The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn’t order it.
Curious, it's a package with no postage and no return address, barely larger than a man's wallet. I bring it inside and open it, revealing a single grey USB key, wrapped in cellophane. I plug the device into my computer and immediately an image springs up on the laptop display and my stomach tightens. I recognize the scene right away. It's a parking lot security camera showing a woman being attacked, at night, by a large man in black. Two nebulous figures, one being chased, then stalked and then murdered. The other convulsing in laughter after the fact. Unconsciously my eyes bug out with white hot anger as I realize that this is the video. The one the news has been talking about for weeks. Where did it come from? Suddenly, I think back to last night and I think I know.
I call next door. "Sir, someone has sent me some kind of video, I don't know where it came from", though the stubborn silence is giving me a good clue. A new set of tears brims and I rage for the hundredth time. How could someone do that? Mostly because I'm now watching the black and white figures loop endlessly. My fiancé is being murdered on repeat and I can't seem to cut it off. Instead, I collapse in tears into a dining room chair, forlorn, barely gripping the phone and hear Jenny's fathers tinny voice plead with me.
"It's okay, Ben, he already admitted to it. The news has even shown pictures of him in prison, he's laughing about it. He's got friends there. So you don't have to watch it, son. But I do need you to make those calls, son. You're my safety valve, kid. Because if you're not on my side, I'm really lost." While the words are true and kind there's a stark coldness in them that leaves me chilled. "Are you sure that you want to do this, sir?". I don't know how many times I've asked him that, but I can't stop. "I don't want you to do this"
The two of them had discussed the plan at ad nauseum last night. For weeks after Jen's funeral Jan had shut himself off from the world, alone in his house with zero human contact. In fact, since his daughter’s death Jan Bloomfield was in danger of turning into a ghost himself. But last night at 9pm a knock on Ben's front door left him deeply surprised. For there was Jan, on his doorstep, a content and strangely peaceful look on his face, wanting to talk.
The two of them had talked until well after midnight, not the way they used to - when they were son and father-in-law, but as co-conspirators in a mad, mad plan that they were hatching. I did the best I could to talk him out of it, but a larger part of me respected the hell out of the man.
"We've talked about this, Ben. She was all I had left", and I could hear the iron his voice. "And he hunted her like an animal. And if you doubt any bit of that watch the video!”, the anger now palpable through the telephone wires.
"So activate the lifeline, now, son.", Jan continued gently, "Make those calls. Let's get her True Justice.". But it was liquid vehemence underneath those words rocked me.
True Justice. Jan had talked to him for a long time about that one ... how True Justice and Societies Justice are so very similar. How they're twins of each other, because society makes up the laws that Justice calls for. But how, in some ways, there are some very telling differences.
"Yes sir, I will, sir".
"Very well then son, then", and he paused for a moment, "this is it then. I'll see you on the other side of this, okay? "
"Sir", and for a moment the question about the video got stuck in my head, "Sir, good luck. I'll see you soon", I said weakly, because my mind was spinning. Click. Spinning, busy reconciling the fact that I would never be able to call him Dad again.
*
I tremble as I dial the first number. My ex-future-father-in-law is throwing away his life. But was it for no reason? Did a father not have the right to mete out justice? Either way, I had agreed to do it. I'm not the kind of person to say I'll do something and then fail to do it.
" Jenkins", the curt voice announced, a greeting, challenge and command all wrapped up in one.
"This is Benji, sir, Jan asked me to call".
Click.
Okay. The second call was much more verbose.
"This is Monica", the female voice announced. Effeminate.
"This is Benji, ma 'am, Jan asked me to call."
The voice on the other end of the phone was silent for less than 2 seconds before the reply.
"I don't know anyone named Benji or Jan, don't call this number again". Click. But the third call hit hardest.
"This is Benji, Jan asked me to call", I said.
" ohhh ...¿quién es Jan?", the Latin voice said. Who is Jan? I wasn't sure how to respond to that...but the words spill out automatically.
"Jan me pidió que llamara"... I said, in fluent Spanish. Jan asked me to call.
The conversation stalled for a moment and then the voice challenged, in English, "Why should I?" and I could hear a smile in the question, like this was some kind game.
I felt something rise up inside me. No parent should ever have to bury their child. And a kind of hardness just spilled out, words so vile and putrid I could only utter them in Spanish.
"La persiguió en una acera pública y la asesinó por deporte. Podría hacerle lo mismo a tu hermana", I whisper. He chased her down on a public sidewalk and murdered her for sport. He could do the same thing to your sister.
