Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 26

Again, I tried to busy myself with reading but at some point, I had lost my interest in anything that had to do with war or military philosophy. Instead, I immersed myself in history and ancient religions, finding both equally fascinating. But, this would not provide a complete escape and the real world had begun catching up to me through the surreal passion play of my dreams. Everything came back to me, colliding into a handful of immeasurable moments where images and emotions became fused. I soon realized that as one may continue to run from their mistakes, the faster one is pursued by them and no one can run forever. I would often find myself sitting on the edge of my cot at night, my skin soaked with sweat as images and sounds from that small settlement ran around in my head like a caged animal. The smell of the morning desert; the sound of gunfire and the screaming of an infant who, by now, lay long dead in the hot sand, its earthly form likely consumed by nature. I faced twenty years behind bars, but a lifetime in a prison of my own making. Even if I managed to survive my sentence and start my life over, my actions would always be there, staring me down like a wild dog. My dreams would be my ultimate undoing. I would be pushed over the edge of my sanity by something I could not control and if I couldn't trust sleep to give me even a temporary peace, I would certainly slip into madness.

I saw my upcoming sentencing trial as nothing more than a formality, thinking that it would be such a relief to get this entire matter over. Having gone through this, I can safely say that the process of being tried in criminal court is as frightening as it is stressful; perhaps more so than being locked in a cell for twenty-three hours a day. You might lose your mind behind bars, but at least your day would be predictable and given the length of time I would likely be incarcerated for, maybe I could start doing a bit of writing. If I got to the point where I could no longer handle the real world, then perhaps I could create my own through pen and paper.

The day of my sentencing trial arrived and I was, once again, joined by Randall and my parents. We went to the same courtroom, sat at the same table, in the same chairs. Just as before, my parents sat directly behind me. Everyone stood as the judge entered. On the surface, the only thing that was different was the judge and it occurred to me that in order to maintain the objectivity of the court, a different judge should be appointed. The jury walked in and took their seats as well. One might think that at this point, I would be terrified, but knowing what to expect, I was actually pretty calm. My parents, on the other hand, were nowhere near calm. For them, this was the moment of truth.

The prosecution reviewed my case to the jury and asked them to consider the harshest possible punishment based on the premise, as had been determined during the trial, that I'd chosen to allow myself to lose control. I’m still not sure how that works. How does someone ‘choose’ to lose control? The prosecution also asked the jury to consider the death penalty. The death penalty!? I wasn't sure that I actually heard the words, but it didn't take long for them to sink in. I suddenly turned to Randall in a state of panic. "Death penalty?!" I yelled.

The judge struck his gavel and ordered me to remain silent. "You didn't tell me they could do that!" The judge struck his gavel repeatedly. "Counsel, control your client!" he yelled. Randall turned and quietly tried to calm me. "Clarence," he said. "Sit down."

I brought my voice down, but I still wanted an explanation. "Clarence, listen to me. I'm not going to let that happen, okay? Now, sit down."

He turned towards the judge as I slowly lowered myself back onto the chair. To say that I was in shock would be an enormous understatement. In every sense, I was at a profound loss of what to think or how to feel about the request that had just been made to the jury. Would they really do that? My parents were shocked into complete silence.

"My apologies, your Honor," Randall said. "This will not happen again."

The judge nodded and allowed the prosecution to continue. After they finished their argument, Randall stood and requested a five-minute break. The judge granted it and pulling me off to one corner of the courtroom Randall quietly gave me an explanation.

"Look, Clarence," he began. "I didn't tell you about this because I wanted you to stay calm."

"Did you tell my parents?" I asked. "No," he answered. "I couldn't afford to have anyone get emotional. Clarence, I'm on your side, remember?"

There was no time for lengthy conversation and I took my seat having all but given up. Later, he told me that during a time of war, as declared by the president, the death penalty can be imposed for any capital crime and it was all up to the jury. Twelve men and women would decide whether I lived or died.

