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

Chapter 31

Randall arrived for my first appeal. My parents sat behind us as he, essentially, repeated the argument he made at my sentencing trial. There was no magic bag of legal trickery, no brilliant twists of logic. The repetition of his argument did not inspire my confidence, so it was no surprise when the jury ruled in favor of upholding my sentence. My mother was inconsolable, as she saw my life slipping away in front of her very eyes. But, Randall reassured us that we had two more appeals left and that we would not go down without a fight. I don't think any of us were convinced and the legal team assigned to me had proved to be of little use.

I debated the idea of refusing any further appeals. My parents were already going through hell and if I was going to lose the next two appeals, then why should be they forced to continue sitting by in agony. It was likely that my sentence would be carried out. I had accepted that. What I could not accept was that my parents would suffer to a much greater degree. Maybe if I just brought an end to it, my parents might not have to experience such lengthy pain. They would still grieve, but they would eventually begin to heal. At least, that's what I told myself. I did understand that they wanted to be there for me. I suppose any decent parent would do the same for their children, regardless of what they had done. I just didn't like what this process was doing to my mother. Every time I saw her, she looked ten years older. Pain and sadness had etched themselves into her face and her eyelids had begun to droop slightly as her body started to take on a wilted appearance.

As I look back, I became quite certain that my mother's emotional collapse probably began shortly after announcing my plans to enlist. I didn't even really talk to them about it. I just told them what I was going to do. There was no discussion and I never considered how my decision would affect them. I did what I thought was best for me. God, I felt like such an asshole. It’s important to consider the direction one's life is taking, but you can't live your life at the expense of someone else's. By the time I realized it, that was exactly what I had done. The damage I had caused could never be undone and I would likely die having left my parents lives in ruins.

We met in a private room just before my second appeal was to get underway, two long months later. By this time, I had been prescribed the minimal dose of a sedative that I took twice a day. My mother, however, was now taking an antidepressant as well as a mild sedative. She was able to function and, yes, she did look better, but the scars that had been left as a result of my mistakes were permanent. When a child falls and bumps its knee, we like to think that a kiss will make it better. I don't know how fair it is to a child that something so simple could dissolve such a painful experience, but it does allow for the offering of kindness and support to the child, whose mind operates on a simplistic approach to life; we fall, we cry, we get back up and receive a gentle pat on the head. Off we go, ready to stumble over our own feet, get another pat on the head and do it all over again. But in the real world, learning to walk can be cripplingly painful and there's no one there to pat us on the head, to tell us that everything's going to be okay. In the real world, you have to dry your own tears.

Randall outlined his strategy for my appeal. Maybe it was just me, but it sounded oddly like a replay of my last appeal and I was left wondering if Randall was just going through the motions. Maybe there was nothing more to be done and he was just trying to buy me a little time - trying to do what he thought was right.

"What if I didn't want to do this anymore?" I asked. The room suddenly went silent as all eyes suddenly became fixed on me. My father leaned towards me with a look of both concern and confusion.

"What do you mean, Clarence?" he asked. I looked around at their wondering faces with hesitation. "What if I don't want another appeal? What if I just don't want to do this anymore?"

My mother reached out and gently put a hand on my arm. "Clarence," she began. "What are you talking about?" I took a deep sigh as I gathered my thoughts. "Randall,” I began. “I'm sure you're doing everything you can, but it's not working. And the longer this continues, the more my parents suffer. I know you're trying to do the right thing, but maybe it's time to stop."

I wasn't being ungrateful, it's just that his plan for my appeal was the same as my last appeal and that was a near carbon copy of the argument he used during my sentencing trial. The words were different, but the argument was exactly the same. Benjamin Franklin once described insanity as doing the same over and over again while expecting different results. I guess I wasn't the only person who was going crazy. My parents turned and looked at Randall beggingly as if trying to prompt him into saying something that might regain my confidence, and thus, give me a reason to hope. Without moving a muscle, Randall brought his eyes up from my case file, hesitating long enough to find just the right words. But, it wasn't his words that spoke the loudest. It was his hesitation. It was the look in his eyes. Sometimes, silence can be the most efficient conduit for communicating something one does not wish to say out loud and Randall's hesitation spoke volumes. He knew there was no hope of winning an appeal and was just going through the motions. I didn't care what his motives were, but I immediately developed a deep resentment of what he was putting my parents through. I know that he didn't intend that they live with such agony.

