Take One With You (6 page)

She gathered the documents from the safe and shredded them, making sure to take the fragments with her for disposal at some out-of-the-way location on her way home. She wasn’t sure, but knowing Brad, he had kept all the copies in the safe for himself.

Just before she hung herself, she sent a text to Charlie. Had she been thinking clearly, she would have never done such a thing, or at least left him a note, but the clarity of their last conversation had, by this time, receded back into the depths of her psychosis, and it all made perfect sense to her.

Of course, had she been thinking clearly, she never would have taken her life at all, but as Charlie and his new friend understood better than most from the websites they frequented, almost anyone was capable of taking a life if the circumstances were right.

Her sordid family history never even crossed her mind, her childhood obsessions now long forgotten. Little did she know those same fascinations had already been transferred to her son.

***

When Charlie got the text, he knew immediately what it meant. Knowing his mother as he did, there was really no other explanation.

He looked up from his phone on the table and into Sarah’s eyes, and his own were filled with terror.

“I have to go,” Charlie said, and Sarah could find no words to respond. She had never seen such a look on the face of another human being, and she never wanted to again. She watched in silence as Charlie ran out of the restaurant, honestly not knowing if she would ever see him again.

And then she looked down and saw his phone, where the last words of his mother lay coiled like a snake in the sun, ready to rise up and strike whoever wandered past

I made things right. Love, Mom.

1 YEAR, 2
MONTHS AFTER TOWY WEBSITE

The following 60 Minutes script is from “Judge Not”.

Steve Kroft is the correspondent.

Samuel Grayson, Michael Dill, and Ariana Ortiz, producers.

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You wouldn’t know it from his recent actions, but this Cook County, Illinois criminal court judge, pictured on the left,

[Graphic]

was a man so well respected by his peers that he was nominated numerous times, and recently won, The William H. Rehnquist Award for Judicial Excellence, one of the highest honors in his profession.

This is the story behind the incredible events surrounding the trial of mass school shooter Nathan Jackson, and how one judge ended both his life and his exemplary career in a single, stunning moment that will likely forever change the face of American jurisprudence.

Only last month, we reported on the growing TOWY movement, so named as an acronym for “take one with you,” which encourages those who plan suicide to literally take someone else with them to their death. Towys, as they call themselves, want to kill someone else before killing themselves. Preferably someone that society, or more likely, the shadowy leaders of the movement, deems worthy. Murderers, rapists, and child molesters initially topped the list.

But gradually, whether by design or because grass roots movements by nature are unpredictable, the list of those deemed worthy, expanded.

Nancy Janes, who clerked for Judge Spencer Wetherbee and witnessed the event, recently sat for an interview.

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Steve Kroft: What was it like working for Judge Wetherbee?

Nancy Janes: He was the best, just the best. I still can’t believe he actually did it.

Steve Kroft: What do you mean ‘actually’?

Nancy Janes: Well, he kind of mentioned it before. Alluded, I guess.

Steve Kroft: How do you mean?

Nancy Janes: The case was all everybody was talking about, of course, and he –

Steve Kroft: The Nathan Jackson case?

Nancy Janes: Yes. Judge Wetherbee just seemed really tired of it all.

Steve Kroft: Meaning?

Nancy Janes: The whole media circus. There was a lot of, um, pressure.

Steve Kroft: Go on.

Nancy Janes: Well, he was sick of it. He’d handled, oh God, so many criminal cases. But this was different. This one hit him hard.

Steve Kroft: You mean the children.

Nancy Janes: He has – had, grandchildren that age. And when he had to make that ruling, it broke his heart.

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She’s talking about a pre-trial defense motion to disallow the seizure of a laptop computer found at Nathan Jackson’s mother’s house that may have held evidence showing premeditation.

According to Nancy, Judge Wetherbee made statements to her that he was worried about the lack of such evidence and how it might affect the jury.

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Nancy Janes: He was worried they might not convict on first degree and bump him down to second.

Steve Kroft: But how could that happen?

Nancy Janes: We don’t have the death penalty. And when you’ve been a judge as long as he had, really…I mean, anything can happen.

Steve Kroft: These were children.

