Destiny - a novel - 16. Chapter 16: Humiliation

Chapter 16: Humiliation

I did not sleep well last night. This whole place apparently exists to rob one of his peace of mind, to torment the good and decent, and educate 'the bad' on how to be truly wicked. Only the hopeless ones feel at home in jail, only the keepers delight in the spectacle of humanity caged like animals.

I pace my cell, or rather the same eight feet of narrow space over and over again. My hands are hugging my upper arms and rubbing the fabric of the same clothes I was arrested in. My sneakers are loose where the tongues lightly rub over the top of my sockless feet.

The smell is like my old high school gym: bleach and human anxiety excreted in the form of sweat and the male pheromones of fear and aggression. No TV show I've ever seen talks about the smell of a place like this, for how do you describe the depths of confinement distilled into the rank tincture of pure derogation of spirit? You don’t.

I stop. Someone maybe five or six cells down lets out a gut-grounded shout;"Fuck!" is all he says, but it's loud enough to elicit an angry chorus of "Shut the fuck up." The entire night had been punctuated by outbursts like that, and kept me on edge as I tried to curl up in my single blanket and ignore it. But it didn't stop. The catcalling and shouts echoed throughout the Santa Clara Jail all night.

I start pacing again, for the simple act of moving seems to keep my mind from spinning out of control. My confinement is lonely, and designed to be that way. That thought reminds me of the rough handling of intake.

They bagged up my wallet, my motel room key, and my phone. But they also made me take off Jack's brass ring and chord, my socks, shoelaces and belt, which they all shoved in the same 'evidence' baggie.

I was then led away.

In another sterile space the size of a single-person public restroom, a middle-aged white guy with a paunch hanging over his gun belt pushed me to the back wall. As he undid the cuffs locked behind me at about my waistline, I could tell only three things about him: that he had cold fingers, a stone-cold stare, and rancid breath.

As I attempted to rub the soreness from my wrists, the mean dude went to the center of the room and stood in an aggressive attitude with hands on his hips. His glare was aimed straight at me. He talked in a way that was much too loud for the quiet confines of a small room made of hard surfaces, so the bellowing ring of his shouts rang relentlessly in my ears. It was like he wanted his words themselves to be painful; he wanted – no, expected – his tone to make me flinch. I swallowed down my fear of him, and armed with knowing his strategy, I listened with calm dispassion.

He droned on, making me verbally acknowledge that this processing was standard procedure, that I was being detained until my hearing, that I was not under arrest, and that there would be no bail. He said I could be held up to 24 hours without seeing a lawyer, and would be until a judge handed me over to McClusky. At that point, the clock would reset, and that sheriff would have another 24 hours to hold me in limbo until he could book me into his Ohio jail.

"Do you understand!"

"Yes."

"Then, turn around and strip."

So, with the legal lesson ended. He went to a metal box mounted near the door at eyelevel and pulled a latex glove out of it.

I could hear it as he snapped it over his hand.

I had no choice, this was all to make me feel like I was at the total mercy of The Law anyway, and if you can't appeal to that, then you are left feeling vulnerable and hopeless. Others have been through much worse, so I stripped and followed his instructions to face the cinderblocks with hands spread high over my head on the frigid wall. He roughly kicked the insides of bare ankles with his cop boots and made me stand with legs wide enough to be uncomfortable.

While he came up and was fondling my backside, the foul-breathed, cold-handed man leaned close to chirp directly into my ear: "They've got an isolation cell all lined up for you, pervert." He latched onto my waist, hard, and began to shuffle-foot me back. Eventually my hands were still on the wall, but my head was hanging low. As I stared with increasing fright at the vinyl tile floor, he went on, "Yours is a triple-threat, 'special treatment' case too. Not only are you gonna be charged as being a sex-offender against a child… Bend over; spread your ass cheeks… That's it, nice and wide… You are a notorious 'celebrity,' and…" His finger entered me with brutal force. "You are fucking queer as Christmas." He jammed it up as far as his palm, and jerked me up hard once, twice, then a third time with a rank-smelling grunt until I yelled out. He held it still, rested the entire length of his arm on my naked back and leaned his body on mine. He brought his voice as close to my ear as he could again, putting nearly unbearable pressure on my sphincter. "And believe me, you do not want to be surrounded by any of the other prisoners who have somehow learned of your faggoty ways. Do you? Hmm?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, sir."

He pulled out just as abruptly as he had violated me.

"Get dressed," he barked, with the room and my ears again ringing from the bellow of his vocal blast. That time, I probably did flinch, for his laugh was accompanied by the sound of him ripping off his glove.

Now alone, I pace my cell trying to exorcize that memory and keep focused on the fact that what I do, I do for a higher purpose.