Again, I was escorted by armed guard as the fluorescent lights glinted off the polished chrome of the handcuffs holding my wrists together. Occasionally I would glimpse its reflection, briefly dancing near my feet as I walked through the corridors of the Norfolk legal building. Shortly, I found myself standing as the judge entered and took his seat behind the bench. But, there was something different this time. Up to this point, I had entered the courtroom with a strong feeling of impending doom. Maybe it was the uncertainty that seemed to be inherent in the trial process. You don't know what will be decided until it's decided. I know that's a strange way to put it, but my point is that you are forced to wait, to give up control, while your life is directed by a handful of complete strangers and not knowing what they're thinking as they make their decision is, by itself, a terrifying experience. But, something was different. There was no tension, no anticipation. I was struck by a feeling of quiet resolution and for the first time in months, I actually felt relaxed. I was confident that the entire process would finally be over.

The courtroom was called to order. The judge reviewed the documentation from my previous appeal. "Counsel for the defense," the judge began. "Please present your case."

Randall looked at me with obvious concern. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

A slight nod was my only response. He stood up and straightened his suit jacket.

"Your Honor," he began. "After careful consideration, my client wishes to waive his right to appeal." The room instantly filled with a tense stillness as the judge looked up at Randall with startled concern. "Counselor," the judge replied. "Does your client understand the gravity of this request?" Randall's expression continued unchanged. If he had developed any emotions regarding my decision, he was hiding them very well.

"Yes, Your Honor," he answered. The judge shifted his eyes to me.

"Private," he said.

I stood up, prepared to explain my decision. "Yes, sir," I responded.

"Given the nature of your case, do you realize the consequences of waiving your right to appeal?" he asked.

I paused for a split-second as I realized what I was about to do.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

The judge looked at me intently.

"Private Taylor," he began. "Right now, I see no reason why I should grant your request. You are entitled, by military law to three appeals. Now, convince me why I should grant your request."

Randall stood up next to me, ready to give an explanation on my behalf.

"Counselor," the judge continued. "Sit down. I want to hear this from him."

The judge looked back at me as I stood nervously trying to compose my thoughts.

"Your Honor," I began. "The moment I joined the Army, I fully realized that my chances of dying were pretty high. Granted, this wasn't how I imagined it, but I accepted it nonetheless. I had made a terrible mistake. I let myself be driven, not by the Army's ethics, but my own. I let myself lose control and now two men are dead. Would I do it again, given the same circumstances? I honestly don't know. I was there to protect the innocent as well. I take full responsibility for my actions and I'm willing to pay for my mistake. But, this isn't about me anymore. Since I arrived, my parents have been right here next to me. The crime I've committed has affected them far more than me. Do I want to die, your Honor? Of course not, but I was found guilty, sentenced to death and lost my first appeal." I pointed back to my mother.

"Since this began, my mother has aged dramatically. Now, she's taking an antidepressant 'and' a sedative for anxiety. And if I'm not mistaken, the appeals process can take months - sometimes years. My parents shouldn't have to go through that. It's just not fair that my parents should have to suffer more than me. I don't expect that my death will make things any easier for them, or undo what I've done. And yes, they're going to grieve, but they shouldn't have to sit here and continue watching this, knowing that I'm going to die anyway. Every time they come here, they look ten years older. My father's trying to be strong, but I see him starting to slip too. Your Honor, I'm not asking this for myself. I do want this to be over, but I want it to be over for them. Please, your Honor."

Having nothing more to say, I sat back down. Randall sat silently next to me as the judge contemplated my words.

"Counsel," the judge began. "A word in my chambers." I felt as though I had acted out of desperation and I guess I did. Randall and the lead prosecutor followed the judge into his chambers. I was left to wait with my parents sitting behind me. My father sat with his arm around my mother’s shoulders, who leaned towards him in a near catatonic state. I turned to my right and leaned towards the large wooden rail that separated us.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I began. "I just don't see any other way." At this point, I expected him to be angry with me. I had put them through so much. He leaned in towards me and inhaled as if he was about to speak when the judge reentered the courtroom with Randall, the lead prosecutor following behind. After taking his seat behind the bench, the judge paused to compose his words. "There is what is correct and there is what is right. In court, doing what is correct is a matter of procedure and legal precedent. Doing what's right? Well, that's something we've never really been good at, in spite of our desire to accomplish it. And why is that? Because we're always going to second guess ourselves - did we do the right thing? Private, your guilt has been established; your sentence has been prescribed in accordance with military law. Should you die? The rules say yes because, in the end, the rules are all we have. Is it right for you to die? Honestly, I'm not in a position to make that decision, but I can see what your parents are going through and I hope I never find myself in their situation."

