Almost Home (9 page)

The night was so cold that every thing seemed crystal clear, magickal, and a little scary. The world suddenly felt very large. I remember every detail because this was the first time I had so wantonly and completely disobeyed all orders. We were free to do whatever we wanted, with no interference or adult supervision. A
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whole new world had opened up. The feeling of adventure and absolute freedom was amazing.

When their mother pulled up we quickly piled into the car and made our way back to Lakeshore. Back at Jason’s place we all three went into his room to listen to the new Metallica tape and play video games on the Nintendo system and old television that sat on the dresser. I can’t remember who first suggested sneaking out, but we immediately seized upon the idea. Time seemed to tick by at an ago-nizingly slow pace as we waited for Jason’s mom and stepfather to go to bed.

After the lights went out we gave them another hour just to be certain they were sleeping.

We made our exit through the window in Matt’s room, because it was bigger than the one in Jason’s room. We could also step out onto the fence by stretching our legs out as far as possible, and from the fence it was only a short hop to the ground. Jason and Matt had both done this before and had no difficulty. I, on the other hand, got hung up with one leg inside and one leg outside. They decided to “help” me by yanking on the leg that was outside, and nearly crushed my testicles in the process.

We had no particular destination in mind, so we walked the streets of Lakeshore for a while, leaving a trail of barking dogs in our wake. It was so cold that all the puddles next to the street had thin sheets of ice over them, and the streetlights sparkled on it like diamonds. I was giddy with excitement, and considered Jason to be wise in the ways of the world for having done this before.

We decided to pay a visit to the nearby train tracks, where Jason said there was a tree house in which some people sometimes left bottles of wine. To get there we had to cross an empty field, and we didn’t take into account the recent rains. Our feet punched through the thin glaze of ice, and the three of us were standing in ankle deep water. Sopping wet socks and shoes are not recommended winter attire. The shivering and teeth chattering barely dimmed our sense of excitement and we plodded on.

When we finally made it to the tracks, not only was the tree house smashed, but the whole rotten tree had fallen over. We continued on our way, following the tracks for about a mile, with the intention of making a full circle and ending up back at Jason’s trailer. We were quite a distance from any lights or trailers, and the night was silent. We talked of ghost tales and horror movies, urban legends and things we’d seen in the Time Life’s
Unexplained Mysteries
books. Soon every hair on our necks was standing straight up and we were jumping at our own imaginations. We walked in a single file line, Jason leading the way, Matt in the middle, and me bringing up the rear. Matt insisted on being in the middle so that
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nothing could sneak up on him. In quiet voices we discussed how some kid had claimed to see a dead man hopping back and forth across the train tracks on Halloween night. It was like we couldn’t keep from feeding our own terror. Sometime later I saw the movie
Stand by Me
and was overcome with nostalgia because of how much I was reminded of us.

Back at the trailer, we peeled off our wet footwear and fell asleep in front of the T.V. while watching
Headbanger’s Ball
. I’ll never forget a single thing about that night as long as I live. It’s part of what made me who I am. I’ve often wondered if Jason and Matt have thought about it much over the years.

As we grew older, the thrill of sneaking out lost much of its appeal because in such a small town there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do. Everything is closed by ten o’clock and there’s not much thrill in walking empty streets after the first time or two. Instead, we’d rent low budget, straight-to-video horror movies every weekend and sit up all night watching them and making wise cracks. That was the closest thing to a “satanic orgy” I ever witnessed. The police, much like the inquisition itself, had a very vivid imagination. I’m inclined to believe they may have seen a few too many of those cheap horror movies themselves.

Often at the end of these festivities, we’d collapse into the bed to sleep until noon the next day. We couldn’t fall asleep without music, and choosing our lull-aby tunes involved careful deliberation. More often than not we slumbered to the sounds of Slayer, Megadeath, or Ozzy Osbourne. I never slept better than with Iron Maiden or Testament playing in the background.

Over the years Jason and I became as close as brothers because we knew there was no one else to look out for us. We shared everything we had—food, clothes, money, whatever. If one of us had it, both of us had it. It was known without having to be said.

