Wilson BOBBY'S TRIALS

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-61792-916-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 221 Seiten

About Bobby's Trials by Bobby Wilson, JD The incredible story of a poor teenage Oklahoma farm boy who was charged with murdering his mother and sister in cold blood and then burning down the family home in a supposed attempt to cover up his crimes and his ten-year court battle to clear his name. In the early morning hours of June 19, 1963, just four days before he was to leave for basic training, Bobby Wilson was awakened by his mother. She held a loaded gun to his head and had a crazy, yet familiar, look in her eyes. Alongside his sister, Bobby had suffered her rants for years, but tonight was different. Bobby knew without a doubt that the demons that his mother had struggled with for years had their sights on him. He realizes he has nowhere to turn and nowhere to run, but he has no idea that the nightmare has just begun. It is a nightmare that changes the course of his life. It is a nightmare that will ultimately take Bobby ten years to wake up from.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Wilson, Bobby

Leseproben

Chapter 1: Confusion The hellhole of a jail smelled of urine and rotting mattresses as usual. Tonight, there was an additional scent in the air. It was the smell of fear and impending violence. I was familiar with that odor, having sensed it often in this place. Caged men give off the same odor as frightened livestock in a corral when they smell a slaughterhouse. I knew earlier in the day that as soon as darkness arrived and the downstairs jailer and his wife had gone to bed that it would not be a peaceful night, at least not for me. My evening plans were made earlier that day when the deputies opened the cellblock doors into the main bullpen and they ushered Jimmy and Johnny, the twins, into the large bullpen main cell. The twins had glanced over at me seated in my usual window perch in the far corner of the bullpen. They had quickly looked away, showing no signs of recognition, never making eye contact with me. It had been years since our last violent encounter, and now I was easy prey, with no one to come to my rescue. What was it the Indian said in that old Western movie? “Today is a good day to die.” Somehow, that thought did not seem very comforting. Eighteen is too young an age to die. I correctly surmised what Jimmy and Johnny would spend the remainder of their day doing. They would recruit some helpers from this septic tank of human refuse since two-to-one odds were not good enough for them. Then they would come after me. No school-ground teacher would save me this time, and I would not be fighting to protect my sister’s chastity. This time, I would be fighting for my life. There would be no quarter give, none asked. It was not a long wait. I could hear the twins moving from cell to cell, making conversation with each prisoner, sizing them up as an ally or a rat. By the end of the day, the twins had found the thief and his two cellmates. Their conversations became muted and confidential, not a good sign. “Birds of a feather” seemed an accurate description of the group of plotters. I had caught the thief the night before stealing out of the paper sack of personal items under my cell bunk. I had grabbed his hair with my left hand and pulled his head from under my bunk and hissed, “You are a dead man.” Then I slammed my right fist into his chest, knocking him backward, out of my cell. He scrambled back to his feet, dropping or throwing my two candy bars on the floor. He avoided me all day, unsure if I was finished with him. I had not seen Jimmy or Johnny in several years. I heard they had been expelled from junior high school. That had not surprised me. My last face-to-face meeting with the twins was the last day my sister and I attended the country school. I had refused to return to that school for fear of what they might do to my sister. Reality suddenly appeared in front of me in the form of the twins and their new allies. “Let’s hang the bastard!” Jimmy shouted. “Yeah,” joined in his twin brother. “We will make it look like a suicide; everyone will think the sorry-ass hung himself.” “Bobby, we are going to do you a favor and put you out of your misery,” the thief chimed in, careful to stay out of my reach. The three of them started moving toward me. I stood up from my perch and backed into the corner of the bullpen so no one could get behind me. Johnny removed his leather belt and fashioned a noose and began looking for an adequate ceiling water pipe support. Two more of their buddies joined in behind them. Another quiet evening at home, I thought to myself. As strange as it sounds, you can get accustomed to almost anything, even fighting for your life on a daily basis. I guess combat soldiers understand that feeling. My whole being became focused on the twins’ hands and feet. If I had learned anything while rotting away in jail, it was never take your eyes off your attacker’s hands and feet. To do so would mean you could not react fast enough to the attack, and the first person to land a solid fist or boot to a vital part of another’s body was probably going to prevail. You never see the second or third blows coming, and by then you are on the ground, to be kicked