And Spare Them Not

 Part 2 of 2

 

 Max walked into Gordy’s Club, a working-class bar not far from the office building where he’d reported to work for thirty years. He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and waited for Combs to arrive. It was mid-afternoon and the place was nearly empty. He didn’t expect to see anyone he knew, not until after quitting time.

Roy Combs walked in and stood near the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He was about six feet tall with a solid build. He wore rumpled slacks and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed powerful forearms. His hair was cut high and tight, military style, and his expression was that of a pissed-off football coach. He saw Max and nodded toward a booth against the wall. The men shook hands, exchanged awkward small talk, then Max got down to business.

“So, what’s up, Roy?”

“Okay, here’s the deal, Max. We are gonna need you to testify.”

“What? You’re shitting me. I told you I won’t do that. You want me to get my family killed?”

“We don’t have any choice. The judge threw out Sonny’s confession.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Sonny’s got some young hotshot lawyer. They claimed the confession was coerced. The judge ruled in their favor. It’s out.”

“Wait a minute…you video tape those things, don’t you? You have it all on tape.”

Combs looked away, agitated. “We don’t have a tape. The camera malfunctioned.”

“Malfunctioned? Malfunctioned my ass! What did you do, Roy? You didn’t tape it. You didn’t even try—”

“Let it go, Max—”

“You beat it out of him!”

Combs glared at Max, eyes blazing. “That little motherfucker spit in my face! Spit in my face, Max, and called me a faggot. You’re damn right I beat it out of him.”

“And this is what I fought for in Vietnam? Life, liberty, the Constitution, the American Way? So that you can beat confessions out of gangbangers?”

“Don’t throw the Constitution at me, old man. I served in Desert Storm. I put my life on the line against Saddam’s Elite Guard. Don’t play ‘holier than thou’ with me.”

The bartender called in their direction, telling them to keep it down or take it outside. They glared at each other, both of them breathing hard, their fists clenched on the table. Combs broke the silence.

“Look, we’ve still got the gun. And we’ve got your testimony. The DA says he can get a conviction.” He paused for few seconds. “One more thing…with the confession thrown out, they set bail. Sonny and the other two are out on the street.”

Max felt sick, as though he could vomit his beer right there on the table. He wanted to break the longneck bottle over Combs’s head. “And what if I won’t testify?”

“Come on, Max. We have your statement. We can subpoena you, treat you as a hostile witness, force you to tell the truth. Or go to jail for perjury.”

Max had no way of knowing if this was true. He stared at Combs for a long time. “You knew this all along, didn’t you? That you’d force me to testify. You lying bastard! And how long before Sonny finds out that I’m a witness?”

“I don’t know. It’s in the DA’s hands. It’s called discovery. They have to let the defense know all the evidence against him.”

“And what will you do to protect my family?”

“We’ll do what we can, increase patrols in your neighborhood—”

“Increase patrols? That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“Hey, it’s all we can afford. Our budget is cut to the bone—”

Max bolted out of the booth and headed for the door and the parking lot. He sat in his car for a long time, his head resting on the steering wheel, fighting for composure. He was still there when Roy Combs left the bar.

***

It was the same dream, over and over again, through all the years since Vietnam. Max stood on a muddy jungle road and watched the flamethrower reach out and ignite a hut. The flames leapt into the sky, black smoke billowed upward, one hut after another. Women and children streamed down the road, carrying a few meager possessions, the children crying, the women wailing. No men. Where were the men? All dead, fuel for the inferno? Or in the jungle, watching, waiting?

This is what it had come to in a country where you couldn’t separate the friendlies from the hostiles, where the guy next to you died at the hands of a child with an assault rifle, where you looked into the eyes of the people you were fighting for and saw that sick, twisted mixture of fear and hatred. Why? Because you were destroying their country with napalm and agent orange and carpet bombs and your flamethrowers from hell.

The same dream, over and over, until tonight. Tonight one of the children on the road turned toward him and held out a plate of cookies. It was Ellie.

Max usually jolted awake from this dream drenched in sweat, his breath coming in great gasps. But tonight was different. Tonight he could only lie there and cry. He was awake for a long time then, trying to push the images and the questions out of his mind. How could he answer for the things he had done, and how was he different from Sonny? Who was that brilliant general who said, “Unfortunately, we had to destroy the village in order to save it”? And how many villages had they saved? He refused to remember; he would not count them. And so the dream would come again and again.