Nancy Janes: I guess that’s why he wanted to make sure.

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Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011, and if the shooter had been convicted of second-degree murder, he could have been released in as few as four years.

Dr. Scott Robbins is a professor of criminal justice at Illinois State University. He also has degrees in sociology and clinical psychology.

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Scott Robbins: Oh, it’s quite possible that the shooter could have been convicted of the lesser charge. As terrible as it sounds, things like that happen all the time.

Steve Kroft: For shooting nine six year-olds, killing four of them?

Scott Robbins: It wasn’t his gun. At least, they couldn’t prove that it was. He could have found it on the way to the school, even at the scene, and just decided to shoot. Spur of the moment.

Steve Kroft: Spur of the moment?

Scott Robbins: This is Cook County.

Steve Kroft: Come on.

Scott Robbins: Look, if they’d been able to trace the gun, that might have made a difference. To show how or when he acquired it. But they couldn’t. The previous owner could be out there somewhere, scared to death to be connected to the shooting, or blissfully unaware their gun is missing. Or dead. Who knows? There are a lot of unregistered, unlicensed guns out there. But unless they could prove when or where he got the gun, they couldn’t necessarily prove premeditation.

Steve Kroft: Unless they had the laptop.

Scott Robbins: Unless they had the laptop.

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Which brings us back to that ruling. Judge Wetherbee, by all accounts, was a stickler for the law. So when the police acquired the laptop outside the rules of evidence, the judge felt he had no choice but to exclude it.

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Nancy Janes: Oh, it tore him up. Absolutely.

Steve Kroft: And that’s when the pressure got to him?

Nancy Janes: I think so. He just couldn’t stand the thought of that man not being punished for what he’d done.

Steve Kroft: But he still would have served time.

Nancy Janes: What time? Four years?

Steve Kroft: Second-degree murder is four to fifteen. And there was still a chance he could have been convicted of first-degree murder, wasn’t there?

Nancy Janes: Maybe.

Steve Kroft: That could be life without parole.

Nancy Janes: But would that have been enough? Could it ever be enough, for what he did?

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Apparently, Judge Wetherbee didn’t think so. Because on the first day of the trial, he smuggled into his chambers an antique Colt Single Action Army .45 Revolver,

[Graphic]

also known, ironically enough, as a Peacemaker, first used during the American-Indian Wars of the nineteenth century. Though its cylinder holds six rounds, the weapon was loaded with only two.

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Steve Kroft: Why do you think he did that?

Scott Robbins: Just two bullets? I guess he figured he was a pretty good shot. Or else he was getting forgetful.

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What Dr. Robbins is referring to are rumors of the judge’s senility, which have been refuted by his doctors, his family, and his friends. None of Judge Wetherbee’ relatives wanted to be interviewed on camera, but a spokesperson for the family released a statement that reads in part: “As for the number of bullets, we have no idea why he chose to load the number he did, except that which is obvious to those who knew him: Judge Wetherbee wanted to hurt only two people, the accused and himself, and that was his way of ensuring it.”

There were no other weapons or ammunition found anywhere in the judge’s chambers, his home, or his car.

When we return, video of the event itself, up until the moment he pulled the trigger.

[Commercial break]

What you’re about to see is the extraordinary footage from the first day of the trial of school shooter Nathan Jackson, Judge Spencer Wetherbee presiding. We won’t show the actual shooting, but please be advised the content may be disturbing to some viewers.

[Video]

As you can see, the judge has ordered the armed bailiffs to stand to each side of the bench, facing out towards the courtroom. This was unusual, but most onlookers probably assumed, after his next direction, that it was for his own protection.

They assumed wrong.

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Judge Wetherbee: Before we bring in the jury, I’d like to say a few things. Mr. Dalworth, would you instruct your client to stand and approach the bench, please?

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As you can see, the defense attorney brings Nathan Jackson forward, but then the judge surprises everyone for the second time.

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Judge Wetherbee: You can sit down, Counsel.

Mr. Dalworth: Your honor?