The breathing on the other end just huffed, like some kind of impoliteness had just uttered. Excuse me Mr., but I think there's a fly in my soup.
"Si". Click.
I hang up the phone and collapse into a fetal position on my dining room floor, my small part in this unbearably lunatic plan complete.
*
On the other side of town Jan Bloomfield is committing a felony.
Cow tipping in Alamosa County is a felony. Even attempting to tip a cow was enough to get you arrested, never mind that you needed 3000 pounds of force to even begin to even get a cow to pay attention to you. Nonetheless Jan pushed and pushed, straining himself and for a moment one could swear the cow was grinning, confusing his tipping attempt with some kind of petting or even a massage.
Officer Frank McNulty waited for him, right there across the street, watching the whole thing, equivocating about what came next. But he was trying to be resolute. True Justice. Jenny was like a daughter to him, and Franks own daughter was despondent over what happened to her best friend. How horribly her friend had died. So. after ensuring the car’s front-camera had captured the cow tipping attempt he activated lights and sirens and the tires screeched as the car sped across the road, less than 20 feet, achieving rocket speeds. Just as quickly brakes squealed and smoke billowed as the car's fender stopped mere inches from Jan, who was still pushing/massaging the cow.
The door popped open and Frank jumped out, "Stop right there, sir, and put your hands in the air", he said sternly, mostly for benefit of the camera.
Jan put his hands up, fingers straight up at the sky, noting Franks eyes are all business. Neither of them was at all nervous. Officer Frank and Jan Bloom were tight friends for more than 20 years; side-by-side choir boys, touchdown kings in high school football games and even family shared Thanksgivings, the pair were as close to brothers as two unrelated people could be. Frank remembered Jan before Maria died, perpetually smiling, eyes crinkled with the never ending effort. After she had died it was a long time before that smile returned, but grudgingly it did. This time Frank was afraid Jan's smile was gone for good.
"Sir, turn around and put your hands behind your back!", he yelled, and as he corralled his friend and cuffed him gently behind the back he whispered in his ear, "Everyone is ready for you, Jan, it's all prepared." Jan simply nodded.
"Sir, cow-tipping is an arrestable offence, you're going to have to come with me."
*
Two days later as the Blue Bird All American Jail Bird Bus sped towards Five Points Correctional Facility; Jan Bloomfield was a man apart. Stony faced and granite, every single convict on this bus knows who he is and why he's here. Jan's been in the News for weeks now. And in their own bent way many of these convicts are 'rooting' for him. A kind of jailhouse justice, if you will. So they give him a wide berth, though not many would test him anyway. There's something about the man that signals...unhinged. An imposing figure at 50 years old and graying, Jan's physique is what gives the greatest pause. 6'4 and 250 pounds the man is built like a Mack truck, with hands like granite mitts and tight arm muscles with veins that travelled up his arms, old and well defined and looked a lot like the steel cables that hold up a suspension bridges. His face was etched and flat, the face of benevolent goodness or chaotic violence depending on the eyes, which were now steel-grey, cold and dead. It wasn't the physique or affect of an office worker or some gym rat, but this was a man that moved big rocks every day, redefining what real strength is. A man apart, the hardened convicts agreed, that you gave a wide berth.
*
As the bus crosses into Alooma county I sit in silence, thoughts of my little girl swirl. I'm oblivious to everyone around me. They mean nothing. No one means anything. White hot rage cannot exist for an interminable period of time, it must get energy from somewhere, but it's been 14 days now and the buzzing never stops. Will it ever stop?
Jenny Bloomfield is my 24 year old daughter. Was. My little angel, and after me the last remaining member of the Bloomfield family. A nurse, I raged, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, chains rustling. One of the most benevolent professions a human being could undertake, I was the proudest father that could be. Smart, accomplished, beautiful, the day Jenny announced nursing school I was so profoundly proud, knowing that all that she had already been through and how she had overcome it all. And now this? I clenched my stone mitt hands in anger, feeling the cuffs straining and rippling at the effort. I wasn't paying attention to the nervous glances from the people behind me.
Why did he do this? Why is he allowed to live? And I couldn't help it, the deeper question surfaced, the one maybe we should all be asking ourselves. If the value of a human life is simply a quantitative number that is the sum of a person's quality of life multiplied by the length of their life; a value we call price, it raises a very particular question. Is that price the same worldwide?
If life is so cheap to this person, is it safe for the rest of us to live here?
The buzzing in my head continues.