Now, it was up to Randall to convince the jury that I did not deserve to die. He argued that considering my education, I could still be of service and strongly suggested that I could counsel other inmates, assist with social programs and help teach classes, that ending my life would be a waste of promising potential. As far as my crime was concerned, he presented me as someone who held great respect for life and that I had joined the Army after witnessing the events of nine eleven. "All Private Taylor wanted was to do the right thing," he said.

He pointed out that my actions were, indeed, an act of passion, but we participate in war to kill as well as to defend and sometimes, the line between killing and defending becomes blurred by the necessity to accomplish both, not realizing that we can't always have it both ways and that is often why civilians get killed in war, because as human beings, we are sometimes incapable of separating those two ideas. If we were able to, war would either become a lot more complicated or would become obsolete altogether. Yes, we have the rules set down by the Geneva Convention, but rules are not an adequate substitute for clear, ethical judgment and he argued that I had not willfully crossed the line from defending into killing, but had become trapped between the two. I had stumbled into a place that could not be resolved through reasoning or the rules; a place where there was no moral high ground. Randall presented my actions as an unconscious utilitarianism, that the good of the many outweighs the good of the few. He argued that I had acted on the instinct to preserve as many lives as possible and that sometimes doing the right thing means having to make compromises. He further stated that making these compromises, whether consciously or not, in no way acts to rob life of its dignity, but it is the compromise that represents the price of doing the right thing. He continued that I should not be put to death for the lives that were lost - as regrettable as it was - but that my life should be spared for those who survived because of my actions. Randall wanted the jury's decision to be as difficult as possible. He felt that if he could force them out of the single-mindedness that seemed so typical of the military, he might be able to prompt their humanity. He wanted them to decide with their hearts, not their uniforms.

The sentencing trial seemed to end as quickly as it started as the jury was excused for deliberations. We were escorted back to the detention center and, once again, sat around a table in a small private room, waiting. Randall explained the approach he used with the jury, saying that they needed a unanimous vote in favor of the death penalty and the more difficult it was for them to agree, the more likely it would be that they would vote for imprisonment. If they could be forced to think with their hearts, then they might want to do the right thing as well. Or, at least, be prompted to make a safe decision, one they would not question later.

The wait was agonizing and my parents were without words as they sat with me in the detention center. They had stuck by me through the entire process and the stress it created etched itself on their faces. My mother was exhausted to the point of appearing gaunt. Her eyes had developed dark circles and her face appeared to hang loosely as she continued to be consumed by events she had no control over. My father appeared to be lost, not in thought, but simply lost. How does one begin a conversation, any conversation, with two people who already seemed to be grieving with the knowledge that their only child could be taken away from them right before their eyes? Randall was no longer pouring over my case file and I wondered if he had given up, or maybe there was simply nothing more to be done.

"So, this is it, huh?" I asked.

"Not necessarily," Randall answered. "There is an appeals process. If the jury decides on the death penalty, the appeals process is automatic and I'll be handling that too." My father looked up at him with a curious expression. "So, who actually has the final say in all of this?" he asked. Randall hesitated a moment.

"The death warrant is signed by the President," Randall replied. "That makes it final."

"Are you kidding me?!" I yelled. "The President!? Our President!?"

I was stunned to realize that the person who occupied the oval office could, essentially, end my life with nothing more than the stroke of a pen and asked myself if certain politicians might use the President's decision to make a political statement, or if they might remain silent so as not to risk their credibility. My conviction was the result of what I can only describe as misguided personal ethics, but would my life end as a result of party politics? There was no clear answer to this question and trying to explain how Washington thinks seems to be similar to the idea of navigating by the stars during a hurricane. The only thing one can agree on is that both are ruled by chaos. We had been notified that the jury had been sequestered for the night. Randall said this was a good sign in that difficult cases seem to take more time. As there was no point in continuing to wait, my parents and Randall left for their respective hotel rooms and would return the next morning. A guard escorted me back to my cell.

