JUSTICE

I was far too young to die. I was murdered. But when you get murdered at the young age of thirty-one, your vengeful spirit goes on living for a year. Your revenge must come, if possible, during that year. Mostly, though, revenge is not possible or successful because the spirit of the murdered person has to learn how to move physical objects. I can walk through walls, but I can’t move physical objects. It’s like Patrick Swayze’s character in the movie Ghost. After his young and wrongful death, his fighting revenge-seeking character lived on. Another spirit character teaches him how to move physical objects, but only small or light ones. Since I don’t have a kindred spirit to teach me, I’ll need to practice as long as needed to be able to do the same thing, but on a much grander scale. Repeatedly watching that one scene in the movie should help with the process.

          I can’t unring that death bell, so I might as well get in the spirit of things.  I want a chance to get revenge for my death.

           I’m buried in a beautifully, well-kept cemetery. My parents, wife, and kids visit my gravesite on certain holidays, and on my birth date. The flowers they leave are pretty. I wish I could feel their solidness and smell their bountiful perfume.

          My gravestone is rather simple but nice. The gravestone is a gray stone. I’m glad it’s not ostentatious. Rather, it just says, Carlton Jones, 1980 – 2011, then “Family Comes First.”

          Generations of my relatives are buried here in Jonesville Cemetery. My great-great-grandfather and grandmother were the first to be buried here. They started the town with a few houses for themselves and the uncles, aunts, cousins, and whoever wanted to settle on that land. It’s not exclusively for the Jones relatives. Close friends sometimes decide to be buried here. Non-religious, members of nontraditional religions, and atheists may be buried there. There are no restrictions other than the fact that you must be dead, and someone must be able to pay your burial bills.

          Two other cemeteries have restrictions related to a particular religion. There are the Catholic and the Protestant cemeteries which are both larger. The Jones cemetery was here long before the town became so well inhabited when a couple of big businesses came, and unemployment was almost non-existent. The town grew fast after that; too fast, some of my much older relatives say.

          Sorry, I’ve rambled on. I don’t get to have conversations anymore so, when I can, I like to exercise my tongue and jaw.

          Yeah. I know. What about the murder?

          I was murdered at a local convenience store that I used regularly. I had just gotten gas for the car and went inside to pay, but first I needed to buy bread, eggs, pasta sauce, and a log of pepperoni for my wife. I entered, and shouted, “Hi Wanda,” then I walked directly to the back of the store, toward the refrigerated items. Along the way, I grabbed a loaf of bread, then quickly picked up the milk carton, a dozen eggs, and the pepperoni. I wondered if the pizza was for dinner tonight.

          The store was so quiet that I assumed just Wanda and I were there. I’ve known Wanda for years. We went to high school together. Nice gal. As I walk to the front of the store, my grocery items started slipping, especially the pepperoni log sliding between the other items. I wrapped my arms around the bigger stuff and grasped the pepperoni in my hand while still maintaining a hold on the other items. As I did this, I was looking downward at the grocery items.

          As I was in the refrigerated area, a drugged-up thief rushed in, demanded that Wanda give him the cash register money, and held Wanda at gunpoint. I don’t think he had to tell her to be quiet. She was speechless, even when he asked if anyone else was in the store.

          So the thief must have thought he was lucky that Wanda was alone, until I appeared around the corner of the aisle, still straightening my grocery items. Out of habit, I shouted, “Hi Wanda. How are ya?”

          The next thing I remember is the startled look on the face of the guy with a gun. Before I could react, he whipped around and shot me. I was totally surprised, and fell to the floor, dropping the groceries. My head hit the floor, but I was semi-conscious.  I saw egg yolks in front of me. I wish my final thoughts were of my wife and kids, but instead I was thinking about the broken eggs, those clear whites, and the delicious yellow yolks, so my final thought was, “What a waste. I love them soft scrambled.” Then everything turned black as I lost all feeling and for a second, I was aware that I’d stopped breathing. So, you can imagine how glad I was that my family will never find out what my absurd final thought was.