He paused to glance down at my file. "Now," he continued. "I understand that you are currently taking medication for anxiety. Your psych exam shows you to be stable and mentally competent. So, I will ask you again. Private Taylor, do you understand the consequences of waiving your right to any further appeals?" I stood up and made eye contact with the judge, holding my head high with clarity and determination. "Yes, I do, your Honor," I replied. The judge looked closely at me for any sign of doubt or hesitation. He gave a deep sigh and nodded his head, while still maintaining eye contact. Glanced down at his desk, he tried to find the words for his decision. "Private, based on the nature of this case and the sentence that has been imposed on you, it is the opinion of this court that your request for a waiver of your right to appeal be denied. As long as there is a chance that your sentence can be overturned, you should take advantage of it. If nothing else, this will give you more time to spend with your parents."

I don't know why I was so surprised. The judge obviously chose to take the path of least resistance by following the rules. I suppose it was just easier that way. But, he was right. He could only do what was correct, not what was right. Had I followed that perspective, I would probably still be in Afghanistan. But, for just one moment, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, only to see it snuffed out by jurisprudence and the need to maintain a clear conscience. My appeal would continue and as I expected, Randall's argument for the overturning of my sentence was the same as my last appeal. The words were different, but it was the same argument. Same shit, different spoon.

By that time, I realized that Randall was not the expert his reputation claimed him to be. The only thing he'd done for me was to keep the court from branding me as a murderer. And, yes, I was grateful for that. But after withholding information from me during my sentencing trial, my confidence in him as an attorney had taken a sudden nosedive and secretly, I wondered how he ever managed to pass the bar exam. I felt like a castaway, having just been plucked out of a tumultuous sea by a ship of fools. The only people who seemed to know what they were doing was the prosecution, and the judge just wanted to follow the rules.

My second appeal ended with the jury ruling against me. What a surprise. Randall was visibly uncomfortable as the judge commented on his repetitive line of defense. Without a new approach, my third and final appeal would be resigned to failure. I suppose that was okay. I had a strong feeling I was going to die anyway, but I wished the court had allowed me to waive my rights. I just wanted it all to stop and had come to see the process of the courts as nothing more than bullshit dressed in the cloak of formality. I mean, if you're going to put someone to death, or throw them in prison, just do it and move on. I had reached the opinion that Randall was just another asshole looking for a paycheck. I'm sure there are plenty of good lawyers out there. Randall, apparently, just didn't seem to be one of them. As it also turned out, the only reason he was brought on as my attorney was that he and my father were close friends in college. I guess loyalty doesn't always produce competent results.

Upon returning to the detention center, my father asked to speak to Randall privately. I had never heard my father raise his voice and I wondered if I was hearing the same person, yelling at the top of his lungs. Apparently, I was not alone in my opinion of Randall's abilities of persuasion. To put it simply, my father was pissed and he demanded that Randall start doing his job and threatened to have copies of the court transcripts sent to the bar association with a complaint of incompetence. Randall left without the usual post-trial meeting. I'd put all my faith in him that he would, somehow, use his legal skills to pull me out of the fire I'd started. But, I had one more chance; one last appeal. I suppose that one can hope for the best and prepare for the worst and I was hoping that Randall might suddenly come up with some brilliant piece of persuasiveness that would turn the tide in my favor. But, I was also prepared that he wouldn't.

I spent a lot of time reading Gloria's letter. I wasn't planning to write back to her, mostly because I just didn't know what to say. How do you tell someone that you've been sentenced to die for killing two of your own? The most eloquently penned words would fall far short of even the simplest truth. I did, however, come to a point where I could direct my anger against Randall in the journal I was writing and asked him, politely, to return what I'd already written. He was good enough to do so and I continued to forge my anger into the determination I needed to keep writing. I lost myself in it and by the time my appeal date arrived, I had written well over three hundred and fifty pages.