R. Ruggiero - Brushfire Plague

The teenager shifted uncomfortably in the front row of the courtroom. Knees on gangly legs kept bumping into the wooden wall in front of him. The fluorescent lights bore down on him, the light made harsher by the circumstances that had brought him here. The room was abuzz with the murmurs of an excited crowd; punctuated by the occasional gibe shot across the aisle.

The room was divided by a phalanx of bailiffs down the middle aisle. Cooper was young, but he knew the rift in the room was miles wider than that. On the left were those who supported his father, incensed by what they all knew were false accusations levied by a political opponent. On the right were those who backed Denny Smith; said rival.

Today, the jury was coming back to render its verdict.

The stiff oak doors to his right opened and his father was led into the room by two Sheriff’s officers. The room fell deathly silent as all heads riveted in that direction.

“Thief!” shouted a voice from somewhere behind, off to the right.

Cooper was instantly on his feet with balled fists; his eyes scanning the crowd for the culprit. A strong hand landed on his shoulder, pushing him back into his seat, “Sit down, son. We ain’t having none of that here today.” He looked up at a steely-eyed bailiff who outweighed him by a hundred pounds, most of which was muscle. He sat back down, bitter tears of futility burning his eyes.

Landing back in his seat, he did something he hadn’t done in years: he reached out and curled his mother’s fingers into his own. Their eyes embraced. His mother’s despondency clashing with his own fury.

He looked up as his father came to the seat just feet away from him. His father’s eyes gripped him, as if to hug him. The connection felt more sincere and warm than most men’s actual embraces would have been. He raised his hands to chest level and clenched them into fists of encouragement. Cooper stared deeply into his father’s eyes, drawing frantically from the wellspring of strength that he so desperately needed. Doing so calmed the room from spinning out of control, but the black pit in Cooper’s gut refused to budge.

The remainder of the proceedings had always been a blur of disjointed images and scenes. He remembered rising to the bailiff’s call and sitting once again at the judge’s permission.

Like graffiti blighting an ancient redwood, the jury foreman was forever carved into his memory. He could recall every crag in the old man’s face. The man’s black bolo tie insulted him. The man looked like a caricature of a hanging judge from a cheap Western. Seared deeper into his mind were the man’s chapped lips moving in slow motion and exaggerated form as they condemned his father and pronounced a single word: “Guilty.”

His father’s knees buckled in shock and he abruptly collapsed into his seat. His father was given a scant second of relief, before the judge rapped his gavel and a bailiff manhandled him back onto his feet. He would never forget how his father gave one firm shake of his head back and forth in disbelief. Then, he regained his composure and stood steadfast once more.

His mother let out a stifled wail of despair, her body wracked as she refused to let any sound reach her husband’s enemies, who sat mere feet away. Cooper did his best to help bear the tension, gripping her hand more firmly. When that proved inadequate, he pulled her in close, clenching her shoulders under his arm. He felt burning tears on his neck as she mashed her face against him. He bit down on his lips to padlock his own tears inside.

He looked to his right and saw Denny Smith in the front row opposite him, smiling widely at his victory. With the jury’s verdict, he knew he had accomplished something he could never have done in an election: taken his father’s leadership position away from him. Denny’s eyes caught Cooper’s. Seeing the boy’s misery, he softened none of his rapacious smile. His eyes became more wolf-like and his mouth worked itself into a snarl. Wanting to strike back, Cooper struggled to mimic a hard man’s stare. To his regret, Denny didn’t seem to notice or care. Dismissively, he’d turned away to accept the congratulations of one of his cronies.

Thankfully, he could evoke bits and pieces of his father’s speech. He would never forget the day the verdict came down, and certain words were burned into his mind. He liked to call upon them for solace.

“This travesty comes as no surprise. Many other men, much greater men than I, have been bushwhacked by a legal system written by and for those who own things rather than those who make them. I will confess my surprise that my long-time dear friend Denny Smith is the man who concocted these lies to smear my name and bring me down. This was a man I would have entrusted not only my own life, but the lives of my wife and child as well. That is how deep our bond went. Now, I stand on the other side of a wide river, a river filled with lies, deceit, and false accusations. But, my entire life has been about trust and I will not abandon it now. My entire life I’ve been a part of people trusting one another and it’s been a beautiful thing to see. The men and women I’ve worked with have stood up together, bonded in trust, to protect their communities, and promote a better life for all Americans. So, I tell you today, Denny Smith, I will not allow the craven act of one cowardly worm of a man diminish my trust in others, proven right and true a thousand times over by better men, and women, than you!”

When his father had finished, Cooper’s eyes were red and swollen. Whenever Cooper would think of the proud upright man who stood in the courtroom that day, he could never stop himself from also remembering the same man a few months later: broken, bent, and ragged. His father had been a man of action. Losing his freedom behind the constricting prison’s walls had been his version of hell.

Watching his father be overwhelmed and swept under by the lies of others, he had vowed never to allow dishonesty any stake or place in his own life, no matter how tempting. Ever since, he’d never uttered a single falsehood. Right now, he frantically wanted to tell the small lie to his son—and to himself—because it would make things easier to face. But, he could not, “I’m here now, son. I’m not going anywhere. We will deal with this together, no matter what.” It was the best he could manage.

Jake drank his words in, deeply inhaling once he’d finished speaking. Jake knew his father’s words were true, they always were. He nodded his head slowly, never breaking from his father’s eyes. He wiped away his tears with a brush of his hand, “I’m happy you’re here. I don’t want to see Mom like this. It’s scaring me.” With that, fresh tears washed down his face. Cooper hugged him again, Jake feeling the beat of his father’s heart. “Look, it’s alright to be scared. I’m scared too. But, we need to focus on your mother now. Let’s make her comfortable, let’s do everything we can for her, and let’s make sure she can feel our love.” He waited a few moments and a notion from one of his numerous first aid classes came back to him. Always put people into motion when in crisis. Just give them something to do. “Can you go get me a glass of water? The drive made me thirsty.” Jake nodded yes and slowly ambled out of the room. Cooper took a deep breath and turned to his wife, lying prostrate on the bed.

Cooper took one look at his wife and pressed his latex-covered hand firmly against his face, just above his upper lip to help himself maintain control. Watching her, so clearly in distress, pushed his heart into his throat and made him want to beat the walls in helpless frustration. He hated that he knew so little about what was happening. He took the last few steps to the bedside, slowly, like a man walking to the gallows. Dread gripped him around the throat and pressed the air from his lungs. Each step closer to the bed made the throttling grow tighter. He countered by taking his wife’s hand and breathing deeply in a measured, controlled breath.