After we were unceremoniously released from school for the summer vacation, we spent the long days sitting on the ragged dock in Jason’s backyard, fishing, feeding the ducks, or making foul comments and put downs to whatever neighborhood teenagers showed up to hang out. Blain and David, Adam, Kenny, Carl, or any of a myriad of others showed up if nothing was going on. Sometimes we played video games, stared blankly at the afternoon cartoons on television, picked at each other, or listened to one of the geniuses make prank calls. Other times we’d explore out of the way places in search of snakes. In our neighborhood snakes were as valuable as cash and could be traded for anything. The days were slow and lazy, hot and long, each the same as the last. This was the extent of our lives, and we thought nothing would ever change.

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My first meeting with Jesse Misskelley was completely unintentional. One day after school I knocked on Jason’s door, and his mother answered. Before I even asked, Jason’s mom said, “He’s not here, he’s at Jesse Misskelley’s.” She called him by his full name—Jesse Misskelley—and I later learned that’s what everyone did; I have no idea why.

Leaving Jason’s front porch, I began to head back towards home, because I had no idea where “Jesse Misskelley’s” was. I’d heard the name before, and from the sounds of it he was supposed to be one of the Lakeshore badasses. About halfway down the street I heard Jason yell, and I looked to my left to see him standing in the open doorway of the trailer. It turns out that Jesse Misskelley only lived about four or five trailers down from Jason. I entered the gate and Jason led the way inside.

The trailer appeared clean and kept up, no roaches or mice to be seen, and everything was in its place. Sitting in a living room chair next to the door was Jesse Misskelley. He was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. His feet were propped up on the coffee table, and he had a bologna and cheese sandwich in one hand, and an orange flare gun twirling in the other. His hands had something black smeared on them all the way up to the forearms, as if he’d been working on a car. There was a mesh baseball cap perched atop his head, the emblem on the front was a confederate flag and a grinning skull—typical truck stop fare.

From beneath the hat long, straight, brown hair hung down to his shoulders.

Before my eyes even had time to adjust to the inside, a female voice screeched with deafening fury. “Get out from in front of the TV!” This seemed to be directed at me, and it came from a skinny, dark-haired girl sitting in another chair. This bundle of feminine charm turned out to be Jesse’s girlfriend Alicia, who was notorious in certain trailer park circles. Some guys had their girlfriend’s name tattooed on their chest. Jesse had the word “bitch” tattooed on his, in reference to Alicia.

Jason and I took a seat on the couch. The girl fell back into a silent stupor.

Jesse became more animated and began to be-bop around the living room. He took a glass figurine from a shelf and started making kissing noises. “This is my girlfriend,” he announced, holding up the glass figure. It appeared to be a small black woman with breasts bared, perhaps a novelty saltshaker.

An older man came out of a back room, and I took him to be Jesse’s dad. I was correct. He didn’t so much sit in the chair that Jesse had vacated as he collapsed
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into it with a groan and a sigh. He looked tired and weary, as if every day of his life had been a long day. He eyed Jesse’s sandwich and asked, “That ain’t the last of that cheese is it?”

Jesse’s response was “oops.” When his dad informed him that he’d been saving it for lunch the next day, Jesse pulled the cheese from between the bread and flapped it in the air. “You can still have it,” he said while holding the cheese aloft and casting a grin in our direction. The cheese was several bites short of being a whole piece.

His father paid him no attention. Instead he said Jesse needed to get ready to climb under the trailer and make sure all the tires were on and aired up. They were preparing to move it to another trailer park called “Highland.”

Jason was suddenly very ready to leave. As we were going through the gate Jesse called out “Y’all come back later so you can help me.” Jason said “okay” over his shoulder without slowing down. A little farther down the street he told me that’s why he rarely went over there—because they always tried to put you to work while they did nothing. Needless to say, we did not go back later to help, and Jesse took no offense. He knew he’d try to get out of unpaid manual labor, too.

