliness, but you still have the air about you,” Rayshawn spoke suddenly, cutting through the hush.

         Grunts came from the direction of James before he answered, “My dad.  He’s a supreme court justice for the state.”  Rayshawn’s face rearranged itself. “Not a lot of money, but thats the crowd one has to run with,” James forced these words out.

         Rayshawn laughed lightly, a laugh playful like a bubbling brook which didn’t fit the stout, unshaven man it came from. “So man, who are you to judge them?  Do you hate yourself too?”

         “FUCK THAT.  I HAVE EVERY RIGHT.  If anything I have an insiders opinion.  They’re all the same.  Looking out for themselves, laughing at the misfortunes of those below them.  Never met a good one of them.  The have the potential to do so much good with their educations, but they throw it all THE FUCK AWAY.  Squander it making themselves feel important, drinking beer and seducing girls, instead of actually being important,” James ranted, his speech becoming quicker as he continued.

         “Alright man, calm down, shit.  Didn’t mean it all that serious.  One of them take your girl or something?”

         “Well...uhm...well...,” James trailed off and stared into the distance.

         “At anyrate man, if your dads a judge how’d you get stuck in here?”

         “For telling the truth.  They wanted to get me to say I was insane, that it wasn’t self defense.  Then after I was in here they wanted me to show remorse.  It seemed almost daily, well really who can tell time in here anyways, that they would come and ask me if I was sorry for what I did.  That if I did that they could work out some kind of parole.  I ain’t sorry though, if it all went down the same again I’d do the same thing.”  James hardened as he spoke and he spoke slowly once again.  After he was done he rolled over and closed his eyes.

         The clack of metal on concrete echoed throughout the cell once again, but this time no new convict entered.  A guard, dressed in a blue uniform that was in little better shape than those of the inmates, stood just outside the cell hitting his left hand with his baton. He peered at what a less trained eye would have taken for two piles of clothing before beating on the iron bars with his weapon. 

         “Get the fuck up,” the guard cursed, but didn’t yell.

         “Ughhh”

         “James Worthy? Rayshawn Berry?”

         “If someone’s here to ask me if I’m sorry, I already fucking told them.  I’m not.”

         “Mr. Worthy, you’ve been enlisted in the army.  That goes for you too Mr. Berry.  You’re being shipped off to fight for your country,” said the guard with some finality.

         Green encompassed the landscape as far as the eye could see.  Green tents, green cars, green clothing, and a grey sky overhead.  Rain poured down upon the men who scurried about, but the work did not cease.  James stepped into the wet chaos along with other newly arrived men.  A tall man, clean shaven and important, whisked aside a tent flap as he strode over to the freshly formed line. 

         “Welcome men.  The time is oh eight hundred.  You are expected to be settled by oh eight fifteen.  That is all,” addressed the man before turning and leaving them to themselves once again.

         “Fucking prick.  Probably some rich guy who got out of serving actual combat time despite having no more experience than the rest of us,” said James to Rayshawn as they headed towards their quarters.

         “You’ll never give that shit up will you?”

         “I’m right though aren’t I?”

         One of the soldiers in front of them threw a look back over his shoulder before turning around to fall into line with the two of them.

         “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

         “I’m sure,” James snapped back.

         The newcomer ignored the sarcastic tone and continued unfazed, “I don’t know what you’ve been through in your life, whose hurt you, but I can tell you that not all people with money only looking out for themselves.  Myself for example, I’m here serving by choice.  My country needs me, but more importantly the people here need me,” he said with even tone.  He didn’t excite or trail off.  He seemed sincere.

         “Whatever,” mumbled James as he picked up his pace and motioned for Rayshawn to do the same.

         “Good morning soldiers.  Today you have a mission which could change the face of the war.  You have already been debriefed, but let me just remind you that you will be behind enemy lines.  You will either succeed or die.  Good luck and God speed,”  the tall man spoke solemnly, there was little hope to be gleaned from his speech and he looked as if he may never have had any himself.

         James moved to the other side of Rayshawn as the rich man from the previous day walked towards them. 

         “Looks like we’ll all be together today.”

         “Hmmm, assuming you last a day,” whispered James under his breath.

         Again the man from the previous day let the comment slide off him, seemingly with the rain that was drenching them all.  “I’m Phil,” he said smiling as he stuck out a hand.

         Rayshawn grabbed it and reciprocated the introduction, but James ignored it and walked off towards one of the aircrafts.

         Deafening air whipped past the opening in the back of the plane.  Men were shouting, but little could be heard.  One at a time men jumped out of the plane, careful not to space themselves out too much lest they end up separated on the ground.  James jumped and could hear shots nearby before he could see the ground through the fog.  Bullets zoomed past him seeming to appear from thin air.  He waited as long as he could to pull the parachute to avoid getting a hole in it.  As a result landed on the ground, a crumpled mess, before he could take it all in. 

         Gun fire was heard from every direction, though which was ally fire and which was enemy fire was impossible to tell.  Sharp steel cut through his parachute as he attempted to free himself.  A vast field of death stretched before him.  Barricades and barbed-wire littered the land and all the vegetation had been replaced by burn marks and dust.  Rain drops beat against everything to the point where no one felt wet anymore.  Before James could even get his bearings a bullet whizzed past him just to his right.  The ground seemed to rush up to meet him as he threw himself towards it, knocking the wind out of him temporarily.  Mud soiled his uniform as he dragged himself towards two other parachutes. 

         He found Phil attempting to prop Rayshawn up.  Rayshawn’s legs jutted out at odd angles and blood ran off into the constant stream of water.  A small hole in one of the parachutes, no bigger than a bullet, caught James’ eye.

         “Help me!” shouted Phil.

         “Quiet, they’ll hear you,” said James through gritted teeth.

         He ran the rest of the distance to Rayshawn and attempted to sling his arm around his own shoulder.  Phil followed suit and they started to carry Rayshawn, though without apparent direction.

         “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGG!” Rayshawn jerked in their arms as he cried out.  Both men looked to his legs but their eyes caught on blood leaking from his chest.         

         “We’ve no where to take him,” exclaimed Phil in desperation.

         “We’re just going to hurt him by taking him with us, lets set him over by the tree.  Tie his wounds, give him morphine.”

         With Rayshawn as best taken care of as they could manage they peaked around the two trees that he rested upon.  Phil motioned to take the gun post that was mere feet from them.  James nodded and the two sprinted from cover, rain and gun fire covering the sound of their footsteps.  They rushed down the steps and into the gun post, trying to capitalize on the element of surprise.  The two men manning the post turned around, yelling in German, and one attempted to pull out his pistol, but it was too late.  Phil had already put a bullet through his head while James had stabbed the other through his neck with his bayonet.  Phil looked at James and for the first time James didn’t look back in disgust.  He met his gaze.

         “You know...,” James cut himself short as a new soldier came down the stairs.  Time seemed to slow down for James, he raised his gun, aimed it, and pulled the trigger all without batting an eye.  The gun just didn’t fire.  Time sped back up and with a crack Phil fell face forward into James, his blood and brains splattered everywhere.  James looked at his fallen comrade in disbelief.  He didn’t even attempt a second shot before a bullet was placed in his head as well.

         Hundreds sat in front of the clock tower as the speaker looked out over a closed casket. 

         “...Many men gave their lives to protect this country.  To protect freedom.  No man can do more.  They are all worthy of our undying appreciation and respect.”