The True American: Murder and Mercy in Texas (7 page)

Tom also remembered Mark starting to work out at a nearby gym known for its performance-enhancing expertise, and the boss suspected that his employee’s growing temper and the tension in his face were related to that: “He was really short and just real pissy and real aggressive. I guess that’s when he was starting to do the working out. He was going to pump iron, but he was doing steroids.”

One of Tom Boston’s other reform projects, also at the body shop, was a guy named Mitch Fayette—ponytailed, except for the long strings of blond hair dangling down to frame his face, and with a penchant for T-shirts cut off at the shoulders. He was about the same age as Mark and partied with him through the ’90s. They had been together through all of it. But after Shawna left, Mark’s behavior started scaring Mitch, who was no pansy. He remembered Mark doing lots of drugs, staying up till tomorrow night after night, hanging with the lowlifes and the bikers and people of that nature. Mark had long dabbled in chemicals, but this was more extreme. “He was hurting on the inside, and because he was hurting on the inside, he looked for a way to escape. And he started doing drugs, dating titty dancers, and that leads you down a vicious life of staying up till two o’clock in the morning and picking them up and partying with them all night and going right back to work the next morning. And then it became a vicious cycle like that. Life began to get out of control,” Mitch said.

A propensity for fighting that Stroman was trying to shake when he came to Tom Boston—a tendency he had battled since childhood and then managed to suppress—now seemed to return. “If he liked you, you were golden,” Mitch said. “But he was a rude, aggressive person. He would fight at the drop of a hat. Didn’t even matter—didn’t care how big they were, who they were, or what was going on. And he told me the same way out of his mouth, he said, ‘You can’t do anything worse to me than’s already been done to me. They locked me up; they kicked me in the corner like a bad dog—you know, with people getting raped and killed all around. So I ain’t going back there,’ he said, ‘no matter what.’ ” The “there” that Stroman spoke of was prison.

Sometimes, Mitch said, Mark supplemented this vow with a pledge to die in what he called “suicide by police officer.” Were he ever to do something worthy of arrest—and it was not an unreasonable assumption that he would someday—Mark wouldn’t go back to
prison. He had planned it all out: he would shoot at the officers, forcing them to shoot him. And it would be over.

Tom was sympathetic to TDC alumni like Stroman, as perhaps he had to be in this line of work: “They are a convicted felon, and they’re screwed up for life. They can’t get a job. They can’t do anything to better themselves. How do they expect them to do that when they’ve got a brand on them permanently for the rest of their life?”

Stroman was never direct with Mitch or with Tom about what had happened in prison. But this talk of suicide by police officer and other offhand assertions made clear that Mark’s two stints inside—each a matter of months on sentences that were supposed to last years, until luck and prison overcrowding spared him—had scarred him in unknowable ways. They had, depending on whom you asked, either turned him into a racist or amplified a preexisting hostility—although Tom always knew it was just talk. Suspected, at least. “That’s where he really got his racist stuff, because if you’re a Mexican in there, you better be with Mexicans,” Tom said. “If you’re black, you better be with blacks. It gets real gangy.”

Mitch, having known the same prisons, described it this way: “You could be the nicest white person in the world, not ever hate, not ever have any racial hate at all, and if you’re thrown in that environment, you’re gonna learn to hate.” He told a story he had heard about a black man who goes to prison: a great athlete who talked like the “whitest guy you’ll ever meet.” When he arrived in prison, he got to talking with a white man. A black inmate kicked the chair out from under him and warned him: “You need to get in where you fit in.” When the riots and fighting start, he told the newbie, you will understand. Mitch said, “It’s a different world in there, and it’s all politics.”

So maybe it started in prison, or maybe it predated prison—Tom Boston only got to know Mark in his twenties. Whatever its origins, Stroman developed a propensity to call people he didn’t enjoy things
like “nigger-loving Jew,” whatever that was. Some of Stroman’s relatives refused to drive around with him because he would roll down his window and bark things like that. When Tom asked about Mark’s weekend plans, he would sometimes answer, “Oh, nigger hunting in Oak Cliff. Wanna come?” Somehow Tom convinced himself that Mark never acted on such talk. It was just sad, mostly—a blustery hankering for relevance by a man deserted by love, fortune, and history.

Besides, a part of Tom—though, as a college man and a family man and a business owner, his situation was different from Mark’s—understood at least a piece of it, understood that feeling of history’s leaving you behind. Tom wasn’t the type to harm anyone, and he had friends of different colors. For all his advantages in life, though, if he were to be honest, he sometimes felt himself faced with the same racial anxiety, the same sense of embattlement, confronting white-guy drifters like Mark Stroman in these changing times: a feeling that the old equations that had made it mean something to be white and a man, no matter how trifling a white man you were, no longer really computed.

“Well, nowadays, can you go out and qualify for government assistance? Can you get government-assisted houses? Can you get government loans? Can you get state contracts, federal contracts?” Tom said. “No. So much of it has to be black. The company has to be woman- or black-owned to qualify for all this stuff. The tables have turned to where the white community’s now the minority. You’ve got all kinds of differences out there, all kinds of things to contend with. Most of them use excuses saying they can’t get ahead.”

