American Beast

I lean forward in my uncomfortable seat and adjust my headphones. My son Brad is staring into nothing, a glazed look in his eye.

The judge looks to the jury in the box to his left then fixes Brad with a stern glare. It doesn’t make any difference, Brad won’t meet his eyes, still looks at nothing.

“You have been found guilty of the most unconscionable, the most despicable of crimes,” says the voice of the female interpreter through my headphones.

The judge pauses and looks down as if examining a paper on the table in front of him.

“We have heard that you have endured difficult circumstances in your youth, and I have taken those into account,” he continues through the interpreter. “But there can be no excuse for the heinous act that you committed. I therefore sentence you to the maximum penalty available under the law: life imprisonment. You will serve a minimum of thirty years before you will be eligible for parole.”

Brad doesn’t move. He will be 48 if/when he gets out. I will be gone.

His French lawyers tried to prepare me for the worst but this still feels like someone has just rammed a haymaker straight to my gut.

Last summer had started so promisingly.

The demons that had haunted Brad for years finally seemed to be in the past. When he was thirteen years old, I had been forced to pull him from the public junior high after one violent incident too many.

“Impulsive and uncontrolled flashes of extreme and violent temper amid long periods of calm normality,” the psychiatrist had said.

The first year at the special school and its endless hours of therapy seemed to make little difference. That summer he wielded a plastic knife to attack another boy who was supposed to be his best friend. The principal was ready to throw him out.

But I begged for a second chance. Somehow the principal relented.

After that, there had been four steady years. Bumps and scrapes here and there, of course. Mini temper tantrums, sure. But no violence, thank God. I worked every hour I could to afford his education.

In his good moments, of which there were now many, Brad was becoming a fine young man. Or so I thought.

He made another friend at the school, Jonko. Like Brad, Jonko was also a reformed character, but he had a much more outgoing personality than my son.

The day they graduated, Brad told me that he and Jonko wanted to go on a European vacation. They would start in London and work their way east toward Poland, then south through Italy and Spain and finally end up in Paris. To be honest, I had my misgivings but seeing Brad so excited I had to let him go.

The boys’ trip exceeded my expectations, until the very end that is. Back home in Florida I got Brad’s social media updates every day. He and Jonko were having the time of their lives, meeting new friends and – for the first time as far as I knew for Brad – some girls. I felt almost happy.

He was three days away from the return flight when I got the call. 

In heavily accented English, barely hiding his contempt, the Parisien prosecutor explained that Jonko and Brad had tried to score some cocaine in a seedy part of town. But it seems they bought a wrap of baking powder instead. They threatened the petty dealer on the phone and tried to set up a meeting to get their money back. Problem was the dealer was a police informant and he sent a gendarme to meet the boys.

The prosecutor said the gendarme, who for some unknown reason was alone, tried to take the boys into custody. That’s when, the French claimed, Brad “snapped”. He flung himself on the French officer, knocked him to the ground, hands gripped around his neck, crazed look in his eye. 

Jonko apparently had tried to pull my son off the man. But it was too late. His windpipe pulverized, the Frenchman passed away two days later at the age of 29, leaving a widow and two small children.

Now, all of France is scandalized at the American beast. Jonko gets off with one year. Brad’s life, however, is over. As is mine.

Two prison officers lift my slumped son from his seat, cuff his hands and lead him out of the courtroom exit toward the busy street. I am not far behind, French media swarming all over the situation.

The prison van doors open up. But suddenly Brad bucks like a bull and, although cuffed, somehow throws his two companions back. He rushes into the street and everything goes slow, very slow.

I see Brad there looking lost. I see the truck rushing towards him and I lunge at my son. I don’t know how, but I push him out of the way of that oncoming ton of steel, and it hits me full on.

It smashes me into the tarmac, my arms and legs are bent at obscene angles. Everywhere is blood. Everything is pain. 

I turn and see my son one last time. Standing there unscathed, yet forlorn. Is that a tear I see rolling down his cheek as he finally looks at something, looks at me?

Then it is gone. All gone. 

The rest is darkness.