..........................................Such a Shadowy Place
I had my drink and swirled it in my glass, watching the play of the muted light over the liquor. I had the feeling I should ask her something or she didn't mention something.
I watched her shuffle her notes together and slip them into her case. What was it? It danced there, just out of my grasp, word on the tip of my tongue.
The drinks had dulled my usually sharp senses, and that was my own fault. Razor sharp mind dulled with wine. Helplessly I watched her finish packing up, knowing I'd be calling her later with whatever it was.
I stood as she began to go, ever the gentleman, and offered my hand.
"Ms. Johnson, thank you, I'll be in touch," She nodded and turned to leave, a skinny woman smothered in gray, the red glints in her hair a riot of color compared to that suit.
Then I had it. That boy, Robert Sheldon. Johnny had known him, Robert beat him up and gave him that scar. Dallas, Ponyboy, and Cherry all mentioned it, their faces bearing identical expressions of grave concern. And Johnny, that day at the church, wouldn't even stay in the room when I mentioned it.
This was potentially damaging, if the prosecution puts the right spin of revenge on it…
"Uh, Ms.Johnson, could you wait a moment?" She turned back to me, her face closed, wanting to go.
"Did Johnny happen to mention that the boy he killed at the park had beaten him up quite badly a few months earlier?" The closed look changed to dawning surprise and she sat back down.
"No, he didn't,"
"That's how he got that scar on his cheek," Her eyes widened, her mouth opened just a bit, she looked toward the bar and then back to me.
"Did you ask him about the scar?" I said.
"I did, I…" she looked flustered, upset something so crucial had not found its way into her extensive file.
"What did he say?"
"He, well, he shrugged and said he couldn't really remember. When children are abused, as he has been, sometimes they can't remember everything. The brain blocks the memories, it's a sort of protective mechanism," I nodded, wondering perhaps if he had blocked the incident with Robert.
The mind was such a shadowy place. Would Johnny have killed another soc if the situation had been the same? There were four others there that night but Johnny killed the one who had hurt him before. Is it Robert's fault? He was the aggressor the day he and his friends beat Johnny and also the night they tried to drown Ponyboy. He had brought it upon himself because Johnny was already so badly damaged by his parents' abuse…then again Johnny chose to do it, didn't he? Couldn't he have hurt Robert with the knife but not have killed him? But maybe Johnny's experiences of being abused by his father and, how did Dallas put it? 'Damn near killed,' by Robert, maybe Johnny didn't choose. Maybe it was kill or be killed. I squeezed my eyes shut, rubbed my temples. It only mattered what the jury would think. But what would they think?
"You'll have to talk to him about it," I said, eyes still shut, "you'll have to see if he remembers it and how he thinks it effected that night in the park," I opened my eyes. Ms. Johnson was nodding, her notes out again, jotting things in the margins.
............................................................Evil Green God
She couldn't see him right away, and it was probably for the best. I had a meeting with the D.A. in a couple of days. He wouldn't drop the charges on Johnny though. I'd attempt it but it wouldn't work. Johnny was going to trial. But Ponyboy. I should be able to get the charges reduced if not dropped entirely.
I was at a little diner, the autumn morning cool and blue. I had my coffee, liberally doused with sugar and milk. My time. My time of peace before I had to face the law books, the D.A., Ms. Johnson, Ponyboy and Johnny, the silent blame in their eyes…
I thought about money. That evil green god. This place was really divided by it. In Boston the split was more subtle, no one of means would in good conscience point out another's poverty.
The kids here, the "greasers", lived in poverty. But it seemed the "socs" blamed them for it. Beat them up for it. How was it their fault? What was that quote I heard drifting through one of my college electives? "They put out the people's eyes, then blamed them for their blindness." That fit, I thought. Was it Johnny's fault his father was an out of work drunk? Ponyboy's fault his parents died and he lived on whatever his brothers could scrape together?
But that was the thing here. Would the jury only see "Greasers", hoods, low lifes who tend to bring things upon themselves? Would they see Robert as an upstanding young man, son of prominent, important citizens, who was only sowing some wild oats and paid with his life? I shook my head. I had to make the jury see these boys, really see them, see that Robert was violent for the sake of violence, targeting the defenseless and underprivaleged of society. See that Johnny was tormented by what he had done, see the life of want and abuse that had lead to it.
I finished my coffee, headed for the library. How could I ever do this?