Tom went on, “Everybody’s supposed to have equal everything, but that’s not the case. You’ve got the black community, reaching back a hundred years: ‘Oh, we were slaves; we’re owed this.’ And if you look at—I’m now generalizing—the stereotype of the black community, you’ve got Oak Cliff: They’ve got big wheels and tires on their fancy cars, but they live in a shack. They’re crack smokers; they don’t
work; they’re out there all in prisons—they’re full of them. You know, they’re just trashy-type people. Well, that’s not the case, but that’s the stereotype. The Mexican community—well, you got Mexican communities that are legal. They came over to our country, they’ve got families, they’ve done everything legal, but they get put in with people that are swimming across, jumping the border and living in the backs of trucks, coming over here and causing problems. They’re taking our money from jobs and sending them back to Mexico, and you’ve got a conflict there. And then you’ve got Arabs—Arabs come over. Well, you walk into a gas station and you’re wondering something, and they don’t speak English and you can’t understand them. Well, that difference right there pisses people off—I don’t care who it is. Or the Oriental community: If they can’t speak English and you can’t understand them, then that breeds a distance. That breeds some type of hatred.”

So it wasn’t that Tom didn’t get where his protégé was coming from when he mouthed off with that race talk. But he, unlike Mark, knew to keep those feelings in check—and to keep his mind on family and work so that it didn’t dwell in those darker places. One day Tom made a decision long in coming: he was better off as Mark’s friend than as his boss. However much he liked the guy, however much they got along, he couldn’t have a worker costing him accounts and burning down trucks he’d just painted.

“I brought him in and said, ‘Hey, dude, we’re friends. I don’t want to get crossways. It’s just come time that you’re going off a different path,’ ” Tom said. He told Stroman to take his time; he didn’t have to leave this second. Still, it was best that they part: “He wasn’t on the right track for what I had going at the time.” This was sometime in 1997. Stroman had worked there three-plus years.

Looking back, Tom wondered if he could have prevented the separation. He remembered warning Stroman, before the unraveling, “ ‘Dude, you can straighten your act up. You got your wife, you got your daughter, you got your stuff. You can stop hanging around all
these people.’ I remember I told him, ‘You could follow the people in the limousine, or you could follow the people with the shopping cart. It’s your choice.’ ”

N
OW, SITTING AT
work, with that nagging thought swelling within, Tom tried to assemble what he’d heard of Mark lately: the news he had received from mutual friends, the glimpses he’d had himself. He knew Mark had found a job over at the body shop with the IRS issues near Cabaret Royale, and he knew it didn’t last because Mark was caught road-tripping with customer cars. He had heard about Mark’s trying to brand himself as some kind of gun runner. He knew about the .357 Magnum someone sold Mark and the AK-47 that Mark was peddling around town through an intermediary. The two men saw each other in passing from time to time and were still friendly. Tom had helped to set Mark up with a new trade, installing granite counters in rich people’s kitchens, and had secured him a good job at a fancy house earlier that summer. He knew Mark felt terrible about accidentally breaking $3,000 worth of granite on that job, and that the mishap piled onto a series of other stresses that summer—everything from a string of parking tickets to the discovery of a lady friend of his in bed with a buddy.

The more Tom chewed it over, the more pungent the thought tasted. He remembered Mo Phillips, another ex-employee, coming by the shop just a few weeks earlier, saying some stuff about Mark being out to shoot Arabs. “I was like, ‘Whatever,’ ” Tom said. Not because such a thing wouldn’t concern him, but because he didn’t believe it. He thought to himself: There Mark goes again, “flapping his gums”; what a “wannabe.” Tom said, “He was always trying to get attention—always. He was always starved for attention, and he put on this persona like he was a rough, tough guy.”

Maybe it was stupid to have dismissed news like that. A lot of
things felt stupid now. Tom thought of seeing Mark at the car wash some days after Mo’s visit. It would’ve been right in the middle of everything. Tom was shooting the breeze with an off-duty cop when Mark came over for a wash. Mark knew the cop, too, and when Tom saw Mark pull in, he made a meaningless joke. “He’s the guy that did it,” Tom hammed to the cop, pointing at Mark. Tom obviously wasn’t referring to the shootings, since he didn’t know a thing about them. He wasn’t referring to anything. Mark didn’t take it like that. He froze upon hearing those words. “Mark had this look on his face—it’s hard to put it into words—just like stark terror,” Tom said. “It was just, stop in his tracks. And Mark didn’t want to associate or talk at that point. He was like, ‘See you later,’ got back in the car and took off.”

Now the phone rang at Tom’s office. It was about the call he’d made to his prosecutor friend. They needed him down at the station at once. He explained that he was not involved, had nothing to do with it. Within minutes, several police cars showed up at the body shop. Who did this? We need to know. You need to come with us.

The next thing Tom knew, at about 6:15 p.m., he was at the Mesquite police station. “They hauled me up there,” he said, “and pretty much gave me the fucking tough guy fucking routine, and I’m like, ‘I have nothing to do with any of this shit, and I don’t want anything to do with any of this shit,’ and they were like, ‘Oh there’s a reward and this-that.’ And I don’t even care about any reward, don’t want to be involved, and I don’t have anything to do with it and don’t even want to mess with it. They locked me in a fucking room, did not come back, sat me with a paper and a pen.” They made Tom draft a statement without having seen the video the prosecutor had mentioned. He could draft a second, updated statement after watching it, they said. When he finished, they led him into a room and showed it to him.

There Mark was, holding a gun, shrieking at that nice Mr. Patel to open the register, wearing a fake beard and those tattoos that Tom
had once told him to cover. If you listened carefully, you could hear the lisp that had tripped him up since Plano days.

“Oh, God,” Tom thought to himself. “Oh, God.”