The Unwilling(55)

“My father, too. He fought in Korea, my brothers in Vietnam. The oldest died at Cam L? in ’67.”

“What unit?”

“First Battalion, Third Marines.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, son. I’m sure he was a fine marine.”

“PFC Robert French. He was.”

The officer blinked at last. “You said French?”

“Robert, yes. Drafted out of high school. When he died, my other brother enlisted.”

The officer leaned forward, the same fixed look in his eyes. “Your other brother is Jason French? Gunnery Sergeant Jason French, from here in Mecklenburg County?” He slid a newspaper across the desk, and pressed his finger on the headline. “This Jason French?”

I saw a picture of my brother beneath a headline that spoke of murder and court and custody. “He didn’t kill that girl,” I said.

“I believe you.”

“No one else does.”

“Those people don’t matter, civilians. They don’t understand the man your brother is, they can’t.”

“Understand what, exactly?”

The officer leaned even closer, his mouth a firm, straight line. “I want you to give your brother a message. Tell him it’s from First Lieutenant John McCormick, Second Battalion, Twenty-Sixth Marines. He doesn’t know me, but that won’t matter. Tell him it’s from every combat marine who knows what he did in Vietnam.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Kid, you’re not supposed to.”

Something in the air had changed, not the edge of a storm, but the stillness, behind. “What message?” I asked.

“Simply this.”

The officer gathered himself, dark eyes glinting as his chair scraped in the empty room. He blinked away what looked like tears, and I watched in quiet dismay as he stood tall behind the desk and, with his last good arm, saluted the marine who was my brother.





20


The intake officers processed Jason as they would any prisoner. They photographed and fingerprinted him, then took off the chains, the county-issued clothing. The strip search was perfunctory, and Jason endured it without comment. The smells were the same, same colors and sounds. He didn’t know where in the prison they’d house him, but knew how the walk in would play. The first time, there’d been jeers and threats; no one had known him.

This time, there’d be silence.

Just like when they’d walked him out.

Jason looked at the observation window on the second floor above the intake center. A man stood behind the glass, lights dimmed, but Jason knew it was the warden. He had the same narrow shoulders, the same defeated slump. Seeing him there, some part of Jason was angry—he wouldn’t be at Lanesworth without the warden’s approval and participation—but it was hard to hold on to the emotion. The man was his own kind of prisoner.

“Are you ready?” Captain Ripley put his hand on Jason’s shoulder, but Jason didn’t move.

“Where are we going?”

“Not to X, not yet.”

Jason studied the man’s features. He had a square face, wide-set eyes, and a nose like a fist. “You’re still running his detail?”

“I am.”

“Still six of you?”

“Other than his fast-approaching execution, not much has changed.”

“How soon?” Jason asked.

“Not soon enough.”

Ripley nodded at another officer, and a steel door slid on metal tracks, a hallway stretching away beyond it. Jason took the first step, and Ripley fell in beside him. They walked in silence, down one hall, then another. “The warden wants to make you comfortable. Isolation wing. Private cell.” He stopped at the main door of the isolation wing. A second guard let them in. The first cell was empty. “This is yours.” Jason stepped inside, but Ripley seemed loath to leave. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think X has long arms and some reason to want you back inside. Any thoughts on reason?”

“None.”

“Either way…” Ripley shrugged with sad eyes, and Jason felt a moment’s pity. No guards on X’s detail had a wife or kids. Too dangerous. The warden’s call. But there were means of hurt beyond torn skin or broken bones.

Ripley gathered himself as if remembering that one of them was an inmate. “Anyway. He wants to see you at five o’clock. Those are for you.” He meant clothing, stacked on the bed: jeans, a linen shirt, and loafers. The guard offered Jason a pack of cigarettes. “Here, you’ll need these more than me.”

He left and locked the door, and Jason contemplated the scars on his hands. Some were from the war and other fights, but most had come from fights with X. Same with the headaches, the nightmares, the poorly healed ribs. Lighting a cigarette, Jason stared at the cold, blank walls. The men he’d fought with in Vietnam were dead or scattered. His father could barely meet his eyes, and he’d not seen his mother in years. Only Gibby seemed to care if he was in prison or not.

Only Gibby and X.



* * *



I left the recruiting office overcome by something close to religious awe. I’d never seen such respect and conviction, and tried to imagine what kind of act or action would make a stranger rise and salute with tears in his eyes. What had I done in life that even came close?