justice

He Flipped the Table

(This is a guest post from a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. I hope it gives you pause.)

The room was cold. Not cruel, just… indifferent.

White walls. Bright lights. The hum of fluorescent tubes. Not a chapel. Not a courtroom. Not Hell. Just a windowless, federally contracted execution chamber in the back of a privately run detention center in Texas.

The table was shaped like a cross. Not by design—at least, not officially. A long central plank padded in sterile vinyl, with two short extensions at shoulder height, each outfitted with broad leather restraints.

They laid him down with professional indifference. One guard to each limb. Strap, buckle, cinch. Left arm out, right arm out, body flat against the cold table— arms wide like wings, like surrender, like the very thing he had once been accused of defiling.

He hadn’t touched anyone. He hadn’t carried a weapon. He hadn’t shouted threats.

He flipped a donation kiosk in a megachurch lobby on Easter Sunday. Shattered it like a parable. Then spoke scripture calmly until security tackled him.

The officer who tackled him slipped, drew early, fired wildly. The second officer died instantly.

They called it felony murder.

The trial was swift. The defense was outmatched. The church offered prayers for the officer’s family. And then, quietly, for justice to be done.

It was.

The IV bag hung to his left. Clear. Efficient. The needle entered the inside of his wrist like a nail through open flesh. The nurse’s hands were gloved. His were not.

The straps at his wrists cut slightly into skin. Bloodless. But firm. Cruciform in silence.

A priest had been offered. He declined. The Bible had been offered. He declined.

Only one ritual remained.

“Any last words?” the warden asked. It was policy.

He looked straight up into the overhead lights. Not at the people. Not at the camera. Just at the light itself.

Then he said it:

“Dios mío, Dios mío, ¿por qué me has abandonado?”

No translation was given. No one asked.

The IV hissed. The line emptied. His arms, still outstretched, twitched once. Then stillness.

The technician marked the time.

He was dead.

Three days later, on a bright, clean Sunday, the megachurch was packed.

The new kiosk was reinforced glass, affixed to the floor. The collection bins were digital now. Swipe cards only.

The pastor wore a new mic. Security wore sidearms. A choir sang something upbeat and harmless. The sermon was on grace.

A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve during communion.

“Mama… who was that man? The one who flipped the table?”

Her mother hushed her.

But the question hung there, unanswered. Like a ghost. Like a seed. Like a curtain that never quite closed.

And somewhere deep in the crowd, someone quietly began to cry.

SQUINT LEDBEDDER AND THE DEAD MAN© Harvey Hughett

This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. You can follow him on Facebook at Musing Appalachia

This story is about a man who lived in a holler close to Papaw’s place in the backwoods near Mohawk, East Tennessee. He was married to Miz Kitty. Everybody called him “Squint.” His real name was Commodore Ledbedder.

Squint was just a nickname, but he hated to be called Commodore because it was the same name as Commodore Hughett and he didn’t want to be confused with him. Commodore Hughett was known to git hog-nosed on Nathan Gulley’s moonshine ever so often and do things Squint didn’t approve of. Squint got his nickname from the funny way he held his eyes when he was about to get upset with somebody. He’d squint his eyes a certain way, and when he did that you knew you’d better get your butt out of his way. He got his left eye messed up when his first wife shot him in the face for messin’ around. She left him for another man, and Squint joined the army, went to World War II, and fought in France against the Krauts.

He was a big man, about six foot tall, and had big arms and a gruff voice from when he once drank some really bad hootch. There was a time when he served some time in prison for killing a man, but they let him loose because he got a mean lawyer, and they couldn’t make the charge stick.

However, all that was behind Squint. He quit drinkin’, quit carousing, and got religion. However, he didn’t attend my Papaw’s church very often except when there were homecomings and lots of food and activities with the boys in the parking lot. I write in detail about that in my book, Musing Appalachia (You can buy it on Amazon.com. Just search Musing Appalachia by Harvey Hughett).

For the most part, Squint was a loner and made spending money by trapping muskrats in Bent Creek, digging ginseng roots and selling ’em to the hardware store in Morristown. He wasn’t getting rich, but he and Miz Kitty made out good. And he treated her like a queen. Whatever she wanted, he tried to get it for her. Miz Kitty was French by birth. Squint brought two things back with him from the war: a 1901 Springfield rifle and a young French bride.

Squint was descended from strong Scotch and Irish people, and they say, along with his size, that made him a good soldier. His hero was another Tennessean, Sargent Alvin York. You can read about Alvin in Volume One of my book too.

Squint wasn’t without his strange habits. Other than being a loner, he didn’t like anybody coming around his place in the holler or, especially, gittin’ near his woman, Miz Kitty. She was easy on the eyes and had a quaint accent that everybody liked. Her language wasn’t like what the flatlanders talked.

Mamaw used to trade eggs to Miz Kitty and she’d send me over there to deliver them. As a young boy, I was a little afraid but I did what I was supposed to. Papaw always warned me, “Be careful and don’t you make him mad. He killed a man onest.”
The first time I saw Squint was when I was fishing on Lick Creek and ran into him. He was busy tending his trapline and I slipped away before he could see me. I went on fishing downstream.

A few days later, I was at Miz Kitty’s house delivering eggs and Squint was there. He squinted his eyes at me and said, “Boy, don’t you dare tell nobody where my traps is, you unnerstand?” I quickly replied, “Yes Sir. You bet, Sir. I ain’t gonna tell nobody.”