          At the funeral, I looked at my physical body lying in a plush casket. Wow! The funeral director made me look better than I really was, or thought I was. Now not part of the active physical world, but an ethereal spirit, undetectable, invisible with only one nearly impossible goal: revenge. I couldn’t rely on blackened banshees to do it for me, as in the movie Ghost.

          I observed relatives and close friends who grieved for me. There were a few distant relatives and acquaintances that were there only as their obligation, to avoid the guilt of their absence. They weren’t in the spirit of the moment. I could easily see that. My wife and mom shed too many tears. Nothing is permanent; everything ends, but it was nice seeing that the family was grieving for Carl.  I appreciated their immense love for me, but I hoped the period of grief would be short. A fun celebration would place everyone in better spirits.

          Of course, there’s plenty of subtle humor at funerals. It’s remarkable how, when you die, you become a great saint. You were the best son, the best husband, and best father, and the best friend someone ever had, and you’d never be forgotten. Time dissolves memories slowly.

          You can’t spell “funeral” without “fun” being there, so I wished this were more a celebration of life; a celebration, not a dirge of tears or a basketful of minor lies about how saintly I was. Funerals are weird somber and sober occasions. I opposed both. It’s not what I wanted. Get the Irish whiskey out and have drinks on me. Get in the spirit of the word “celebration.”

          The TV news and newspaper informed me that my killer’s name was Gillum Rath, who was a career thief but would probably spend life in prison for murder. He was in the local town jail and I surely hoped that the judge would take the spirit of the law seriously with Gillum.

          A month passed and I could move a penny, then a pencil on a flat surface. I was optimistic about getting much better. It was, however, a strenuous process requiring much practice for little results. But I saw improvement, now I wanted a little more improvement, then a little more.

          Then one morning I saw a newspaper that reported the fact that Wanda had vanished. Terrible news since she was the only witness, and she was a high school friend. The article implied she might have been murdered. More terrible news followed a day later when Gillum Rath was to get a hearing about getting bail for attempted robbery, not murder.

          The first-degree murder charge was dropped, and he would have to wear an ankle bracelet and be at home before dark. Gillum’s lawyer convinced the DA that Gillum was only defending himself when he saw me rounding the corner of the aisle. He maintained that Gillum acted instinctively when he shot me. The pepperoni log looked like a gun to Gillum. The lawyer also asserted that, although his client admits to attempted robbery and possession of a handgun, he was only protecting himself when he shot me, even though I had no gun. A long, reddish sausage looked like a handgun. Now, with Wanda gone, the police were investigating.

          The DA decided that it was possible, in a state of panic, confusion, and surprise for Gillum to think the pepperoni log was a handgun, therefore Gillum could not be charged with second-degree murder either. The DA was wrong because when I appeared from the aisle, Gillum may have been surprised, but he was smiling when he shot me, I think Gillum was lying, hiding the fact that he’d been on drugs. Blood tests would prove that. He knew that he’d be doomed if he tried for first or even second-degree murder. Now the charges against Gillum were robbery with a handgun. That’s like being burned alive compared to being burned by a match.

          I saw the lawyer and the judge quietly arguing so I floated over there quickly. I heard the core of the whispering. The judge suggested bail, but the DA protested, saying Gillum was a flight risk and the charges were a felony, not a simple misdemeanor.  It turns out that the DA and the judge had been friends for years, they went to law school together, so the DA caved in and allowed the judge to set bail. Gillum would be free until his trial date.

           I sensed that the DA felt inferior to the judge and the judge having recognized that long ago, used it occasionally to his advantage.

          I also sensed that the DA had a growing, uneasy feeling about the judge. Sometimes, he thought, the judge was making questionable rulings and that made the DA mildly suspicious. There was mild competition between them for years. Even at the weekly poker games amongst friends, the DA thought the judge sometimes cheated.

          Who would want to help a career criminal, the DA wondered?

          That evening and night I practiced obsessively, honing my skill at moving objects that weighed about one pound. I also realized that the more I practiced the easier it got.

          The morning of Gillum’s release, I followed him as he walked out of the police station. It irritated me and disgusted me that the justice system was more criminal-oriented than victim-oriented.