˚˚˚˚˚

A 250-pound African American woman is compelling me down a corridor. My hands are cuffed behind me and the chattering jangle of her spare set of cuffs and keys comes up to me from her uniformed waistline.

I glance through the small windows built into the doors along this corridor, catching my first sight of sunlight since before my 'processing.' Each metal door is provided with a large, red background plastic sign below the wire glass. Family Visiting Room 1, Family Visiting Room 2, and so on they say.

As we approach Family Visiting Room 5, the guard slows me down by creating drag on my manacled wrists. By the time I'm at the doorframe, I've been halted completely and can pause to look through the door window.

There is a long folding table, and the back of several people's heads. The guard begins to undo the restraints and recites a long list of 'don'ts.'

"Don’t hug or kiss; don’t use a cell phone…"

I can tell one of the heads belongs to my brother. An auburn one next to him must be Dawn.

"Don’t eat or drink anything; don’t ask for gum…"

The other two heads are not as youthful, and my heart sinks to recognize who they must be.

The guard opens the door for me with a final warning. "Remember, you'll be strip-searched again if I see you violate any of the no-contact rules I just laid out for you. No contraband of any kind is allowed to leave this room with you. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She walks us into the room; she begins unlocking my handcuffs.

Every eye turns to us, and the guard informs the visitors, "Folks, I'll be right outside this door if you need me. You have 20 minutes."

She leaves with an evil-eye of 'watching you' for me, and closes the door behind her. Everybody stands to greet me, except Pops. He just sits there, arms folded over his chest, and with a grimace on his lips.

Jackson, with warmth plastered all over his face, steps forward and starts a handshake, but it's one that quickly pulls me into a hug.

There is a sharp rap at the door window from the corridor side. I persuade my brother step back with raised hands shown to the guard, before letting him know: "We're not allowed to touch."

I go to sit behind the table, forced to place my back to the window and light of day from outside. I survey the four in front of me, trying to gauge the emotions I see there.

Dawn asks if I'm all right. "You look really tired and stressed."

"I'm ok. So, the hearing is at eleven?"

"Yes," Jackson says.

My mom asks a battery of small-talk questions, and oddly, her usual flinty edge seems dulled by some unknown emotion.

"Food decent?"

"I haven’t had any appetite."

"Are you warm enough at night?"

"My holding cell is like eighty-five degrees, so it was hard to sleep."

Does she let slip out – "I'm worried about you" ???

I turn to Pops. "How was traffic; which bridge did you take?"

"Not bad. The Dumbarton."

"How's Berkeley High School's football season so far?"

"The season's finished. They did 16 and O, but lost in the first playoff game to Northridge."

'Oh yeah,' I think to myself. 'I forgot football would be over by mid February. It's been the last thing – '

My mom blurts out, "We've missed you. Your room at home is just as you – "

Pops interrupts her. "Don’t upset yourself, Maggie. He's not worth it."

My dad's tone almost makes me want to cry right here and now. However, my faltering glance at Pop's recriminating stare instantly toughens me up. I ask him pointblank, "Will you be staying for the hearing?"

My mom starts to answer "Yes – " but Dad instantly cuts her off. "We haven't decided yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that…" is all I can manage to get out in response.

My mom does not like to be told what she thinks and feels; a flash of resentment steals across her posture as she scowls at him.

Pops ignores her to reach halfway over the table and folds his hands between himself and me. He eyes are cold and unwavering as he tells me, "Well, I'm sorry you're my son."

My fists tighten involuntarily under the table, while a searing column of anger rises through the center of me. However…in another moment, I think of Jack's smile. I relax my hands, and just let it all go. If he can face what he's facing without whining, or without the tears of self-pity, what would I be to simply buckle under the weight of some hateful words and sentiments? The way my father feels is what it is, and there's nothing I can do about it.

My old man continues, "It just sickens my stomach to think the Oliver family name will be besmirched like this. Your trial will be a media feeding frenzy; there'll be no escape for us. My first-born child…you are a disappointment to me."

I inhale a big amount of air, gently lay my palms flat on the table and push myself to a standing position. "Well, Mom," I tell her. "I hope you can convince him to stay."

I begin to walk towards the door. My dad pushes his chair back, and it makes an aggressive sound scraping across the floor. "Is that it then, Lincoln?! You have nothing else to say for yourself?"

Halfway to the door, I stop and face him calmly. "Maybe just this, maybe just a question for you since I've heard my entire life what a disappointment I've been to you – so, you tell me, why is it not fair for a child to say their parents turned out to be a disappointment to them?"

"That's it!" Pops bangs the table and stands up. "We're leaving – you can stay here with your friends, since you obviously don’t care about your family, and breaking your mother's heart."