Judge Wetherbee: Please take a seat. Thank you. Mr. Jackson, you have been incarcerated for some time, now. Your meals, your protection, and your care are all paid for by Cook County. You were brought here under armed guard wearing a bulletproof vest, walking amongst men who are trained to step in the way of an assassin in order to protect your life, all so that you may be tried in a court of law by a jury of your peers. Your trial, and many others like it, along with the probable appeals, will inevitably take many months, if not years, to conclude. It is, in my view, a colossal waste of the State’s resources.

Mr. Dalworth: Your honor –

Judge Wetherbee: Sit down, Mr. Dalworth. You’ll have your chance to speak in a moment. My point, Mr. Jackson, is that an awful lot of time and money will be spent on you, and the media will endlessly blather on and on and your name will become commonly known and possibly even glorified, and it will be like many other trials I’ve witnessed in my thirty years on this bench. A lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing but pain for your victims, this community, and society at large.

Mr. Dalworth: Your honor!

Judge Wetherbee: Sit down, Mr. Dalworth! Do you know what I mean, Mr. Jackson? That’s from Macbeth, act five, by the way. The full quote is, “A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Mr. Jackson, I am that idiot. As well as my peers, and society in general. For continuously allowing our judicial system to be perverted by the likes of you. Stay in your seat, Mr. Dalworth, and you can ask for a mistrial. Mr. Jackson, I’ve decided to stop being an idiot. I find you guilty as hell!

We’ve frozen the tape there, but at that point, Judge Wetherbee drew his weapon from beneath his robe, stood up, and before a shocked courtroom, shot Nathan Jackson between the eyes. He then turned the weapon on himself. Both men died instantly.

We may never know what motivated Judge Wetherbee, after a life devoted to serving the law as a judge, to appoint himself jury and executioner, as well. But we do know this: There are an awful lot of so-called Towys out there who had vowed to do exactly the same thing to Nathan Jackson if ever they got the opportunity.

Judge Wetherbee, because he’d had enough, denied them that chance.

“I could cut your throat like a chicken and nobody would give a fuck.”

The larger of the two men in the alley silently appraised his adversary through slitted, almost feral eyes, breathing heavily. Both men knew the words reflected a hard truth in an even harder city, the kind of truth that wasn’t so much conscious knowledge as it was something deeper, almost like a gene passed down from father to son.

There were a lot of people in the city who wouldn’t be missed should something tragic befall them, people who looked like they’d already fallen through the cracks a few times before and somehow managed, against all odds, to crawl back into the light to await a similar fate.

People like the man being pushed up against the wall with a knife to his throat.

What the speaker of those words had no way of knowing was that the object of his derision, though a derelict through and through, was not one of those people.

The smaller man, the one holding a knife to the big man’s throat, the speaker of those cold, hard words, pressed the blade a little deeper into the larger man’s flesh, an especially nasty glint in his eye.

“You know what I mean, you piece of shit?”

The bigger man nodded once, being careful not to move much at all given the sharp steel against his skin. It was really more of a look in his eyes than a movement of his head, but he sensed the smaller man wanted something more. He was already bleeding from several places after the beating he’d taken, and had no desire at all to test the sincerity of the smaller man’s claim, especially when it would be his own knife that would be cutting his throat.

“Lemme hear you say it,” the man with the knife hissed, pressing harder. The big man could feel his life pulsing beneath metal, an odd thing to experience, indeed.

One summer when he was a boy he’d hiked through the woods with some buddies to an old dam during a drought, and after they’d snuck past two fences, one of them had dared him to walk across the cement shoulder to the other side. It was about the width of two shoes, not that hard to balance, but falling to either side would likely mean serious injury or death.

It was the longest 200 feet he’d ever traveled, and about halfway across the dam he got the same queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that he felt now, in a darkened alley behind a liquor store just a block from the cheap flophouse where he always stayed until his check ran out, which was usually about the middle of each month.

Like his life was teetering on the edge of something cold and unfeeling, something that would just as soon have him die as live.

Just as it had always been. The larger of the two men had lived a precarious life for as long as he could remember, and the edge was all he knew. A blade, a concrete wall, a tripwire in Kandahar. It was somehow all the same. He felt his body relax, and he could see in the smaller man’s eyes that he’d felt it, too.

