A Father's Sin

A Father’s Sin

By

Wayne Augden

For two weeks I sat in the Arlo, Oklahoma county courthouse while the trial of Vincent (The Viper) Thomas was in session. Sitting quietly, listening intently to the witness’s testimony, as the lawyers asked them an array of questions and argued back and forth in front of the judge for the slightest advantage in adjuring the case before them. I sat there listening, watching, hoping for justice, but beginning to realize that the prosecution of the law and justice weren’t necessarily the same thing.

Vincent sat at the defense table, calm, a slight smile at the corner of his lips, his eyes dark and empty, his body relaxed and at ease; supremely confident that freedom awaited him. His long black hair freshly washed and cut, just above the collar, his bangs clipped short to reveal a child’s face with limpid dark brown eyes and high cheekbones, more handsome than at any other time in his life with the blue pin-striped suit a snug fit on his slender, wiry frame. Amazing what a haircut, a nice suit, and a little coaching can do, I thought. Overall, a remarkable job. His lawyers had done everything possible to make him look the part of a sad and troubled young man.

If I’d never seen him before, I would never have thought it possible that this young man with the dark and empty brown eyes could be guilty of the brutal rape and savage murder of the beautiful and vibrant young woman whose portrait I’d seen in the hands of her grief-stricken father sitting just a few seats away. A graduation picture, red cap and gown, a flaxen-haired, green-eyed beauty smiling out at a world of promise that she’d never get to enter.

Day by day, I waited as the trial went on, watching as witness after witness took the stand and testified, and saw things grow steadily worse for the prosecution. Now I sat listening as the lawyers offered their closing arguments while I watched the jurors. Clearly some of them were deeply affected, their faces drawn tight with anger, even hatred, and on some I could see tears trailing unashamedly down their cheeks, then they were excused. For them the debate would begin, the arguments would ensue, and when they finally reached their decision the Viper’s fate would be decided. How long they would be I didn’t know. Insanity is a creditable defense when one is truly insane, and certainly the evidence against him confirmed it; only I knew something they didn’t, but knowing in itself wasn’t enough. Not in a court of law.

I left the courtroom and went outside. I needed to see the sun, breathe some fresh air, try to feel something other than the terrible agony and sorrow and anger that clutches at my heart. Off to the side, the family of the victim, Tina Sommers, are huddled together, their heads bowed. They’re praying, I thought, pleading with Almighty God to grant them justice, maybe vengeance. I can’t blame them. As I watch them, I catch the eyes of her mother looking at me. The same green eyes as the daughter only they’re not filled with hope and yearning for tomorrow, but with a terrible and unyielding fury. Grief would come to her, I knew, but not today.

At 2:00 p.m. we received notice a decision had been reached, and turning away I walked back into the courtroom feeling the weight of her stare upon me. Entering the courtroom, I took my seat behind the defense table and waited for the verdict to be handed down. Vincent sat quietly, calmly as if somehow he already knew the answer. He turned his head toward me and winked at me and I nodded my head in return.

The pound of the gavel startled me, and I turned to look at the judge facing the jury.

“Has the jury reached a verdict,” he asked.

“We have your honor,” said the foreman, and handed the verdict to the bailiff who took it and returned it to the judge.

Without preamble, the judge unfolded it, surveyed it briefly, then laid it aside. “What say you?”

A hush fell across the room as we listened to the foreman’s voice as it carried the verdict of “not guilty” to every corner of the room. The courtroom buzzed with the sounds of the wounded, groans of agony and defeat, and the unheralded cries of justice denied. From where I stood, I could see several women shedding angry tears, black eye-liner smearing as they tried to dab those tears away. The men stood rigid, tight-faced, their fists clenched in anger. The eyes of Tina’s father catch mine, and I hold his gaze until he looks away.

Vincent is standing at the defense table looking at me, and I notice the two features that have always been so inconsistent with each other. The first is his smile, so warm, so gentle, his teeth perfectly straight, beautiful. The other his eyes, a dark brown, almost black. They hold no life, no soul. Empty. They hold the same vacant expression they’ve held since he was a child. He gestures for me to come over.

I walk over to him, the room loud with sound. So loud. I can hardly hear him.

“I’m free, Dad,” he says to me. “Can you believe it? I’m actually free.”

I want to say something but words are failing me so I nod.

“Just think,” He says, “some time in the hospital, a few years maybe, and I’ll be free. I’ll be released.” He smiles at me. “You’ll see.”

It’s true. Somehow I know he’ll be released. I slip my arms around him and hold him close to me.

“I love you, Vincent,” I say. “I always have.”

“I know Dad,” he says, “I love you, too.”

My lips are close to his ear and I whisper, “I’ve always tried to watch out for you, Vincent,” I say, “but I did wrong. I should have done things differently, but you were all I had, and I had to have someone.”

“I know Dad,” he says. “It’s all right.”

I turn my head to look at the judge, and the lawyers, the bailiff walking away from me, and the jury coming out of the box. I’d looked to them to do what I couldn’t, and they had failed; then I met the eyes of Tina’s father looking at me.

I don’t know if he can hear me, but I say it loud, “I’m sorry for what I did.”

He’s looking at me, his eyes uncomprehending, not understanding.

I turn back to Vincent and embrace him again holding him tightly to me. “I’m sorry, son,” I say as I plunge the homemade knife I’ve made into him once then again, and feel his body jerk with the impact, and catch him as he slides to the floor and away. . . .

The End