He makes for the door, and I return to stand at my position behind the table.

Mom hesitates to follow.

Pausing with his fingers on the doorknob, Pops says to her like the total bully he is, "Well, are you coming?!" He lifts his free hand out to my mom, and after a few sad glances split between Jackson and me, she rises and goes to him.

She refuses to take his hand, but he opens the door and lets her exit before he follows.

Alone with Jackson and Dawn, I sit back down. I'm desperate for information. "So, how is Jack doing?"

"OMG!" Dawn exclaims. "You'll never believe it. Dr. Kimball found a match."

"Who is it?"

Jackson speaks up quietly, like he has to deliver bad news. "It's Hamish."

I slump back on my chair. It's such a bittersweet moment.

Dawn continues in a hopeful vein. "Christie came this morning and begged forgiveness for doing this to you and Jack. She's vowed to make it right and get Hamish back here for the procedure."

"Don’t worry, bro." There's something in Jackson's tone that sounds choked up. "It's gonna work out. It's got to; just have some faith."

There is a sharp rap on the door glass. The guard enters, and I stand.

"Time's up." She comes to me, instructing. "Turn around. Put your hands behind your back."

I protest: "That was not 20 minutes, ma'am."

She smirks. "Twenty minutes includes the time it will take to do that little procedure I warned you about, but since that young man touched you, it must be done. Turn around."

The guard cuffs me and spins me to head towards the open door.

I call back to Jackson, "Did you get it, bro?"

He replies hurriedly, "Don’t worry, Linc! I've got what we need!"

˚˚˚˚˚

I'm being led into the courtroom. McClusky and the Santa Clara Sheriff are standing by one of the two tables before 'the bench.' I scan the throng of people on the other side of the handrail divide. Most of them seem to be reporters, although some just seem to be there to shoot daggers at me with their eyes. I see Dawn and Jackson in the front row, right on the aisle, and feel a bit better. Jackson has something in his hands, while Dawn has his camera cradled in her lap.

I realize that in my scanning I did not notice my parents, so I don’t know if they're here or not.

The judge bangs his gavel. He is an older man with salt and pepper hair and half-lens reading glasses propped on the tip of his nose. Sitting up there as he is, I can't shake the feeling that this rubber-stamp jurocrat is tired of his job, and perhaps spends much of his time in court thinking about his upcoming trip to Aruba, or his Fantasy Football League, or this that and the other – anything to kill time.

"We are here," he says into his mic, his hands holding up some papers for his reading glasses to inspect. "To process a request for extradition." He suddenly looks me straight in the eye. "Are you Lincoln Henry Oliver?"

"Yes, sir."

"Clerk, please read the request for extradition."

A thin man, perhaps in his thirties, rises to his feet with an open folder balanced within his spidery grip. He reads unemotionally: "Whereas, we a lawfully assembled Grand Jury in the jurisdiction of Hamilton County, Ohio, do find that the accused, Lincoln Henry Oliver of Los Angeles, California, should be returned to said jurisdiction to face charges of the statutory rape of a minor boy on testimony delivered to Us by the victim's sister, a witness to said crime, We request that said extradition should be made." He closed his folder, turns a momentarily hateful glare on me, and sits down.

There is stunned silence in the court, and for once even the judge's interest seems to be piqued. He asks me with cruel concern, "Do you understand the allegations, young man?"

"I do, Your Honor."

"In that case, do you have anything to say before I rule?"

"Just this: why do you treat Gay kids differently? You look at us differently, you hold us Gay kids – your children, your nieces and nephews – to a more critical standard. Would we be here, letting this personal act of humiliation play itself out if Jack Shaw, the famous Jack Shaw, The Leukemia Kid, had an eighteen-year old girlfriend? No. So, why the double standard – why do kids like me and Jack – Gay kids, have to go through the crap every single day in this country? Can you tell me that?"

The judge inhales and releases his breath again as a smoothly controlled sentence. "Young man, this is not a trial, it is an extradition hearing because a grand jury in Ohio has raised some very grievous charges against you. Now, unless you can offer some evidence to refute the basic premise of the allegation, I'm afraid I will have to turn you over to Sheriff McClusky to face trial."

I am silent.

The judge raises his gavel to make his ruling – Jackson stands and waves a piece of paper over his head.

"I have it, Your Honor! Lincoln is still seventeen – here's a certified copy of his birth certificate. Please, look at it."

Bang! Bang! "Order in court."

The bailiff moves towards Jackson's position, I suppose in case the teenager tries to rush the bench with his piece of paper.

"Young man," the judge says. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lincoln's younger brother, Jackson Oliver. Here is Lincoln's birth certificate from Alameda County. It proves this is all a big misunderstanding anyway; please don’t send him back to Ohio."