“I said say it,” the man with the knife repeated, and suddenly the larger man wanted desperately to live, a desire he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

“I want to live,” he croaked, and for a moment the man with the knife looked at him oddly, as if he were a particularly puzzling specimen he had pinned beneath his microscope, which was really not that far from the truth, in a way.

Then the smaller man laughed, and it was the laugh that landed the larger man in the hospital, and it was the laugh that probably saved his life.

It was an evil-sounding laugh, a contagious cackle that reminded the big man of everyone who had ever mocked him, from his lumpy, oversized childhood to basic training to his prison days, and it turned his emotions on a dime. He was right back to the semi-homeless derelict who’d ripped the plastic bag filled with chips and candy from the hands of a nine year-old boy, who was now cowering a few feet away and long forgotten by both men.

He was right back to being someone with nothing to lose.

The smaller man was taken completely by surprise when the larger man suddenly pushed off the wall, knocking the knife from his hand and causing him to fall backwards into a row of garbage bags piled next to an overflowing dumpster, and like the laugh that saved the big man’s life, the garbage saved his own. He hit that pile of trash at the perfect angle to enable a quick draw of his duty weapon, and he pulled it out and fired just as the big man jumped.

***

“Jesus Christ, Thane.”

Thane Parks, the man who’d seen the derelict rip off the kid at knifepoint after leaving the liquor store, shrugged his shoulders and smiled tiredly at his boss, the chief of detectives. Myers always showed up whenever one of his men discharged his weapon, even if it was inconsequential, which this was decidedly not.

Behind them, paramedics were loading the big man into the back of an ambulance.

“And where you’re headed, holy shit.”

Thane laughed, a slightly less evil-sounding version than what had set off the derelict, and his boss reluctantly joined in. “I know, I know.” Thane looked past Myers where a female officer with a pretty decent rack was talking to the kid with the candy. He was divorced, his ex-wife was a bitch, and he definitely wouldn’t mind tapping that ass before the ceremony.

But he also needed to talk with that kid. Thane had told the boy to go home before he dragged the big man into the alley, but somehow he’d either been too scared or too curious and apparently had seen and heard a little too much for the detective’s taste.

Thane noticed the female officer didn’t have her notebook out, which was good, but she’d be handing the kid off to social services soon, or maybe his parents if they were around, and that couldn’t happen without a few words in private.

“Speaking of which, Lieutenant…” Thane said, and Myers nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, get the hell out of here,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks,” Thane said, and walked towards the kid as Myers went to talk to another officer who was taking notes by flashlight next to the pile of trash.

As he approached, the boy’s eyes grew wide and the officer turned to see Thane. She stood up and for a moment Thane thought she was going to salute him or something.

Rookie,
he thought.
Love to bang the newbies.

Thane looked her up and down. She looked even better up close.

Wedding ring. Fuck. On second thought, even better. No commitments.

“Detective Parks?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Thane said, his eyes rising to hers and then back down to her tightly packed tits. “Officer Hellstrom.”

She flushed. It was clear she had thought he was staring at her chest and he’d sufficiently covered by pretending to search for her nametag.

“Yes, hi.”

Thane smiled. “Hi.”

There was a brief moment of silence as Thane just waited for her to speak. He liked the fact that she was slightly uncomfortable and off guard.

Thane Parks enjoyed watching people flounder.

Finally he put her out of her misery, but filed away her reaction for another time. He liked watching her flounder all right, but he’d really like to feel her wriggle.

“You mind if I have a word?” he asked, and nodded towards the boy, who was still staring up at him, eyes wide.

“Oh, sure,” she said, stepping to the side. “Do you sign?”

For a moment, Thane thought she was asking for his star sign like they were in some 80’s singles bar, and then he realized that she meant the kid was deaf.

Now that is fucking beautiful. The only thing better would be if-

“He can’t speak, either,” the officer said.

Thane was about to upbraid her about assumptions since the kid might be in shock, but gently, so as not to ruin his chance for a future piece of ass, when he noticed that the kid was holding one of those cards that deaf mutes hand out for donations. He’d caught one or two scammers with those cards before, but this kid looked a little too young for that.

Looks like my lucky day.