He squinted at me a little harder and then said, “Do you know they say that I killed a man? I answered, “Yes Sir.”

He said, “Well, that’s not all true. I wiped out a bunch in the war, and they tried to blame a killin’ on me after I got home. But the fact is, that man needed killin’. He was beatin’ his woman and kids.” Squint never admitted to killin’ his neighbor but people figured that since he was used to doing that kind of thing in the war, and suffered from shell shock in battle, he most likely did.

The facts are that he was a neighbor to the dead man and, being a loner and of a mean disposition, everybody suspected him of the murder. What got him in trouble was when they took him in for questioning and he said, “That scoundrel deserved ever thang he got!”

To clinch a solid confession out of Squint, the mountain sheriff did something that almost always got a man to fess up: he took him to the funeral home in Bulls Gap and left him alone in a room with the body for an hour. That usually unnerved superstitious mountain folk and they soon talked.

After an hour, Squint just said, “That man there is way better off dead than he was alive.”

Pretty sure that was almost a confession; the sheriff then threatened to leave him in the small room with the body all night, with the casket open and with no lights on. Squint, in his matter-of-fact way, just said, “I warn’t never skeered o that sorry bastard when he wuz alive and you can bet yore best coon dog, I shore in Hell ain’t now!” That pretty well sealed it and he was locked up until a smart lawyer got him off the hook.

I wonder if he squinted at the jury?

Please share this story with your friends if you like it. FOLLOW this Facebook site for more stories

Make a Joyful Noise!

imageDaddy was always right.  Custom and rules were for us, the underlings and nobodies of the family, and we’d best not forget it. He broke the news that some Church in the Wildwood was having a revival and we were going tonight.  I never liked going to church much anyway, so this ruined my day, but wait, there was a bonus.  In case that was’t bad enough, Phyliis and I were going to sing a special.  For those of you unfortunates not initiated into the strange goings on of Baptist Churches back in the sixties, it was common for a slightly talented, or not, fervently religious girl to do a solo, hold the congregation captive for what could be a few miserable minutes. Presumably, she had collaborated with the choir director and pianist, so as not to hijack order of the service.

Phyllis fit the bill perfectly, and had enthusiastically sung several specials in our church, delighting herself, Daddy, and hopefully, at least some people of the congregation.  A couple of times, he had even sprung for a new dress, so she’d really shine.  In all honesty, she sounded good.  

Despite the fact that I wanted no part in it, I’d even been dragged into it a couple of times as backup, kicking and screaming.  I did not sing with a joyful heart.

My heart was heavy with dread as Daddy drove manically through the back roads in search of this obscure church, throwing a fit the whole time because we’d made him late.  This was standard practice wherever we went, since he’d never bother to start getting dressed till after the time he’d say we were leaving.  When it was obvious we’d arrive after services started, I felt great relief, cheerfully offering, “Too bad!  We won’t be able to talk to them about singing a special.”

Always right, as usual, he shot me down.”Oh yes you will.  I’ll tell you when to go up and sing.  It doesn’t have to be arranged ahead of time.  Just be ready to go when I say.  Tell the piano player you want her to play ‘How Great Thou Art’.” I gave up.  We were going to be clomping up to the front of the church surprising the unsuspecting congregation with an impromptu “special” like a couple of clowns. At least, we’d never have to see any of these people again.

The seven of us filled a pew as the congregation finished a hymn, and launched in to another as I waited for the ax to fall.  Phyllis and I sat on the outside so we could make our way more easily to the front when the time came.  After the close of the offeratoy hymn and the collection of the offering, Daddy gave Phyllis “The Signal.” As she stood and prepared to stun the worshipers with our “special “, the choir director announced a “Special,” to be sung by a saintly appearing young lady.  Daddy’s face fell and Phyllis quickly sat down.  The singer limped through “How Greet  Thou Art” clearly enunciating “Greet,” not “Great” as we were prepared to do.  I never enjoyed a song more, the hilarity of the situation nearly undoing me.  As she finished, I stood as though I still thought Daddy expected us to sing.  He reached over, grabbing my skirt tail, stopping my progress.  I gave him a questioning look, as though I was confused at his shutting me down.

God is good.

 

 

Rascal Boy

Charley’s appearance was deceptive. A slow-speaking, stodgy little guy, you could have been forgiven for thinking him unobservant. He used this to his advantage, taking in everything around him.

When he was about three, he noticed his dad emptying his pockets one day after work. “What’s that, Daddy?”

Daddy worked for the telephone company and often had to go in yards to do work when customers weren’t home. “That’s dog repellent. I use it if a dog gets after me. Don’t mess with it.” Both went on their merry way.

It just happens, Charley had history with Granny’s mean little dog. Boochie snapped at Charley every time Charley got close. I expect, not without cause. The next time Charley went to Granny’s, Boochie came after Charley, who was armed and ready. Boochie was heard squealing and made a hasty retreat out the doggy door.

Stodgy little Charley trudged out behind him. In a minute, Boochie was heard squealing a couple of more times in rapid succession. That got dad up to investigate. It seems young Charley had appropriated Dad’s dog repellent and was putting it to good use. He had poor Boochie on the run. All’s well that ends well. Dad confiscated the dog repellent. Boochie never interacted with Charley again.