Sleep proved elusive that night, as the anxiety of the next day's events hovered over me like a ravenous vulture. My mind had been scrambled by a decision that I could not participate in. Issues of life and death are usually seen as distant and academic unless they're your issues and as far as issues go, I would gladly have traded with anyone. As the night wore on, I found that I became increasingly unable to maintain any mental clarity. My mind became a jumbled mass of disconnected thoughts crawling around in my head like a nest of spiders. Morning found me curled up on my cot, still awake, still waiting. Prison or death. Did it really matter anymore? As far as beliefs are concerned, I had many questions and even more doubts. I was never one to put stock in the idea of faith. I guess I had come to a place where I was too afraid to live as an inmate and too scared to die by the hand of the organization I was once so proud to serve.

My parents arrived by mid-morning with Randall following soon after. By this time, I'd finished my morning routine and sat in my cell waiting to be escorted to yet another private room. My mother's face was pale and deeply unsettled, as my father sat across the table looking at her with grave concern. She had literally become sick with worry and grief and I was suddenly struck with the realization that what I had done could be her undoing. I sat down at the table as Randall was paging through the transcripts from the trial. Except for the appeals process, there was nothing left for him to do. I don't know how long we were there, but at some point, there came a quiet knock at the door. We all looked up at each other, then toward the door as an officer entered and informed us that court was convening. The jury had reached a decision.

Once again, we stood as the judge walked in and sat behind the bench. Once again, he gaveled the court to order. The room seemed to carry an odd stillness. Maybe it wasn't the room, but the terror I felt of what the next few moments would bring. The judge called the jury in and with expressionless faces, they took their seats in the juror's box. The judge, without uttering a word, held his hand out to the foreman who stood and gave him a handwritten note. Reading the note, he turned towards me. Randall stood up and motioned for me to stand as well. I don't exactly remember getting to my feet, but I do recall the feeling of floating near the ceiling.

"Private Taylor," the judge began. "For the crime of involuntary manslaughter committed during a declared time of war, this court sentences you to death by lethal injection. This sentence will be carried out on..." It's funny how things sound just as you're losing consciousness. The overwhelming reality of my now imminent death hit me like a brick wall.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on the courtroom floor looking up at the ceiling. A med tech sat at my side, shining a penlight into my eyes. My head spun as I tried to get to my feet, only to be assisted by Randall and an MP. My father sat with his head in his hands while my mother had begun trembling, as tears rolled down her face. Randall steadied me as I stood and continued to face the judge.

"Private?" the judge continued. "Do you understand the nature of your sentence?"

I looked at the judge through a mental haze of confusion and fear.

"Um, yes," I answered. "Yes, sir." The words seemed to come out with an almost complete lack of thought and seemed to be simply a mechanical response to a simple question. Did I understand that I was going to die? Yes. No. I wasn't really sure, to be honest. I mean, everyone dies, right? Some die sooner than others and others live longer than some. Then there are the few who are told by medical science that they have 'x' amount of time to live. But normally, death is as uncertain as life and no one is born with an expiration date - unless you're given one. For the record, the judge also needed to be certain that I was aware of when my sentence would be carried out. So, with his focused on me, he repeated the date. My life would come to an end in almost two months.

I really thought that I had dodged the bullet and that I'd spend the next twenty years locked up behind bars. One can do a lot of reading in twenty years’ time and probably write a few books as well. However, I'm not sure what's worse, twenty years rotting away in a military prison or slipping beneath the cold, still water of death. I don't even remember walking out of the courtroom and although Randall later told me I needed one person on each arm to help me stay on my feet my mother, apparently, needed help as well.

I regained my wits shortly after being poured into a chair at the detention center. My parents were in a private room where a med tech was examining my mother. I can't imagine what it must be like to outlive your only child. And right now, my mother was not capable of describing the experience. The guard gave me a glass of water. I drank all of it with the sudden realization that, in a few months, there would be no water. It's strange how you can come to an appreciation of even the simplest things, only as they're being taken away from you. And in that one fleeting moment, as the last few drops trickled down my throat, I decided that there wasn't anything better than the taste of water.