He reached down to touch the kid’s shoulder, but the boy cowered behind the female officer, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Kid may be dumb, but he’s no dummy.

Thane smiled as warmly as he could at the kid, and ran his eyes back up Officer Goodbody’s good body. “Poor little guy’s seen a lot, tonight,” he said, and received a smile from Hellstrom. “I guess he’s in good hands.”

“Waiting for social services,” she said.

Thane looked at his watch, which wasn’t working, more as a segue to leaving than actually checking the time. He never wore a working watch, and if by some miracle one of his watches actually started working, he’d either take out the battery or throw it out. “Well, I really gotta take off.”

“I heard,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He was surprised. “Oh, yeah? Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Thane started to turn away and decided to go for it.
No better time than the present,
thought the man who refused to wear a working timepiece.

“When does your shift end, Hellstrom?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind taking a date to the dinner.”

She blushed again, which pleased Thane greatly, but then he saw her arm moving and knew she was about to hold up her ring finger as a way to refuse his invitation, and decided to beat her to the punch.

“Oh, Jesus, you’re married,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t mean anything by it, you know. I’m divorced, it’s kind of a thing – ”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, a little too quickly, and Thane knew she was a possible future fuck. He was a damn good detective, a student of human nature, and cops were notoriously an unhappy and therefore, unfaithful, bunch of misfits. He gave himself a forty percent chance of getting into what he imagined were some tight little panties if he worked it right, especially if her husband was a civilian. Forty-five if he was a cop.

“My husband’s on the desk at Hill Street,” she said, “it would have been fun to tell him about it, but I’m on till one.”

Thane grinned a little too wolfishly, but he was feeling pretty good.
Forty-five, fifty,
he thought. “No problem,” he said. “Next time.”

She blushed again.
Make a terrible poker player, but a real nice poke.

“Sure,” she said.

Thane turned and walked towards his car, which was still parked in front of the liquor store. He knew better than to look back.
Let her watch me and wonder. Marvel at the glorious majesty of my detective status!

He laughed. Only a beat cop would be impressed with his status, actually. Thane was a damn good detective but a lousy politician, and his rise within the department had been stifled more than once by his stubborn refusal to kiss the right ass at the proper time.

He was also a good father, but his ex-wife and his department had seen to it that his advancement within those realms would never be what he wanted them to be. The job he could have taken in stride, but the way his ex used his kid against him had turned him into a bitter man.

A bitter man with a gun.

Thane suffered from bouts of depression as a result, although he would not have understood it as such. He drank too much and gambled too much to cope with the fact that his ex did everything in her power to deny him access to his child, which she in turn used against him to further limit his visitations. She had an asshole dyke of an attorney who hated cops, at least that was what he chose to believe, and he was often forced to petition the court for privileges he imagined a typical divorced father would routinely be granted without such action.

So he drank even more and spent time with loose women and tight slot machines, which only made things worse.

But he’d never missed a support payment and he never would, not as long as he drew breath. One day he’d be vindicated and his son would know what an evil bitch their mother was and how much he’d sacrificed for him.

One day.

But not today.

He drove straight to the hotel, his mind replaying the events of the evening. He’d been on his way home after a long day, eager for a hot shower and a nap before the big show, and he’d stopped for a pint he figured to knock back before the party to take the edge off what he knew was coming. All those pricks he was going to see.

When he saw the kid walk out of the store with that bag of candy, he was reminded of his own son, who was about that age. Christ, he was missing so many moments of his life because of that cunt!

The big guy had come out of nowhere and just snatched the bag, the glint of his knife flashing beneath the streetlight on the corner.

Thane was so shocked he almost let the guy get away, but it was that flash of steel that woke him up. The guy was huge, probably 6’5” and 260, and even though he didn’t threaten the kid with the knife, the thought that he had it in his hand when he grabbed the bag, filled Thane with blind rage.

He jumped out of his car, told the kid to get lost, and set out to beat the man to death. He wanted to ruin his fists on the son-of-a-bitch.

Only it didn’t happen quite the way he expected. Thane was smaller, but he was still a pretty big guy, a former boxer as a teen, but this asshole had skills. Some kind of martial arts, and Thane got lucky with the knife, turning it on its owner.