*
As the bus approached the prison gates and I saw the canary yellow prison sign proclaiming: "New York State Correctional Institute” and for the first time I surveyed some of my fellow convicts. Mine is a suicide mission, I guess, and somehow that intention must be radiating from me. Since I got on this bus there's not been a single instance of eye-contact, in fact most gazes have been deliberately averted. I'm not really sure that Ben got all my instructions right, or that everyone agreed, but it didn't matter. I was almost there. Black, white, brown .. it was a very diverse ecosystem on this bus and all of them tried to look tough but it just came off wrong. Mostly because everyone else had one thing in common; they were all 20 years younger and most were a foot shorter. No one here will get in my way, I decided. Finally the bus ground to a halt in a giant courtyard in the center of the prison proper, situated behind the fenced walls and I sighed with relief and looked at the prison building. Hugo was in there. After a moment one of the guards corralled all the prisoners and when I finally stepped off the bus I looked straight up at the sun, noting the short shadow and I made a guess that noon was approaching. They had stripped me of my watch yesterday, but it didn't matter, all that mattered was the plan. I stepped forward with the chain gang, on command.
"Gentleman, welcome to Five Points Correctional Facility! Your new home away from home ", yelled the second of the five officers, pacing up and down the long, straight line of prisoners, like a NATO General inspecting his troops.
"None of you is special! And if you're on this line, you are guilty!", he yelled, emphasizing that last, "now move to your left!", he screamed even louder. In near perfect synchronicity the chain gang moved to the left, shackles clinking loudly as thirty men double timed it in unison towards a large set of double doors,
"Now push through those double doors and form a single file line! You will each be required to strip, hand over all possessions and checked for contraband!"
The buzzing in my head returns, surprising me, until I realized it never left. The buzzing is growing so pronounced I feel a low growl emerge from somewhere deep.
I matched my pace tempo with the chain gang as we entered Inmate Intake and I realized that I stood a full head taller than nearly everyone. Thirty inmates form a single file line, chained together, and one we all filed into the large room until about 10 inmates filled the room, the clinking of disconnected chains audible. Because I'm at the chains midpoint I'm just outside the double doors now, waiting for the line to move forward, unsure of what comes next. But not really caring, my mind is made up. Gods mission ends only one way.
"We're all ready for you, Jan, it's all setup", I hear a quiet whisper in my ear. I didn't notice but one of the five guards had crept up behind me and delivered the message, stealthy-like. And for a moment I was sure the whisper was too loud, that others could hear. But a glance left and then right quickly allayed those fears. The inmate to my left was staring straight ahead, pointedly ignoring me, but the one to my right, a twenty-something African American, muscular and near six feet, he just looked at me for a moment with a knowing look on his face. Sad. The man then nodded and looked down at his feet.
"You go, brother", he said, though I hadn't seen his lips move.
"Next batch!", we hear, a voice from the inside the prison yells. Chains disconnect and it's my turn to enter Inmate Intake. 20 sets of feet shuffle into the double doors as we enter the room and on entry I take note of the surroundings.
The room is large, the size of a high school gymnasium and there's taupe everywhere. Taupe ceramic tiles line the walls, taupe file cabinets and taupe desks adorn the room while the concrete floor is a drab gray, all of it screaming institution. Inmate intake was simply three long office tables one right after the other. I keep my head down as I approach the appointed table and the guard sitting at the table does a subtle double-take when he sees me. He's a 30 year old Italian kid with a paunch belly, and I approach him with my head down, silent like a ghost.
"Bloomfield, right?", he says, standing up, keys jingling with the effort.
I nod and he steps around the table, cuff key in hand and uncuffs me, "Follow me, inmate", he says, escorting me behind some boxes and through a side door. Not a single inmate ever looked in their direction. The buzzing in my head was louder than ever.
*
"You see, Bloomfield, there he is", the guard said, pointing through a one-way mirror that looked over a large cafeteria with at least 200 people in it, if not more. The guard had led him through a series of gray and non-descript hallways into a small, locked room that guard opened with another of 100 keys on his ring.
"What's your name, son?", I ask, as I survey the large cafeteria and the inmates that were clearly eating lunch. The cafeteria was stadium sized and must have had fifty giant steel picnic tables, battleship grey and enormous industrial fluorescent lights.
"You can call me Aiello", the guard replied curtly.
Ben must have made the call, otherwise I wouldn't be in this room right now, and that gives me the sense I could ask this question. Alone in this small room, I put it out there, "So tell me about what I'm looking at?".
Aiello seemed to be prepared for the question. He described that I could see one quadrant of the room populated with white men, young, with shaven heads and a wild assortment of tattoos. In another corner were the African Americans, but in the final corner of the cafeteria, taking up nearly half the cafeteria my eyes narrowed at the 50 Mexicans all congregating around 20 or 30 tables. I search table by table, but there were too many faces to look at.