into submission or death, whichever comes first. A torn kidney is not a pleasant way to bleed to death. I had not said a word yet—after all, what was there to say? The twins knew I would put up a fight. The only question was, how much of a fight? They had not forgotten the country school episode years earlier, and neither had I. It was unfinished business, left to fester all these years. I knew Jimmy would make the first move to attack. Johnny would follow his lead. The three other thugs fanned out to the sides of the twins. All of them slowly moved toward me as I waited for Jimmy to make his move. I was going to try to block his move and jam my right thumb and trigger finger into his eyes and squeeze those two digits together until he passed out, hopefully blinding him and putting him out of the fight; a little trick I had learned here and only used from necessity to stay alive. Then I would body-blow Johnny and turn my attention to the three punks with a screaming attack, not unlike that of a craved man fighting for his life. And then the strangest thing happened. James, the black kid, stuck his hand through the cell bars beside me and slid an unopened knife into my right hand. I pressed the button, and the unmistakable sound of a switchblade knife opening stopped all movement in the bullpen. I brought the six-inch blade level with Jimmy’s stomach. I moved toward Jimmy with the knife in a menacing manner. He and Johnny turned and quickly departed to their cells, almost stumbling over their other retreating comrades. It was over as quickly as it started. I walked over to James and slipped his now closed knife through the bars to him. I whispered, “Thanks,” and he grinned and nodded. I never knew where he got the knife or how he got it into the jail, I guess the fact I never called him nigger and had been the only white guy willing to play checkers with him and share my cell’s bunk bed had paid off for me, big time. He would save my bacon again, one day in the future, by simply mailing a letter for me. I suddenly felt weak, and my legs started to tremble, so I went into my cell and lay down on my bunk, with one eye on the cell door in case someone else decided to invade my space that night. I had survived another day. I wondered what tomorrow would bring. One sure thing, it wouldn’t be anything pleasant. My life had become a daily struggle to survive. The noise and squeals from the other end of the cellblock indicated the twins and their three friends had turned their attention and animal urges toward the young gay kid, who had been trying to remain as quiet and unseen as possible. His criminal offense of public intoxication that day was being punished by a gang rape by the five animals while the jailer and wife slept peacefully below. I attended the same middle school as Johnnie, the kid; we were the same age. I had wondered about his feminine ways. Now my suspicions were confirmed, and he was learning that the meek are not going to inherit the earth. I stared at the bottom of James’ empty overhead bunk and wondered how I came to be in such a mess. Why me? What had I ever done to deserve this? Why was I so alone? I had never felt more confused in all my eighteen years. Sure, I had been confused before, like when I was five years old and my father walked out, never to return. That was confusing, until Mother explained, “All men are bastards.” Or the time shortly after my eighth birthday, when we were on the run from my supposed stepfather, and Mother handed me a rifle, a real one, and told me to stand guard and shoot any man who bothered her. That was confusing until Mother explained that my supposed stepfather, “like all men, was a bastard.” Or the times Mother invited strange men to our home and told Sister and me to entertain the ones she did not take to her bedroom. That was confusing until Mother explained, “All men are bastards, but sometimes you have to use them.” Or the time when Mother took her butcher knife and cut the throat of my show bull. That was confusing, until she explained, “You’re a bastard just like your father.” But my current state of confusion was by far the worst I ever encountered. My brain was just not working; I would shake my head and pinch myself constantly. I must have looked and acted deranged. Maybe I was. I was in a fog, a very thick fog. Why was everyone constantly asking me, “Bobby, what happened?” I really just wanted it to be over, to wake up and find myself alone in my old steel-rail single bed. I would look out my bedroom window and see the sunrise and the sparkle of the dew on the fields. Butch would be on the back porch watching me through my bedroom window, patiently waiting for me to bring him something to eat, or better still, take him hunting. I tried to focus my mind and memory on the events in my life that led to my current state of turmoil. How did a kid born in San Francisco, California in 1944 end up in Oklahoma in Indian Country in 1963? And how did he, at the ripe old age of eighteen, end up charged with murdering his mother and sister, his only known family, and not have a memory of those tragic events? Something very complicated had occurred in my mind, and I needed to unravel this mystery. Then maybe I could explain to the world what had happened on that fateful morning. I forced my mind...