After a moment of quiet wavering, the judge tells the bailiff, "Let me see that." And then to Jackson, he adds, "You, young man, take your seat and one more outburst and I will have you escorted from my courtroom."

Once the bailiff hands the birth certificate over the top of the bench, the judge adjusts his reading glasses up the ridge of his nose for optimal viewing comfort.

In the several moments it takes him to go over the document with a fine tooth legal comb I glance at Jackson with a 'thank you' smile and nod. Even if the truth fails to work, like it often has in the past for people like me of the LGBT minority, at least he deployed my plan flawlessly.

As I am glancing at him, I'm momentarily distracted from my own thoughts by the remarkable expression on Dawn's face for my brother. It is one deep with pride and awe. It's the look a person gives to someone ordinary they suddenly recognize as a hero. Yes, Jackson is heroic, he's always been there for me, and now for Dawn, Mrs. Shaw, and Jack as well.

The judge clears his throat and all attention returns to him. The silent tension in the courtroom is thick enough to cut his glasses. "Will the two sheriffs please approach the bench."

After a few minutes of conferring, with the judge holding his hand over the mic on the bench, McClusky turns back looking crestfallen.

The judge bangs his gavel. "Consensual contact between minors, barring any use of force, is not a crime – even in Ohio – and as the other party mentioned in this action has not raised a complaint, nor is he likely to do so, the contact witnessed was consensual. The extradition request is denied. Sheriff McClusky, this court will expect an order of rescindment for the charges against Mr. Oliver to be filed with my clerk within 24 hours. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor," McClusky splutters softly, like he is being forced to say this against his will.

"As for an apology," the judge continues. "An official one from the Hamilton County Prosecutor's office is probably in order for the falsely accused, as an evident lack of even the most basic homework by that official is now sorely exposed. In addition, the taxpayers of California will be reimbursed for the expense of these proceedings by your Sheriff's Office. Understood?" The man whips off his glasses and glares at McClusky with barely contained contempt.

"Yes, Your Honor." This response is clearly more ire-strained that the first.

"As for you, Mr. Oliver, you are free to go." He bangs the gavel authoritatively. "We will now have a 20-minute recess."

He stands.

"All rise!" the bailiff sings out.

In the next few moments there is a kinetic rush of sound and swirl. The black robe of the judge walks behind the bench and exits out his little side door. Reporters scramble for the main exit to deliver their 'scoops.' A jailhouse guard leads me by the elbow to the gate in the handrail separating the defendants/lawyers area from the spectators' seating. He opens it, and delivers me straight into a backslapping embrace from Jackson. In another moment, Dawn joins us, and I wrap my arm around her to pull her tight into our family hug. Jackson's camera swings wildly around us as Dawn now has it slung over her shoulder.

After we part, I notice the 'hero worship' expression is not only back on Dawn's face, but written in large, easy-to-read letters. I pick up their hands and link them together.

I feel someone lightly touching my elbow. I turn around and see my mother; her visage is both sad and relieved. "Mom! So, you guys were here."

"Yes. Your father's gone to pull the car around. We'll take you back to the hospital, as Dawn and Jackson said they took a cab to get here."

"I don’t know," I say; there are a lot of latent feelings about being in the back of their car again.

"Don’t be silly, Lincoln," she affirms. "We’re just wanting to see you safely delivered – we're not going to kidnap you." Her attempt at a laugh sinks like a lead balloon.

I glance at Jackson, and he nods like it's ok.

"All right. Thanks, Mom."

She inhales a deep breath, but whether it's from regret or triumph, I cannot tell. "Anyway, we'll be down at the curb when you're ready."

She heads to the courtroom door, and the bailiff comes to me holding the plastic bag with my stuff in it. He makes me sign for it, and I immediately open it and fish desperately around; if it's gone…I don’t know what I'd do… Relieved, I latch onto the cord and draw Jack's brass ring out.

"Dawn, please hold this."

I hand the bag to her and lift the piece of cold brass to my lips for a closed-eyed kiss. Then the cord goes over my head, and the ring settles proudly on my chest.

"Thank you," I tell her as I retrieve the baggie of my belongings.

Her hand lingers on mine. "Happy Valentine's Day," she says, and slips something small into my hand.

"What's this? " I ask, not quiet believing my own eyes.

"That's from Mrs. Shaw," my brother informs me. "She wanted to make sure you remember it's Valentine's Day – "

"And," Dawn interrupts him. "Not to go back to Jack empty handed."

I palm the thing, almost imagining it suddenly becoming several times heaver with the added weight of its significance.

"Ok," I announce through my first smile in 24 hours. "Let's go see him."