          Reporters had already leaked his extensive record of offenses, especially using and selling drugs. It was easy to see that he was not only an addict, but a distributor as well, the second one having more serious consequences.

          The next day I followed him to the public park. He headed directly to the basketball court where it looked like he was selling small, clear packets of drugs, mostly to teenagers. I wanted to call the cops, but I’d been practicing with what I guessed were one-pound objects and that didn’t make me strong enough to pick up and steadily hold a phone. I corked my anger then I followed him home. I waited thirty minutes, and when he did not exit, I went to the cemetery because that’s where it’s dark, quiet and deserted. I don’t need sleep, so I practiced all night, each hour of it making me better, the work becoming easier.

          Gillum was being careful not to get into trouble, not to get caught anyway. He only made low-risk drug sales in out-of-the-way places as the months dragged on. He barely ate and when he did it was fast food.

          But the good news for me was that, since I had much more time to practice than Patrick Swayze, I was improving remarkably well. After these six months of practice, I could now move and lift a two-pound object a hell of a lot better than a simple penny or a pencil.

          It wasn’t difficult keeping track of Gillum. He was usually drug-dazed on his couch watching TV unless he was selling the drugs, and even then, he staggered mildly as he walked and had to touch the sides of buildings for support.

          His exposed skin grew dirtier, layers of dirt on top of previous layers of dirt. His greasy hair was plastered down on his head, his nose was often discharging mucus, and his eyes were red-lined from irritated capillaries. He wore the same clothes as he did six months ago, ripped, stiff with dirt, and greasy. His athletic shoes were shredding apart, the white material was now black and when he raised his feet onto the coffee table while watching TV, the holes in the soles released the stench of his feet.

          Another month passed and I practiced whenever there was an opportunity. Since I didn’t need to sleep and the living did, I could practice all night if I chose. I chose to do it so many times. It all resulted in me being able to lift and move about a three-pound object. I was close to what I needed to lift. It’s a wonder what you can do when the spirit moves you.

          Time means nothing to a spirit and can slip by almost without notice, but I made sure that I kept track of dates, especially when my year for revenge ended. I looked at calendars and newspapers to find the dates, leaving nothing to chance. That’s how I knew that Gillum’s trial date was in six weeks. That meant that seven and one-half months would have gone by before the trial began.

          One night, as I stood in Gillum’s living room, he was shooting up some drugs. I saw him get a grimy, labeled jar of Vaseline. I thought he was going to gross me out, so I grimaced, but all he did was plaster a lump of Vaseline under the ankle bracelet, trying to get it to slip off. Not even close, was the result. He wiped the excess across his already greasy pants, then wiped the remainder still left on his fingers off on his shirt tail. So, he did gross me out after all.

          He thought if he could get the ankle bracelet off, he could go to New York City and get lost amongst the millions of residents by living the anonymous life of a homeless person. A cardboard box was a better home than a jail cell, he reasoned. But he had to give up on that idea. Also, he was not smart enough to know that he was under surveillance during the nighttime hours, a time when he would most likely try to escape.

          I increased my practice schedule by moving objects as I tailed him around town, doubling my practice during the nighttime hours. The practice was becoming easier each day and I was developing that power quickly. I was up to lifting and moving a four-pound object. I would cheer myself on by saying, “That’s the spirit,” as I followed Gillum making his rounds to buy, and then distribute his drugs. I played tricks and pranks on him, in a fashion that I appreciate. As he set a beer down on a table, I made it slide off. When he sat on a curb and took his shoes off to soak his feet in a rain puddle, I moved his shoes so he couldn’t find them. I made him waste much of his powdered drugs by creating a sudden wind to blow some of it away. I was even able to shake his wrist and make him spill some of it. When he ate, his food slipped off his fork. He thought he was going crazy. Sometimes I’d move his fork as he was lifting it and he’d stab himself in the lip as the food came off, rose into the air, and splattered in his face. He was furious and confused, but it was amusing to me. When the spirit moved me, I had a lot of fun.