***

The District Attorney’s office called to let Max know the trial date had been set. Jury selection would begin in two weeks. They would meet beforehand to go over his testimony and prepare him for cross examination. It had taken sixteen months to reach this point, the wheels of justice grinding away, slow but relentless.

Max was ready, at least as ready as he could be, and he felt an eerie calm now that decisions had been made and set in motion. His daughter and granddaughter were settled with family in Minnesota, two thousand miles away. His house was nearly empty, everything he owned donated or sold on this thing his daughter showed him called Craig’s List. There were a few pots, pans, and utensils in the kitchen, his meager wardrobe in the bedroom closet, his recliner in the living room, along with a framed portrait of Stella on the fireplace mantle. His footsteps echoed as he walked through the house.

He filled his days with routine. Two mornings a week, he attended minyan at the synagogue where he’d been a member since the mid-seventies, and he observed Yahrzeit and attended services to say Kaddish for his parents and for Stella. He read voraciously, went to lunch at favorite cafés, and stopped by Gordy’s for a cold beer or two. And of course, there was his beloved garden. This year’s crop of tomatoes had been exceptional, even by Max’s standards. He’d given away so many that he was sure the neighbors were sick of tomatoes. Some of the rest he’d turned into soup and stocked his freezer with plastic containers filled with the red-orange liquid.

He had sold his bed, and now he slept in the La-Z-Boy. Among the stack of books next to his chair was Stella’s dog-eared volume of Tanakh –The Holy Scriptures. In Deuteronomy 25:19, he had underlined these words: “…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heaven. Do not forget it!” And in I Samuel 15:3: “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not…” Amalek, who attacked from the rear, plundered the sick and the weak, and murdered women and children.

Max would not forget.

Propped against the wall, just behind the chair, was his Winchester 11-87. The twelve-gauge shotgun was a relic of his days as an avid duck and pheasant hunter. Max had given up the sport when most of his hunting buddies either died or moved away. Now the well-maintained 11-87 stood loaded and ready, one shell in the chamber, four in the magazine. With the trial date set, he was sure they were coming for him.

***

The night they came, Max was wide awake. Since the call from the DA’s office, he’d developed the habit of setting an alarm for a little after 2:00 a.m. when the bars closed, figuring they would get a load on before heading his way.

The old black Honda Civic with the faded paint job and bright chrome wheels rolled slowly past the house, circled the block and rolled by again. Car doors slammed, Max’s signal. He turned the recliner sideways and positioned himself behind it, one knee on the floor, the shotgun resting on the arm of the chair.

Two figures walked across his front lawn, up to the low shrubs that grew in front of the living room window. One of them carried a heavy tool with a long handle. They peered in through the window, and then, unable to see anything or anyone, they went to the front porch. A sledgehammer blasted the wooden door frame to pieces, splitting the stillness. The door swung open and the two men moved into the room.

“Oh, Maxie…old ma-an…where are you?” The man in the lead called out in a sing-song voice. The one behind him laughed softly.

Max squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blast rocked the room. The first man flew back against the wall and crumpled to the floor. A new shell was in the chamber and Max pulled the trigger again. He saw a series of muzzle flashes and braced for the shock and burn of the bullets heading his way. The shock and burn never happened. The slugs slammed into the wall behind him. Both men were down on the floor, moving, but just barely. Max stood up and walked the few steps across the room. The second one through the door, the one who had returned fire, was Sonny—Amalek himself.

Max waited, the shotgun ready. Would someone from the Civic come running to provide backup? But then came the sound of the engine racing as the car sped away. He looked at the bloody mess on the wall and at his feet. Should he fire one more shell into the chest of each man? No need. They were no longer moving.

He placed the shotgun on the recliner and went through the kitchen and into the garage. He retrieved a five-gallon can and brought it into the house. He would douse the bodies and the walls with gasoline until the can was empty, then stand back and toss a match into the room. The little wood frame house would be saved, just like all those huts and all those villages in Vietnam.

Instead, he stood motionless, staring at Stella’s portrait on the mantle, tears clouding his eyes.

He set the can on the floor, pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911. The dispatcher led him through a series of questions, confirming his name and address, and the fact that two men had been shot while breaking into his home.

“I’m sending the sheriff and an ambulance, Mr. Silver.”

The ambulance wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t argue. “Okay…and you should notify Sheriff’s Detective Roy Combs. This is his case.”

