CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BARRY VISITED DAVID the night before his sentencing, to once again review the plea deal he’d reached with the DA. David sat in cold silence. Eight years minimum, and he’d be transferred after his eighteenth birthday to an upstate facility. He asked Barry if his parents had been told. Barry said he’d sent notice.

“Did my father say if he’d come to the sentencing?” David asked.

Barry took a deep breath. “The important thing for you to understand, David, is that you’ve been given a second chance to do something positive with your life. Don’t focus on all these details. Stay out of trouble when you get inside, and keep going with your education. Finish high school. Get a college degree while you’re in, so you can get a jump start on your life after prison.”

The word “prison” sent a chill through David’s body. Barry took silent note of this, and continued: “Use these years to find yourself. Prove to the world that you’re not the person they think you are. Through your actions, not by getting on a stand and telling them. They’ve arranged for you to receive counseling while you’re in there. Take advantage of it and listen to what they have to say. This doesn’t have to be the end of your life.” The lawyer leaned back in his chair.

David nodded solemnly. “You got the paper today?” he asked.

“Don’t . . . It’s not good to read that stuff, David.”

“I want to read the paper, did you bring it?”

Barry took the paper out of his briefcase and slid it across to him. Then he stood up from his chair and banged on the door for the guards to lead him out. He turned when David called his name.

“In the 1300s, a pig in France was publicly hanged for the murder of a child.”

“You are a fount of useless information,” Barry said and smiled at him. “Look sharp for the judge. Don’t say anything. Let him speak his mind. Do this thing with dignity. I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

The guards opened the door and Barry was gone.

* * *

What is this about? wrote Elijah Fennecker, after spelling out the details of what would happen in the courtroom, now just a few hours away. David sat on his low bed and read the next few sentences, licking his lips.

 

This is about teenagers engaging in destructive behavior without any emotional attachment. Our young are being led to the slaughter in this country, because fear is no longer in them. The fear of consequences, the fear of God, even the fear of prison no longer keeps them pointed in the right direction.

 

More conclusions, David thought, looking over the stacked inches of sentences, all conclusions about his emotional state. Led to the slaughter, yes, but who holds the bolt gun? Wasn’t it fear that caused all this in the first place?

 

More and more in our society they become desensitized to violence. They see the wily coyote get up time after time after being dropped, shot, burned to a crisp. They see the evening news. Violence wraps them like a blanket.

 

David could hardly read through it all. Fennecker’s lecture to parents. His pleas for them to teach kids nonviolence. The violence he’d committed made it impossible for him to imagine his parents could have stopped it, and he died a little each time he thought about it.

 

When I look at David Westwood, I don’t see fear in his eyes. I see rage. A symbol of what some teenagers have come to represent. An angry generation. Raised by parents of that selfish ilk that led to defeat in Vietnam. This is the inheritance of parents who, when they were younger, decided to skip out on their patriotic chores.

 

But he wasn’t a generation, David thought. If he was, he would have blended in. He would have done the things that generations do. Not something that caused everyone to flee from him, like a monster. He wasn’t a symbol. A symbol stood in for others, but David never met any others. He thought he had, with Julia, but he was wrong. He read the closing words with a tight throat.

 

By the time David Westwood leaves prison he will be a man. Hopefully he will emerge into a peaceful world. And given his violent tendencies, hopefully he won’t feel like the world has outgrown him, or rejects him the way they must for committing this crime.

 

David was led out in leg irons and handcuffs and placed in his seat by an expressionless bailiff who towered over him and clasped his hands in front to show his biceps. Barry was at the prosecutor’s table going over some papers. The judge had not yet arrived, but the courtroom was completely packed. David turned around and looked at the people sitting behind him. His eyes rested on Mr. Hopkins when a grown man’s voice boomed from the back row.

“Turn around, son. None of us want to see your murdering face!”

David obeyed quickly and stared at the table in front of him. He heard a woman whisper, “Murdering bastard,” and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Moments later, a familiar laugh rang out from the back of the room. David watched Elijah Fennecker take his usual seat in the courtroom. David stared at him, and waited for the guy to make eye contact. After he shook a few hands, he finally gazed across the room. His face dropped; he sat down. David smiled at him. It was forced, but he wanted to smile. Elijah looked sideways at him. So much like a turtle. Recoiling into the loose flesh of his neck. Unable to stare directly into the horror of David’s smile.

There was a strange buzz in the room, almost separate from the business of the day. David could hear the people murmuring about something excitedly. The sound of newspapers flipping wildly.

Barry had the day’s New York Times on top of his briefcase. David imagined his lawyer would go out to the park afterward, have a sandwich, check out the paper. He read the top of the paper and was surprised. He’d lost track of events outside. October 26, 1983. 1,900 US Troops with Carribbean Allies Invade Grenada . . .

David looked over his shoulder again at the packed benches behind him. The parents of Dallas, James, and Felix were all sitting in the row behind Elijah. David looked at James. A faint scar glistened on his forehead, the sight of which burned a pit in David’s stomach. James’s parents sat beside him, and on the other side of them sat Felix with his perpetual scowl. David took notice that James and Felix didn’t seem to be speaking to each other.

Dallas’s parents were sitting behind the Cassidys. David stared at Mr. Darwin. A stern expression made his pale face look like a mask, the muscles in his jaws clenched tightly. David couldn’t peel his eyes away, not even when the man’s wife glared back.

