Violence (30 page)

The teenage Anderson positioned himself protectively in front of the girl.

The older man grabbed a gun from under a newspaper on a side table. “I’ll kill you!” He fumed. “Get out of here!”

The 16-year-old Anderson stared down the barrel of the gun, despairing of his helplessness. He ran out the front door of the house, disappearing into the night…

“Mr. Anderson?”

“Mr. Anderson?” The warden again entreated with some irritation.

Anderson snapped out of his momentary daze and looked at the warden waiting in a hatchway where the others had already filed past him.

“This way.” The warden commanded, indicating the passage.

Anderson plodded onward past Cassano who followed him into the passageway and a control tower officer hit a button which slammed shut the hatchway door behind them.

The group was now assembled in a rotunda normally filled with inmates being ferried to meals, yard time or prison jobs, but was now kept empty save for the “Orange Crush,” a special tactical response team standing on alert there as back-up should any serious incident occur during Anderson’s “visit.” The tactical unit was so named because of the orange jumpsuits the members wore under their otherwise black body armor, helmets, jackboots, riot shields and expandable batons but also due to the fact that they are the ones responsible for subduing or “crushing” uncooperative inmates.

Anderson could only think how the oppressive atmosphere in this place gave him a continual sense of déjà vu, sending him back to the days before he became an emancipated youth and hopelessness against changing his circumstances was the only constant he knew.

Another guard in a control booth opened a foreboding reinforced door after the warden gave him the go ahead. This portal led to the protective custody unit which again would serve as the venue for Anderson’s face-to-face meeting with Derek.

“We transferred the inmate you requested to a solitary cell for your meeting.” The warden informed the camera team, but mostly addressed Anderson. “You’ll have quiet in here.”

The reinforced door finally trundled open and the group advanced. Anderson took a deep breath before following the warden and the others through the doorway.

The tac team barely moved a muscle and remained in place in the rotunda. Only their commander and one other tactical team member joined the group as they journeyed into the Protective Custody Unit.

A grimness hung in the air even though all the other prisoners in this area had been temporarily relocated to holding cells until the taping was over. It was creepy quiet. Quite a contrast from the normal prison clamor. However, the gloomy ambiance was probably also caused by its close proximity to an attached wing of the building once used to house death row inmates and where the basement was used to execute the prisoners. Serial killer John Wayne Gacy was one of the last to be put to death there by a lethal injection that took a full 18 minutes to complete because one of the three drugs being used got gummed up in one of the lines leading to his arm.

The tac commander and his underling continued on the thirty feet or so to the end of the narrow enclosure. Once there, they waited ramrod straight outside the last cell door.

“This is it! The inmate you requested to see is in the cell at the end of the corridor!” The warden announced to the group, consciously referring to Derek simply as “the inmate.”

“All right, let’s do this quickly, people!” Glen Steig half-shouted at the cameraman and soundman, improperly using the “people” reference for his small group but this was clearly out of nervousness. He was normally used to ordering about more people and right now he was on automatic pilot just trying to get through this.

Anderson, for his part, stepped purposefully down the row of cells. His senses were acute. His nostrils flared as though he could smell the danger that lurked ahead.

The guards flicked looks between Derek’s temporary holding area and Anderson. Prison violence was a constant. Inmates slashed and killed each other on a frequent basis and even fairly regularly attacked prison guards but this (a foot-washing interaction between a victim and a murderer) was a complete unknown as to how to take preventative measures against possible bloodshed or aggression.

Walking on, Anderson, Bible under his arm, could see the cell Derek was sitting in as it slowly came into view.

Derek, his feet chained, hands cuffed behind his back, looked insolently through the bars. He always had a ready sneer and hellish dark eyes that if they danced with any life at all it was simply a ruse to draw the trusting closer to the flame.

Anderson stopped right outside the bars of the cell and riveted his gaze on Derek who impudently returned his stare.

“Come on, move, move, let’s go!” Steig clapped his hands trying to light a fire under his hesitant crew.