Max traced the bullet holes in the wall with his finger as he spoke to the woman on the phone. He thought about Minnesota and his daughter and granddaughter. He could not wait to be with them. Several questions played in his mind. It was late September now: were the leaves there starting to turn color? Would they need to purchase new clothes for the Minnesota winter? And what varieties of tomato grew there?

Sirens grew ever louder as the call ended.

_____

Note: Elvira Campos of North Highlands, California, was shot and killed as she sat in the front room of her home on May 18, 2013. She was ten years old. This tale of vengeance is for her.

_____

And Spare Them Not

 Part 1 of 2

 from Like a Flower in the Field

  

Max Silver loved the little piece of ground he called his tomato patch. Situated in one corner of his backyard, it wasn’t much more than eight feet wide by twelve feet long, but the production every year amazed him. Maybe it was the late morning and early afternoon sun, or the yards and yards of steer manure he worked into the soil every year. Whatever it was, from June through October the fruit just kept coming. He loved passing out lunch bags filled with ripe tomatoes to his neighbors, and they seemed to enjoy them as much as he did. Hey, Max, they would say, how are those tomatoes coming? One neighbor, the house just across the street, would turn the ripe fruit into salsa and share several jars every season.

Today he was busy nipping and pruning and staking his thriving plants. It was late May and soon the blossoms would turn into small green globes, and if left unsupported, the weight would be too much for the vines to bear. The sun was nearly down on this warm May day and he started to think about the cold beer waiting for him in the fridge. His daughter and granddaughter were at the movies and wouldn’t be home until well after dark. He’d be on his own for dinner tonight.

Max had lived in the little wood frame house in a northern suburb of Sacramento for thirty years. He and his wife Stella poured lots of love and care into the place, even as the neighborhood began to decline. When Stella lost her battle with cancer eight years ago, he carried on, even though the house was empty without her. Then his daughter Marnie went through a divorce, and five years ago, Marnie and his granddaughter Jessica moved in to fill a part of the gaping hole in his life. Now all that love and care flowed in their direction.

He was gathering his tools when he heard two sharp cracks and the faint sound of glass breaking. Then two more cracks. Max was a hunter and Vietnam veteran; he knew it was gunfire. He dropped his tools and hurried to the gate at the side of the house. As he reached for the latch, he looked through the gate, and then froze.

A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt crossed the street, headed toward a car parked at the curb, a gun in his right hand down at his side. Max could see his face clearly. He knew this boy: a neighborhood tough named Sonny. Years earlier, he had played on a Little League team Max had coached. Sonny was a handful then, difficult to control, impossible to teach, an all-around nasty little kid. And now he’d graduated to firearms. The young man climbed into the car and the wheels screeched as it tore away from the curb.

Max left the gate and backtracked to his patio. He kicked off his shoes as he entered the house and hurried to the front room. The drapes were open and through the large window he saw the house across the street and four round holes—the four shots he’d heard—in the living room window. Now he heard screams and shouts emanating from the home.

The screams and shouts continued and neighbors along the block came out on their porches to see what was happening. Sirens pierced the gathering dusk. Something tragic was unfolding and Max was a terrified witness.

***

The neighborhood swarmed with law enforcement. A half-dozen patrol cars clogged the street and yellow crime scene tape stretched along the perimeter of the lot across the way. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers moved about. Down the block, behind a set of barricades, television trucks and their crews stood by. Max sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner against the back wall of his living room. The house was dark. No one looking in the window could see him sitting there.

Okay, now what? Should he simply walk out there and tell the deputies what he had seen? And if he did, what then? His home and family would become the next targets. It would be like hanging a bullseye on his front room window: shoot here. His cell phone rang, startling him so that he jumped in the chair. It was his daughter Marnie.

“Dad, what’s going on? We can’t get into the neighborhood. There’s a line of cars here on Maple Street and I see a sheriff’s roadblock up ahead.”

“There was a shooting—”

“A what?”

“A shooting. Across the street at the Preston’s house.”

“Oh my God! Was anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know yet. Look, don’t come home. Don’t even try to get in here. Take Jessica and go to Aunt Millie’s.”

“But we don’t have any clothes or—”

“It’s not safe here, Marnie.” He could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Go to Aunt Millie’s. I’ll pack a bag and get some things to you tomorrow.”

“But, Dad—”

Max stifled her protests and ended the call.