          A week before his trial, Gillum visited a bar, got a beer, and made a phone call. I heard him make an appointment with his distributor at a cemetery for 2:00 a.m. No one would be around. Cemeteries were not places of amusement, nor any kind of fun, or meeting places for the teens that were out late at night. It was a safe place for a meeting.

          He thought about killing Wanda or having her killed but that was an unnecessary risk now that the most serious charges were dropped. He wondered why and where she disappeared. He figured the cops thought he had something do with her disappearance and he might have if she hadn’t vanished so suddenly a month after the incident.

          But he didn’t want to risk going to trial even for simple attempted robbery. He had a gun during the robbery and the consequences for that could be quite serious, although his lawyer said he could handle that. And how was he supposed to pay for the lawyer? The guy surprised him by saying the fee had already been paid. He would go to the cemetery meeting to get his life-saving drugs, the poison without which he could not live. He didn’t want to chance being followed so for the first time he exited his house through the cellar. He knew his location would be known, but the cops would not be able to react in time to stop his cemetery drug purchase.

          He slinked off into the darkness, worked his way behind houses and down dark streets and alleys until arriving at the cemetery entrance. He liked this cemetery’s brick pathway, the old-fashioned red bricks that he remembered the streets being paved with before ugly, smelly tar and before concrete. He surveyed the area and it appeared deserted except for bugs buzzing around the streetlights and a cat or cats screeching in the darkness.

          He walked quietly down the brick path toward the designated mausoleum. He smiled, remembering when he was a kid listening to the sounds of tires passing over the brick roads. It was a rhythm he enjoyed, much like music, and a reminder of the innocence of youth.

          His smile deserted him as he tripped over a loose brick that had pulled itself free from the path. Not having been alert, he quickly lost his balance and fell sideways, his head hitting a gravestone. He died immediately from a brain hemorrhage resulting from the crushed temple area of his cranium.

          An early morning exercise walker reported the body to the police. The body was lying across a grave, with hardly any blood on him or the gravestone, a nice, neat pickup for the morgue van. No ambulances and no EMTs are needed. The police officers were delighted. It would only take a few minutes to clear the area, then they could have their morning coffee and snack.

          Since he had a few minutes, the junior partner of the police team took notes for the necessary report that had to be filed. There wasn’t much to write. The ID of the victim said he was Gillum Rath, forty-two years- old, five feet nine inches tall, a hundred and forty-five pounds.

          As the junior partner was writing, the senior partner asked, “Did ya hear ‘bout Wanda and the judge?”

          “No. What’d I miss?”

          “There was a ‘sting’ operation. The judge was under suspicion. Now combine that with the arrest of Gillum for more serious charges. Gillum told a friend how good it felt to shoot someone and then have his lawyer lie so convincingly that the serious charges were dropped. His friend was a confidential informant for the police. Stupid shit could have gotten away with it, not that it matters now. and to have Wanda had been placed in protective custody so the drug kingpin couldn’t get to her. So now she is a great witness for the shooting of that guy, Carl.”

          “She didn’t vanish because she was killed. That’s what was assumed and accepted as time went on for months.”

          “The two cases got mixed. A drug operation sting that was attempting to arrest the major drug distributor and the robbery at the convenience store where that guy, Carl, got killed. That Gillum guy was conspiring with the drug kingpin.”

          “Shit, man. How’d you find out?”

          “Sergeant Braddock and I’ve been friends since we went to the academy. We’re close. He called last night and gave me the details. Looks like the sting went nice.”

          “OK, but he’s in another precinct.”

          “Yeah, it wasn’t our precinct that was handling the sting. We were in the dark, being a sergeant with a lot of friends, he knew about it.”

          The junior partner returned his notes.

          The gravestone read Carlton Jones, 1990 – 2011, then three words: ‘Family Comes First.’

          I was jovially spirited at the results. It was a new sensation. Spirits seldom feel anything, but I was excited. You could say that I was in the spirit of things. I had worked my way up to lifting nearly five-pound objects.

          Standard red bricks weigh four and one-half pounds.

          I finally got my revenge. I had been on Death Row far too long. Now I was off to see what could be found on the other side of life.