The cameraman and soundman quickly turned on their equipment outside Derek’s cell, and began taping, positioning themselves for the actual go ahead into the cell.

The warden walked up and looked at Anderson, interested in his reaction to Derek.

Anderson, never taking his eyes off the pinpoints of Derek’s orbs, managed a thin enigmatic smile.

“You all right?” Steig anxiously asked Anderson as he stepped up to him. Steig didn’t care about the answer but he knew it was the right question to ask.

Anderson nodded affirmatively.

“Okay, we’re ready.” Steig announced, turning to the warden.

The warden motioned to the guard in another control booth and shouted, “Open up 15!” Everybody seemed to yell all the time in prison, even if a person were right next to you, or in this case the control booth guard could clearly hear everything through an external microphone anyway.

“Back away from the door!” the tactical commander hollered at Derek who stood up from one of the two chairs placed in the cell for their meeting and took one step back, placing himself flat, facing forward against the rear wall of the 6’ x 11’ chamber. “Opening up here!” the tac commander barked upon Derek’s compliance to his order.

Cell 15’s door rattled sideways. The tac commander quickly stepped inside the compartment in a defensive position as his underling picked up a washbasin, pitcher and rag off the corridor floor. The aiding tac team member rapidly transferred the items into the cell.

“Would it be possible to get his restraints removed?” Anderson asked the warden who considered the request and nodded to the tac commander.

The tac commander produced a set of keys, unlocked Derek’s ankle shackles first, unthreaded the attached chain that extended to his waist, before finally removing Derek’s handcuffs.

Derek was careful not to perform any sudden movements. He slowly brought his hands in front of him as the tac commander then receded from the cell with his subordinate.

It was time.

Anderson walked into the cell where Derek stood waiting. The cameraman and soundman with his mini-boom pole followed Anderson into the now very confined quarters. The cameraman quickly secured the camera atop a tripod, checked a light meter, made some calibrations and activated a spotlight on the pair.

Derek squinted at the brightness of the light, and then grinned in its glow, liking it.

Anderson maintained a close but measured distance from Derek.

“Ready when you are,” the cameraman notified the assembled, sticking his eye in the viewfinder.

“Okay! Rolling prison interview in three, two…” Steig extended his hands in front of the lens and silently finger-slated the scene (it would only require one take), mouthed “one” and pointed to Anderson to begin.

A tense moment passed before Anderson finally broke the uneasy quiet and held out the Bible he brought with him.

“I bring you the good news of our Lord Jesus Christ…” Anderson said as he stepped forward and hugged Derek.

Derek, clearly taken aback, remained stiff and ill-at-ease even as Anderson released him.

“I have found salvation through our Savior and I hope you can, too.” Anderson proclaimed, a broad smile breaking across his face. He placed his hand on Derek’s shoulder. “How are you getting along?”

“Fine…” Derek responded sheepishly, tugging at an earlobe. “You know… it’s jail, man.”

“I just want you to know…” Anderson stated. “…as much as it is in my power, I forgive you and hope you can find peace and purpose in your life.”

“Hey…” Derek started to speak haltingly, not knowing how to answer but on the spot now to say something. “…I’m sorry about everything, too. Never should have happened.”

Anderson smiled widely again and said, “Now, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to wash your feet as Jesus did for his disciples before the feast when he knew that his hour had come.”

“Okay.” Derek answered, scratching his head, a bit bothered that he wasn’t the one in control but smart enough to know that pulling a stunt right now or behaving in any way obstinate would not help his cause. He sat down again in the chair closest to the back wall of the cell.

Steig passed an anxious though expectant look with the warden before he stared into a video assist monitor where he watched the encounter continue between Anderson and Derek.

Anderson kneeled and removed Derek’s thin, sandal-like prison issue shoes. He took one of Derek’s feet in his hand and ceremoniously bathed it.