The activity out on the street continued and Max wondered what had happened and why. The Prestons were good neighbors, never a problem. Their little girl, Ellie, was ten years old, the same age as his granddaughter. The two girls played together constantly, walked to school together, shared birthdays. Ellie was a sweet and friendly child, round-faced and chubby, always smiling. She’s the one who delivered the fresh salsa the Prestons made from his tomatoes, and she helped her mother bake cookies for the Silvers at holiday time. Ellie had an older brother—Max couldn’t remember his name. Was he the target? Gangs and drugs were a reality in the neighborhood. Could it be gangbangers in some kind of turf battle? If so, Max was not getting involved. Let them go right ahead and thin out the herd.

His hands shook as he called his sister’s number. Before he could tell her that Marnie and Jessica were on their way, she interrupted him.

“Max, are you watching the news?”

“What? No. No I’m not—”

“There’s a report about a shooting in your neighborhood. My God, Max, someone shot a little girl.”

 “What?”

“A ten-year-old girl, Max. Someone shot her in the back of the head while she was sitting on the couch watching television. She’s dead.”

Millie continued, recapping the news report. Max could hardly breathe. Oh my God! Ellie? They shot Ellie! Oh God. The animals, the goddamn animals. A little girl…a sweet innocent little girl.

Max ended the call with Millie after making her promise to keep Marnie and Jessica safe. He would bring clothes and toothbrushes and whatever they needed tomorrow. As he put down the phone, that telltale taste rose in the back of his mouth. He hurried to the bathroom to toss the contents of his stomach, though all he could produce was bile. He rinsed his mouth and splashed water in his face. His friends often told him he resembled the actor, Charles Bronson. When he looked in the mirror now, he saw a frightened old man.

***

Max parked near the phone booth adjacent to the convenience store. He turned the business card over and over in his hand. The detective had handed it to him that morning at the close of the conversation at Max’s front door. No, he had seen nothing, heard nothing. He’d been in his garden out back. No, no one else was home at the time. His daughter and granddaughter had been away at a movie.

All the while, Max scanned the street behind the officer. Who was watching, timing the length of the conversation? Just give me your damn card and get off my porch! That’s what he wanted to say. And then the detective was gone, the door closed with Max leaning hard against it, his heart racing.

Now here he was, ready to call from a payphone, certainly not from his cell that could be easily traced. He punched in the number and listened to it ring, again and again. An operator answered and he asked for Detective Roy Combs. She patched him through to Combs’s mobile number.

“Hello, this is Detective Combs. Hello?”

Max held a folded handkerchief over the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I may have—” He stopped and began again. “I have information about the shooting on Chestnut Lane.”

“Okay, let me get my notebook. Now, sir, what is your name?”

“Before I say anything, I need to know…can you protect my family, my home? You’ve seen what these animals will do.”

“Sir, I can’t promise anything until you tell me what you know.”

Max slammed the phone into its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again and again. Sonofabitch, sonofabitch! They can’t protect you, they won’t protect you. He climbed back into his car and drove around aimlessly, looking for a way out, but there were no options. Max had to tell Combs what he saw, who he saw leaving the scene with a gun in his hand. He couldn’t let Sonny get away with it. He pulled into a service station and parked near a phone booth. Again, the operator patched him through.

“Detective Combs speaking. Who is calling, please?”

“Look, just tell me you’ll try to protect my family. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay, sir, this is Mr. Silver, right? Max Silver? You live across the street from the Prestons. I spoke to you this morning. I recognize your voice, Mr. Silver.”

Max’s heart pounded out of his chest again. He started to hang up, but what good would that do? “Is there somewhere we can meet? Not at my house. Not in the neighborhood.”

They settled on a small café a few blocks away. Max hung up the phone and then used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He would tell Combs what he had seen. But he would not testify in open court, if it came to that. No way in hell would he testify.

 ***

Sonny had been easy to find, along with the two bangers who’d been with him that night. The three of them were being held without bail pending trial. It turned out Sonny had confessed, which was good news for Max. Roy Combs assured him he would not have to testify. They had the confession, they had the murder weapon, and the District Attorney was planning to seek the death penalty. Ellie was dead; no way to change that fact. Even though the death penalty was a joke in California, at least her killer and his pals would be going away for a long time. Max hoped to see life return to normal—or near-normal—on Chestnut Lane.

So why did Combs want to meet with him now? Were there new developments in the case? Max checked his watch. He did not want to be late for the meeting.

_____

Coming soon: Part 2. What news does Roy Combs have for Max? And how will it change his life? Don’t miss the conclusion.

_____