William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

Johnny had been out in the corridor with the marshal when the judge called the case, and she did not envy Johnny his walk to the front of the courtroom. Must be like running the gauntlet. Just to his left was Mario Roma, growling and glaring and looking as if it was all he could do to keep from driving a stake through Johnny’s heart. Gary Scholes and the other fraternity guys collectively turned their heads as he passed. Roger Hartnell looked as if he were about to cry. And in the very front row sat Johnny’s mother, her head cradled in her hands, tears seeping through her fingers.

Must be the longest walk in the world.

Except for the one he’d be taking down death row, if this didn’t go well.

“I don’t hate all homosexuals,” Johnny said, his voice smooth and flat as a pane of glass. “I don’t know why people keep calling this a hate crime. It wasn’t.”

“You are a member of the Christian Minutemen, correct?”

“Yes, and they don’t hate homosexuals, either. It was like Gary said. We disapprove of the gay lifestyle. We think it’s contrary to what God taught us through the Holy Scriptures. But that doesn’t equal hate. I disapprove of people who cheat on their taxes, too. But I don’t hate them.”

Point made, and let’s move on, Christina thought quietly. She wasn’t going to give him a chance to get into any major philosophical exegesis. “But you don’t deny that you participated in the beating of Tony Barovick.”

“That’s true. I admit it. It was wrong, but… I did it.” He even hung his head a bit, and Christina thought he looked genuinely sorry. Maybe he was remembering what Ben had told him about the importance of remorse. Or maybe he meant it-who could know?

“And you did it because he was gay?”

“No, we did it because he was a gay guy who came on to us. In public.” He swiveled around in his chair, choosing this moment to make brief eye contact with the jurors. “I’m not saying I was right, or that I was justified, or anything like that. But you have to understand the situation. Here I was in this bar. It’s a popular place. All my friends go there. All my fraternity brothers. And it’s a singles bar-people go there to hook up. So I’m sitting there minding my own business, and this obviously, flamboyantly gay man comes up and starts propositioning me. More that that-starts making seriously crude suggestions and insinuations to me. And everyone can hear. Can you imagine what people thought?”

“So you were embarrassed?”

“More than that. I was humiliated. Thinking what it could do to me, if word got around. The stigma. The rumors. You can’t fight that sort of thing, once it gets started. I had to make it clear that I didn’t like it. And I had to make sure that it didn’t happen again.”

“So that’s why you beat up Tony Barovick. To teach him a lesson?”

“That’s how it started, yes.” Johnny ran a hand along his smooth white cheek. He was a handsome boy, especially when he’d scrubbed up a bit. It wasn’t hard to believe someone might single him out in a bar. “I admit-it got way out of control. We’d both been drinking. I don’t do that much and I’m not used to it. Still, the really crazy, mean stuff-that was Brett’s doing, and I’m not just saying that because he isn’t here. And I’m not saying that means I’m not responsible. But I tried to get Brett to stop, I really did. I tried to get him to slow down, cool off. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He just kept at that kid, and he acted like if I didn’t participate-then maybe I was gay, too.”

“So you’re saying Brett Mathers was the principal actor during the beating?”

“He did the worst of it. I admit I was willing to punch the guy around a few times. But all that extreme stuff was Brett’s idea. He was the one who brought the Taser. He was the one who brought the hammer. His fingerprints were found on the hammer-only his. It was his idea to break the kid’s legs. I thought that was way too cruel-almost insane. And I tried to stop him-I really did. Tried hard. But Brett wouldn’t listen.”

“When did the beating finally stop?”

“After he broke both legs. After that, the anger seemed to wash out of Brett. Maybe he realized he’d gone too far. Plus, that poor man’s screaming and wailing in pain was so loud-I think it kind of woke Brett up from whatever weird psycho state he was in. He grabbed all his stuff and said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ And we did.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back to the house. We hung out for about an hour, then I went for a walk. To clear my head. Then Brett and I went back to Remote Control. A few minutes later, four more guys from our frat house arrived. They joined our table.”

“And that was where you… bragged about what you had done?”

“Brett bragged. Mostly, I just sat still and kept my mouth closed. Nodded occasionally.”

“Did you speak out against what had happened? Condemn it. Express your regrets?”

“No.” His eyes fell toward the floor. “I wish I had. I was feeling really guilty about what had happened. I knew we hadn’t done right. I knew-we’d sinned. But I couldn’t tell my brothers that. I had to play along.”

“How long were you there?”

“Not all that long-I don’t know exactly. But about 11:10 or so, the guilt I was feeling became so overpowering I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to get up-had to go somewhere. So I left the bar.”

“And you went?…”

“I can’t explain it, but-all at once, I knew what I had to do. I had to see my mother.”

“Were the two of you close?”

“Not at the time. I’d been a real jerk to her lately. But-she was still my mother, you know? That’s how I thought of her. So I went to her place. It’s very near campus.”

“And what happened there?”

“It was pretty much just as she described it. I wasn’t looking to be forgiven-I knew I didn’t deserve that. I just had to tell someone. And I suppose-” He looked up, his eyes misting. “I suppose deep down somewhere I knew that your mother always loves you. No matter what you’ve done. No matter how horrible it is.”

Christina stared at the witness, wanting to be cynical about his testimony, but finding herself unable to do so. He seemed amazingly genuine-too good to be faked. And she considered herself a pretty good judge of character. Maybe this boy wasn’t quite as heartless as he let on.

“How long were you at your mother’s home?”

“Only about ten minutes. It was enough. Then I returned to the bar. It was-I don’t know-another half hour or so before the group started to break up-and the cops stepped in.”

“Did you resist arrest?”

“Not in the least. I knew what I’d done. I didn’t clam up or demand a lawyer or any of that. I figured-I hurt someone. I’ll do my time.”

“Then what happened?”

“What happened was they didn’t charge me with assault or battery-they charged me with murder! I tried to explain to them that we didn’t kill him. We didn’t beat him so badly he might die from it, either. I know we gave him a hard time, but there’s no way the beating was fatal. Something else must’ve happened to him. After we left.”

“Did you explain that to the police?”

“Of course. But they didn’t listen. As far as they were concerned, they had two suspects who had confessed. They didn’t want any complications.”

Good enough, Christina thought. Maybe not quite a sow’s ear into a silk purse, but the best she could hope for with this witness and these facts. “Johnny, how do feel now about what you did on that night?”

“Objection,” Drabble said, breaking the spell they were casting for the first time. “The facts are relevant. His feelings are not.”