I never did see Jesse a great deal, but we became familiar enough with each other to talk when we met. We’d run into him at the bowling alley and spend an hour or two playing pool, or hang out for a little while at the Lakeshore store.

Jesse was no great conversationalist, but his antics could be amusing, and the odd things he did say were usually worth a chuckle. It was very apparent to anyone of even average intelligence that you weren’t dealing with the world’s brightest guy.

He was a great deal like a child. He was harmless.

It’s no great wonder to me how the cops could make Jesse say the things they wanted him to say. If they treated him anything like they did me, then it’s quite amazing that he didn’t have a nervous breakdown. They used both physical and psychological torture to break me down. They kept me in a small room all day long, with nothing to eat or drink, and no restroom breaks. One minute they threatened to kill me, the next they behaved as if they were my best friends in the world, and that everything they were doing was for my own good. They shove you into walls, spit at you, and never let up for a moment. When one of them gets tired, another comes in to take his place. By the time I was allowed to go home I had a migraine headache, I had been through periods of dry heaving and vomiting, with severe psychological exhaustion. I survived because if you push me hard enough I become an asshole. My point is that we were just kids. Teenagers. And they tortured me. How could someone like Jesse Misskelley, with the
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intellect of a child, be expected to go through that and come out whole? It makes me sick and fills me with disgust to think about how the public trusts these people, that they’re in charge of upholding the law yet they torture kids and the mentally handicapped. People in this country believe that’s the exception. It’s not.

Anyone who has had in-depth dealings with them knows it’s the rule. I’ve been asked many times if I’m angry with Jesse for accusing me. The answer is no, because it’s not Jesse’s fault. It’s the fault of the weak and lazy civil servants who have been abusing the authority placed in their hands by people who trust them.

I’m angry with police who would rather torture a retarded kid than look for a murderer. I’m angry with corrupt judges and prosecutors who ruined the lives of three innocent people in order to protect their jobs and further their own political ambitions. We were nothing but poor trailer trash to them, and they thought no one would even miss us. They thought they could take our lives and that the matter would end there, all swept under the rug. And it would have, if the world hadn’t taken notice. No, I’m not angry at Jesse Misskelley.

I get ahead of myself now, as all that came later. I still had a couple of years of freedom left at that point, and it makes more sense if I tell it one step at a time.

XVI

When writing about your life, it’s impossible to include every detail, or even the most uneventful life would require several volumes to record. You have to look back over your life and ask yourself, “What really mattered? What were the big moments that shaped me, and made me who I am?” For me, one of those big events was becoming a member of the Roman Catholic Church.

As far back as I can recall, I’ve always been extremely interested in religion, spirituality, and spiritualism. For me those words cover a very large range of topics. I include clairvoyance, ESP, apparitions and hauntings, Druids, reincarnation and rebirth, prophecy, and even attending mass or praying in those categories.

Beginning in about the fourth grade I had started to read books on Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, astral projection, and the healing properties of crystals and stones.

If it was connected to spirituality in any way at all, then I was interested. I believe this may have somehow been in response to all the sermons about hate, fear, and the wrath of God that I’d been hearing. I needed something that balanced that, perhaps.

One day while looking through the stacks in the library I encountered a shiny new book on Catholicism written for teens. It was aimed at teaching young Catholics why they do what they do during mass, or the meaning behind each gesture.

I was about fourteen or fifteen when I found this book, and had never been to a Catholic church in my life.

I took this book home and sat up late into the night reading it. I took it to school with me and read it when I had a spare moment. I was absolutely entranced, and fell in love with the Catholic Church. All of my life I’d been forced to go to Protestant churches against my will. Now I wanted desperately to be allowed to go to a Catholic church. I wanted to see the things I was reading about, I wanted to experience it first hand. Genuflecting, holy water, praying with a rosary, the Stations of the Cross, but especially receiving the Eucharist—I loved it all. This was Christianity the way I had never before seen it—with beauty, dignity, and utmost respect. The entire process from the moment you enter the door, genuflect, and bless yourself is about respect, and about a dignity of the spirit. It was beautiful.