Storymania - Who Will Feed The Cattle? by Fiedler

Who Will Feed The Cattle?
Fiedler

August 12th, 2002

This may be my last letter. I never thought I’d say this, but I am actually afraid. It’s hard to believe how easily your life can end without ever having to die. I’d be lying if I said that if I had the chance to go back I wouldn’t do anything different. Three weeks ago when my lawyer asked me how I wanted to plea I had said firmly “not guilty”, he had said to me “John are you sure about that? If you lose…” then I had interrupted and said “not guilty!” Lyle just stood there looking at me for a moment, then after awhile he proceeded to argue his point, almost begging me to change my mind. But I was stubborn. I stood by my decision no matter what the consequences, knowing very well that the consequence could be death. Back then I still had faith in the system, I still believed my lawyer could win, and there was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell. I might as well be dead.

I am 26 years old and my life has ended. In its place another one has begun, one I am unfamiliar with and frankly don’t know how to live. I feel like I am trapped in a parallel world, like I am living in a dream just waiting to wake up, but no it is not a dream. I won’t be waking up to the smell of the scrambled eggs and over salted bacon that Ma’ would make every Tuesday; and after that I won’t be going out to the yard to rake the leaves that have fallen from the big oak tree. I will no longer feed the cattle and milk the cows, I will no longer help Sam with his homework at night (not that I really was any help). It’s funny it just occurred to me that I actually miss doing all those things that I used to consider a burden.

I remembered when they transferred me here. I had made it through most of the week without getting into any trouble. Then Tuesday had come, visiting day, both my mother and younger brother had come. Ma’ had brought me some food in a brown paper bag and some blankets. Sam, my younger brother, had brought me some of the books I usually read. I looked at there covers and mumbled softly to myself “my new home”, Ma’ just looked up and said to me “this may be where you live for now, but your home will always be with us.” There was an awkward moment of silence after that, where we were all realizing that I may never get out. I tried to brake the silence, I asked her “who’s going to feed the cattle?” she didn’t answer.

I never stopped thinking that a part of Ma’ actually believed I had done it. The way she would look at me was different, it was different the day they arrested me. I had gone up to the hills. There was a coyote or something up there killing the sheep, so I had gotten my shotgun and walked up the hill to wait for him. By the time I got there I saw a sheep lying on the ground. Her neck was still throbbing blood and the flesh from her leg was torn. The coyote must have heard me coming and ran, so I figured that if I hid and stayed real quite he’d come back. I laid on the ground hidden behind a bush for nearly a half an hour, my finger rubbing on the trigger ready to press down on it at the first sight. Then I saw him. He came from the west, he couldn’t resist the sent of the sheep’s blood, slowly he came near her. “Bang!” I fired my shot and the coyote fell to the ground. I got up and walked towards him. He was lying on his side; the bullet had penetrated his stomach. At first I thought he was dead, but then I saw he eyes twitching and I heard a soft whimpering. The poor animal was still alive and in much pain. I lifted my shotgun again to put him out of his misery.

It was about eleven thirty when I realized something was wrong. I had a sharp pain in my stomach. I started walking faster in my anguish. As soon as the house came into sight I noticed four police vehicles parked around it. The front door to my house was open. I started running towards it imagining what terrible things could have happened. Then police deputy Ray Brown appeared coming out from out of my house, he yelled at me “hold it right there!” I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of his drawn gun that was aimed directly at me. “Put the gun down slowly and place your hands on the back of your head!” I looked down beside me at the shotgun; in all the commotion I had forgotten I even had it with me. Then I looked down at my clothes, they were covered in coyote’s blood. I thought “they must have thought I shot somebody. As soon as I explain to them that it’s coyote’s blood it’ll all be fine.” I dropped the shotgun and put my hands on my head as requested; by this time here other officers were running towards me with their guns drawn. “On the ground!” one said to me. I tried explaining, “Shut up!” he said, they placed handcuffs on me. “John Brady, you are under arrest for the murder of Sheriff Robert Larson. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…” he continued reading me my rights, but I didn’t here anymore, what he had just said to me left me in a state of unconsciousness. Through the corner of my left eye I could see another officer picking up the shotgun with those fancy gloves they use so they won’t leave fingerprints. Now on my feet they walked me towards a squad car and as I entered the back seat I looked up to see my mother holding her head in her hands crying uncontrollably; Sam watched the police take me away from my bedroom window, he waved goodbye to me.

The police station was swarming with reporters, and as soon as we drove up they all surrounded me. It was almost impossible to get through them. They kept asking me all sorts of questions. The flashes from their cameras were blinding me. Everywhere I turned someone was snapping a shot of me. That’s how they portrayed me. The next day there wasn’t a newspaper in town that didn’t have a picture of me covered in blood and handcuffed; and from that moment on all people could see me as was a killer.