Something nudged David forward in his mind. This was important: the look on Mr. Darwin’s face. It was the face of a father without answers. Seeing that look, David could only think of the horror movies—a man petrified at the sight of a monster. And in this case, David was the monster. He knew that now. It wasn’t time, or coincidence. It wasn’t rage, or humiliation. Neither was it absurdity—the incalculable cruelty of heaven’s random summoning of souls. It had been his decision to choke the life out of a boy. To rob him of the luck of falling in love, because he himself had been turned away by it. He thought of those tragic candy bars lying melted in the sand, and it couldn’t have been clearer to David. He was an executioner. He was a monster, just like they’d said. A monster now standing before his own wreckage and watching Mr. Darwin’s face, scrubbed expressionless by a love he’d never get to feel again.

But he wouldn’t stay a monster forever. They needed to know that. It suddenly occurred to David that these people would be gone from his life in a matter of moments, and it became important that they realize he saw what they saw. He knew Barry wanted his silence, but he was bursting with a desire to speak.

The judge entered the room, banged his gavel, and told David to rise. He obeyed, getting to his feet with Barry’s help. His knees were shaking, and his head swirled as if he’d stood up too fast.

“Counsel, the people have understood that your client wishes to change his plea to guilty, is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Barry answered.

“Mr. Westwood, you are hereby entering your plea of guilty. Is this correct, young man?”

“Yes sir,” answered David, shaking all over, body and voice. He turned his head to look at Michael Darwin again and heard the crowd collectively gasp.

“Turn around!” a man shouted from the back of the room.

“Counselor, please advise your client,” the judge said as he smacked his gavel.

But David wouldn’t turn around. He gazed upon Mr. Darwin as if he wanted to speak directly to him, and another shout erupted from the back of the courtroom. Barry yanked on his arm.

“Focus on the judge, David, I’m right here,” he said.

David turned his attention back to the front of the room. “I won’t stay a monster,” he whispered to Barry.

“Shhh.” Barry patted David on the shoulder.

“I’m a monster, but I won’t be like this forever,” David whispered.

The judge was rifling through a file, calmly licking his fingertips. “Counselor, your client is how old?”

“Sixteen, Your Honor,” said Barry, clearing his throat. “He just turned sixteen a few weeks ago.”

The judge crossed something out. Shook his head. “Very well,” he said. “Mr. Westwood, under the terms of your plea to voluntary manslaughter, I hereby sentence you to serve no less than eight years, and no more than fifteen years in a juvenile penitentiary until your eighteenth birthday, whereby you shall be remitted to a maximum-security prison to complete the term of your sentence.”

Eight years for a life, David thought. He turned to look at Mr. Darwin again. The man’s face hadn’t changed, and David wanted him to know that he could see himself now. Clearly. Mr. Darwin didn’t need to be afraid of him.

“Knock it off and turn the hell around!” a woman screamed as the judge lifted his gavel.

“Counselor, is there some fascination your client has with these families?”

Barry pulled on David’s arm again. “No, Your Honor, please proceed.”

“I mean, is there something your client wishes to say?”

Barry leaned over to David’s ear. “I’m right here. You’re not alone,” he whispered, and straightened. Then: “We’d like to proceed, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Westwood,” the judge glared at him from the desk, “I hope I’m only imagining it when I say that I have observed your behavior in this courtroom and can only characterize it as the same callous indifference you likely used during the commitment of your heinous crime. It is my sincere hope that in eight years, I won’t just be unleashing another criminal out into the unsuspecting public. When I look in your eyes, and observe your demeanor, I am very skeptical. I’m not sure there’s anything left redeemable in your body, but I do hope you prove me wrong.

“It deeply saddens me to see this today. At this very moment, young men only slightly older than you are landing on foreign shores to defend the very freedoms of this great nation that you seem to despise. It pains me to see you, and think what could have been a more heroic fate. I want to make something perfectly clear, Mr. Westwood: I do not want to see you back in my courtroom again. You, for that matter, do not want to see me ever again, for if you do, rest assured I will do whatever is in my legal capabilities to ensure you never return to society. God be with you. And may He provide the forgiveness that this court is not so anxious to provide. You’ll be taken away to begin your sentence immediately. This court is adjourned.”

With that he banged his gavel.

The bailiff grabbed David by his arm. David looked over at Barry. The finality of it glued his feet to the ground. He scanned the courtroom for his parents. People were crying and holding one another.

Suddenly a voice on the far end of the courtroom screamed: “Eight years is an outrage!” The judge banged his gavel again.

David was led to an open door beside the bench, Barry trailing behind him. David turned one last time to the restless audience. They were on their feet. He noticed a face, bloodred with anger, lean forward. It was an old man, pudgy, with a thin comb-over and a mustache. He pointed a finger at David.

“I hope they get you in there, scumbag!” he screamed. The judge demanded order. “Better watch it,” the man continued. “I hope you get it right in the ass, you little punk.” His finger was shaking.

The door closed behind David, as more people began to shout at him. He could only hear the muffled sounds of rage and hissing in the courtroom.

“Well, that didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped,” Barry said, exhaling.

But David’s mind could only hold a picture of Mr. Darwin’s face, sitting humbly in his seat. His grief, pointing the way to David’s redemption. With Barry’s hand resting on his back, so much like a father, David readied himself for the locked doors to open.