Hair-trigger Justice

Part 1: The Beginning

"I would've gone to Stop the Steal, but it just didn't work out."

Joe heard himself say the words, but they hung in the air in front of him, somehow separate and apart from him. Alien. The whole thing felt surreal.

Given everything that had happened at the rally that day, he was certainly glad not to have been present.  As a Navy veteran, he was deeply disturbed by the actions of the crowd.  As an American, he felt vaguely embarrassed and ashamed.   Sure people had gripes with the politicians, and some even felt that there were questions about the election outcomes. But what occurred in DC on the 6th was FUBAR, if ever there was one.

Speaking now with the young sheriff at the police station was uncomfortable. He shook his head, trying to clear it so he could remember what brought him there.  She was nice enough, business-like but warm.  He felt himself settle deeper into the chair.

The interview room at the sheriff's station had a large, inset mirror on one wall — "probably a one-way," Joe thought — with a single table and several chairs center stage. It was painted a light beige color, except for two non-descript, framed drawings clustered together on the opposite wall. One large barred window was stuck at the far end of the room, barely letting in the morning light; the window needed cleaning and so the light it allowed was dim.  Two tall file cabinets were jammed into the closer end along with a Keurig coffee-maker, the room's only concession to comfort. There was little clutter, except for a red tin ashtray on the table.

"Just tell me how it all happened, in your own words," the sheriff said. The look of concern in her green eyes (an intense shade of green under lightly colored eyebrows and sandy blonde hair) and her gentle tone made him want to open up, at least a little bit. Perhaps talking about it would help him to settle down.  His hands and shoulders were still tense from the night before.

He was confused and shaken about what had happened.  Everything occurred so quickly.  It began as a routine quiet evening; nothing unusual. One minute his attention was fixed on the tv screen next to his armchair.  The living room was darkening as dusk crept closer and shadows filled the room.  He was eating an early dinner of left-overs — meatloaf, corn, and mashed potatoes — and listening to one of his favorite shows on Fox.  The next thing he knew, he heard the front porch wooden stairs creak. It was a familiar sound, but he wasn't expecting anyone. Looking up at the sound of a knock on the front storm door, he saw the figure of a young Black man on his porch. His nappy hair was close-cut; Joe could see that little detail but not much else.  The yellow porch-light didn't reveal a lot.  The shape in the doorway was not particularly imposing, slight and average in height, but somehow it was menacing nonetheless. He felt himself stiffen and his body tense-up with fear.

Instinctively, he reached for the loaded .38 revolver in the end-table drawer next to his chair. Levelling the gun, he hastily fired two shots through the glass door. He heard the glass shatter and something dropped to the porch.  The sharp report of the pistol was a shock and he felt paralyzed.  Everything went blank.

Joe came out of a mental haze sometime during the initial interrogation by the local police deputy who came to his home. Why is a  cop here?, Joe wondered to himself. He heard the deputy say to a paramedic that the kid was lucky. Then the ambulance left with sirens blaring and the policeman got a halting statement from Joe before bundling him into the back seat of the cruiser.  The ride was eerily quiet, but Joe's mind was crowded with quickly shifting, anxious images.  It was now early the next morning and he was being interviewed by the county Sheriff.

She had brought a styrofoam cup of black coffee to the table for him.

"So Mr. Slattery, you were home alone when it happened?  No one else was with you?", she asked.

Joe looked up from the cup in his hands.   "Yes, all alone."

"No one else lives with you?"

Taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee, Joe responded:  "No, I 've been by myself for the last six years since my wife died."

"And you thought about going to Stop the Steal, but weren't able to?"

(Pause) "Well, there was the hassle of finding a ride, then going to DC for the whole day.  Sometimes, I find people annoying and that's a challenge.  I wanted to express my frustration with where the country is going, but being in a large crowd of people wasn't that appealing.  If the rally amounted to anything, I could watch it on tv.  Which is what I did.  'Be there.  Will be wild,' the President said.  It WAS wild, disturbing.  Couldn't sleep at all that night."

Sheriff: "... so, lets get back to last evening. You were watching tv and got startled by someone at the front door who appeared threatening. You automatically reached for the weapon and fired through the glass door.  Do you usually keep a loaded revolver in that drawer?  I assume you have a permit for it. Yes? Have you had any practice or safety training with that weapon? Have you fired a gun before?"

Joe: "Yes, long ago. In the Navy. I was a Machinist's Mate during Vietnam. Never saw combat though. I was aboard a destroyer on the East Coast, but needed to maintain a sailor's basic rating."

Sheriff: "I see. And you're retired?  Came here about six years ago?"

Joe:  "... yes, ma'am.  I'm retired from Northrop Grumann Aerospace on Long Island.  Worked there as a machinist until my wife died of cancer, then left that job and came here for a quiet life.  We had exhausted our insurance benefits. Cancer care can be expensive, you know. I figured Obama Care would be easier to get in PA.  (He didn't add that living with all the familiar sights and sounds of Long Island after she passed was unbearable.). I had saved up enough for a downpayment on this house.  It's not much, but it suits me."

The Sheriff flashed a brief smile.  She liked this man, but felt sorry for him, sensing the pain of loss that still followed him like a ball and chain. He was simple and straightforward.  And respectful.  She had been cautioned before the interview that he was a loner and "a Trumper." No one knew much about his politics but he had a reputation for irritability.  Word was that he would be averse to talking with law enforcement.  But he was no "sovereign citizen" (she had had run-ins with those people before and they could be nasty).  He seemed deflated, more sad and alone than dangerous.  He was not antagonistic and she found herself both relieved and sympathetic.

Sure.  What he had done was impulsive, reckless even.  But she found it easy to see how this sudden surprise could quickly turn into fear and a knee-jerk reaction to self-protect.  It wasn't pretty, and she didn't approve, but she had heard about similar cases from elsewhere.  The country WAS in a difficult state right now, and it was awash with guns.  Overall, not a good situation.  On a dime, split-second decisions could turn deadly, sometimes with irreparable consequences. She hoped this was not one of those times.

Her challenge now was to decide how to handle this fragile man, once they learned how the boy was faring medically.  Then she needed to clarify how the young man had gotten onto Slattery's porch in the first place.  She could learn all that from a conversation with the boy's parents, and from the boy himself once he was stabilized.  He had sustained a wound to his upper leg, but also had a gunshot to the head which the docs said was serious but not life threatening.  They wanted to keep him overnight for observation. He had indeed been lucky.