They put me in detention cell after that. Leaving me alone there for what felt to me like hours. I didn’t know what was going on, why me? After awhile I felt like I was going crazy, and maybe I was. Maybe I was insane. A thought kept creeping up my mind. Was it possible that I killed him and just didn’t remember? Could I have killed him?

I was going to need a pretty good lawyer to get me out of this mess. Working on a farm didn’t leave enough money to hire a pretty good lawyer, not even a decent one. So I had to settle with the public defender appointed to me. That’s where I met Lyle. He came in the next morning wearing a cheap grey suit, that matched his hair, and carrying at this side an old brown briefcase. If he hadn’t introduced himself I would have thought he was just another criminal. The guard opened my cell and he came in. “Mr. Brady.” He extended his hand to me, “My name is Lyle Thomas, and I’m going to be your attorney.” I shook his hand. Despite his shabby appearance I started to feel safe. “What’s going on?” I asked “They’re saying I killed Sheriff Larson.” “Yes Mr. Brady they are, and they seem to have some pretty strong evidence against you too.” “What evidence?” I asked “They found your hairs all over his uniform, and they have witnesses saying they saw you arguing with him on the night of his death.” I stayed silent; Lyle then asked me “Were you Mr. Brady?” “Yes.” I answered. “If I’m going to help you Mr. Brady, I need you to help me.” I nodded; “Tell me what happened the night of July 22.” I started narrating after that.

The Sheriff had it out for me since the beginning. I suppose you could say our differences started back when I was seventeen. I was a foolish kid back then, I still had the right to be foolish, after pa’ died I had to grow up. Sheriff Larson had caught me drinking with some buddies one night. He said to me “What’s your name boy?” “John.” I answered. “John you smell like a brewery. Get in the back of the car.” “Why?” I asked, he turned to me and said “Boy do I really need to give you a reason!” then he turned back to the others and said “Now the rest of you get on home before I arrest you.” I sat quietly in the back seat as he drove me home. “Boy” he said “I knew you were going to be trouble from the first time I saw you.” He watched me through the rear vies mirror. “I knew you were going to be the thorn in my side.” He still looked at me through his mirror and I looked back at him.

That’s how it was between us. There was always something new to accuse me of, always a new argument. Everyone in town knew there was bad blood between us, but lately it seemed to be worse. I came home that afternoon and Ma’ told me that the police had been by with a search warrant. They wanted to search the farm for marihuana plants. I was furious, fed up with these bogus accusations. So I got in my pick up and drove back into town. At the police station they told me I could find the Sheriff at the diner on the corner of seventeenth. As I got closer to the diner I grew angrier. I saw him as he was leaving the diner. He greeted me with the same cynicism as always. That was the last straw. We argued that night for the last time.

Lyle told me that maintaining that the Sheriff hated me would never hold up in court and that it could do me more damage than good. He said that the case against me was strong and that the probability was that I was going to de time. He attempted a plea bargain, but the D.A. refused, they were going to come after me hard. Lyle told me I should consider pleading guilty, that it may be the best thing to do. He said he’s give me time to think about it, but to hurry with my decision. I did think about it. I thought about spending the rest of my life in prison, and that just wasn’t an option.

I guess I saw the error of my decision as soon as the trial started. After seeing the D.A. present its case against me, I would have believed I’d done it too. Lyle did his best to help me. The problem is though, that most public defense lawyers assume guilt from the start, so in his mind he was defending a guilty man. I don’t know how he could live with that, I know I couldn’t. I guess it’s easier if you don’t over think it, if you don’t think about the consequences of setting a guilty man free or imprisoning an innocent one.

The trial lasted a total of three days. I think the part that left the biggest mark on me was the D.A.’s closing statement. I haven’t been able to stop playing it over and over in my head. “It’s a sad day when a member of our judicial system is killed.” He started “these trials tend to focus on the defendant. His criminal record, his motives, what kind of person he was. I’d like to do something different though, I’d like to focus on what kind of person Sheriff Robert Larson was. He was born here in our town Downey, where he attended college and studied criminal justice, he became our Sheriff when he was thirty-five and married Sheryl a year later with whom he had two boys. He was killed when he was forty-five leaving his wife a widow and his sons with out a father. He was killed in just an instant as if his life was of unimportance. It wasn’t of unimportance, his life mattered; don’t let this crime go unpunished.” Then the widow broke into tears.

After the members of the jury went out to deliberate, they took me to my lawyer’s office which is where I am now. I can feel Lyle staring at the back of my head, and I know what he is wondering. How can I appear to be so calm? Truth be told I am invaded with fear and I can barely keep this pen from shaking. But still I sit here, writing letters with no recipient narrating a story I wish I never knew. The fax machine is beeping, and I can only assume that the jury has reached a verdict. It’s funny how you mind works in times of crisis, my whole life will be decided in less than a half hour and all I can think about is who’s going to feed the cattle?

John. J. Brady