“Jesus, touch this man!” Anderson prayed aloud with real passion, even more evident over the small monitor screen. “Let your mercy and forgiveness flow through him. Compassion means suffering with. And I suffer with you, my brother. Don’t get discouraged. Pray and dedicate your life to Jesus.”

“I will.” Derek answered affirmatively, over the monitor his avowal transformed as well, seeming to have aspects of a sincere public declaration, maybe and especially since it was to eventually be broadcast to millions. “I will.” He repeated.

CHAPTER 27

         T
he studio audience applauded wildly as the main floor television camera rolled back from the large screen everyone was watching at the taping of Anderson’s guest appearance for The Byron Burke Show. Anderson had just finished washing both of Derek’s feet and the footage of their jailhouse encounter was freeze-framed and joined by a “Byron Burke” graphic on the massive studio screen.

Byron Burke dabbed at a tear and stood beside Anderson who was sitting in a chair on the stage next to another guest, Dr. Rene Halprin. This studio with its furnishings was an obviously much more expensive and elegant set than was evident on the Kari Kagan Show.

“Incredible, huh?” Burke asked the studio audience who applauded even louder before Burke turned his attention to Anderson and everyone quieted down. “Gosh, Noel, this is the man who actually pulled the trigger and murdered your wife. How did you feel going in there – you had to be scared?”

“Sure…” Anderson admitted. “…but I, everyone, must learn to see the Christ in every person and every living thing. Even this man…” Anderson pointed at Derek’s frozen image, seated having his feet washed by Anderson on the large studio screen. “…is a divine and sacred being, connected to all things.”

“But didn’t you just want to kill him?” Burke asked, fully expecting a reply in the affirmative.

Many in the audience applauded in support of Burke’s vengeful sentiment.

“I understand…” Anderson nodded sympathetically at the audience’s response and once they quieted, he gave his answer. “…but think for a minute, if we could just take the word
hate
out of our language, we would reduce all crime by a massive scale on a worldwide basis.”

There was some supportive applause at this statement from people in the studio audience but it did not quite match the amount who clapped in support of Burke’s “kill him” query.

“I haven’t walked in his shoes.” Anderson continued. “I can’t judge what he must be going through…”

In the production control room, Glen Steig, standing among other production staff, was staring at a wall of monitors and was engrossed in the taping.

“…only God can judge.” Anderson declared, his face in full close-up on the main video control room screen above a mixing console.

“Fucking beautiful!” Steig chortled under his breath.

“Dr. Halprin, is this a normal response?” Byron Burke asked the man seated next to Anderson who could be seen, like Burke and Anderson, on multiple monitors in the control room.

A control room production staff member tapped some keys on a character generator and brought up a full on-screen display graphic under Halprin’s image which read: “Dr. Rene Halprin, grief psychologist”

“Common, no, though I wish it were.” Dr. Halprin replied to Burke’s question as the show’s control booth director muttered a direction into his headset that brought Halprin’s single image to the main control room video screen.

Back on stage, Dr. Halprin continued, “Noel’s grasping of a philosophy, in this case based in forgiveness and Christian thought is a necessary step on the road to recovery, to find a place inside your own self where you can try to make sense of a senseless act, and go on. No one recovers alone. Noel has just chosen God as his companion.”

Many in the studio audience applauded this analysis.

Byron Burke nodded in agreement, with compassion, concern. He circled around the back of their chairs and came up beside Anderson, asking, “Noel, you have no family now?”

“No.” Anderson answered simply.

“And when you say ‘no’ you mean ‘no’…” Burke continued, “…because I understand you were abandoned at the hospital where you were born.” Burke revealed as he stepped back to measure Anderson’s reaction.

There was a collective and clearly audible gasp from the studio audience at this surprise announcement.

Anderson was shocked himself, and quietly seethed at this public disclosure of one of his very personal details.

“On Christmas Day no less.” Burke went on, “Isn’t that how you got your name?”

“Yes.” Anderson answered curtly, the confident edge stripped from him. “You’re very good at research.”

“So, who actually came up with No-el.” Burke inquired.