"The ones you're interested in Bloomfield, are those right there", Aiello said, pointing. Following that finger I saw exactly what he was pointing at, it was a table set back in a far corner, but completely full of Mexicans. And that was the moment I spotted, at the head of the table, laughing, ebullient and clearly revered by smiling inmates sitting near him, was Hugo Armes, his daughters murderer. The man holding court at that table was my Jenny's murderer.
Armes was not a big man, or particularly threatening looking. Unless you're a diminutive 24 year old girl jogging at 9 in the morning. I could feel my spine tighten and neck clench.
"Relax, Bloomfield", Aiello said, who had felt the room suddenly grow colder, "there's a plan in place. For tonight. It's all been arranged". Suddenly he hit a button and the mirror darkened, the view of the cafeteria magically disappeared. I nod. And immediately the tension drains out of me like a deflating balloon. But not all the way, I realize, because the buzzing is still there.
"Let me take to your to your cell, Mr. Bloomfield", Aiello said, leading the prisoner out of the tiny room.
*
It's nearing midnight now and my mind is racing and the buzz is still buzzing. I've been sequestered in this cell for hours, unable to leave, unable to speak to anyone, and I pace like a caged tiger. Trust the plan. True Justice. I swear this cell is only 9 feet from end to end. There's a bed, a toilet and a sink - all of which are both institutional and pristine. There's also a clock over the bed and mirror over the sink and it occurs to me that this cell is some kind of solitary confinement. As I look at my face in the mirror I’m shocked by the haggard expression and the droop of my face. It's a face that has aged a decade in just these last few days. I shudder.
At exactly midnight, in the dead of night, the door to my cell opens and the moment I see the solitary figure I know the final piece of my plan is in place.
"Mr. Bloomfield, I'm Father Diaz, the prison chaplain", the priest said, remaining standing just inside the cell, blocking the doorframe and eager to engage. The priest is maybe 60, medium height but shaped round like a planet with a thick mop of hair. He has a pockmarked face and kind green eyes and my nod is noncommittal at best. The priests vestments are tightly creased but the edges are well worn and something about him makes me believe he's a good Chaplin for the prison.
"You don't seem surprised to see me, my son", he says. I shrug. This priest is patient and he expertly lets the statement linger for a moment. Hoping to prompt a response. It doesn't.
"Well, the whole prison is talking about what might happen", the priest continued, "and I want you to know that we in clergy all have you and your daughter in our thoughts and prayers", he said, watching me carefully.
"Thank you for that, father", I reply quietly.
He's heartened by the response and doubles down accordingly, "Yes, my son, as this terrible story has unfolded all of us in the church have kept vigil, all of us saddened by your daughters passing".
"Passing?", I reply, and I feel control slipping, "don't you mean murder?”, I lean in close, whispering to him, and the cell seems to get smaller, "don't you mean execution?”, and I watched something in the priests eyes flicked. I want to end this conversation, so I press harder.
"Father, he found her, chased her for sport, toyed with her and then killed her, laughing the whole time, like it was some kind of game", I continue, "what does the church have to say about that?".
I watched as the priests face quickly passed from fear to beatific and for a moment I could only admire the quick recovery. And his response is automatic,
"The Lord is an avenger in all these things, as we told you beforehand and solemnly warned you.", he quoted, his eyes leveling.
Thessalonians, if I remembered correctly, and for a moment I let it sink in. I choose my next words carefully. While I'm sitting on the bed and he's standing, he's so short and I'm so tall that we're almost eye-level,
"Father, you didn't know her. You didn't know how good she was", I replied, feeling something uncap inside me, "and for the last two weeks I've been thinking about one question and one question only. Evil. What is evil?, Father?", I ask, but this priest is smart. He knows it's a rhetorical question. He leans back, waiting. This is the moment I've been waiting for.
"Evil, if you look it up, Father, is defined as immoral or wicked. But I wonder if that's a primitive kind of definition. Too rudimentary for such a complicated concept. Could it be that true evil is indifference to others? ", the words gushing now and I sit up straight, "and if that's true, isn't laughing at someone before, during and after murdering them a true act of evil?", and I watch the priest nod his head, but I continue, "And, Father, what if I'm the very tool that god has chosen? The one you have been waiting for?", I say, now standing. His eyes lock and I'm towering over him now but he doesn't look the least uncomfortable. Something is telling me the time has come but he's an immovable object blocking me. I have one last ditch effort.
"Father, before I came here I made three calls. I won't get anyone in trouble but the first one was to the police, who were the first to help me get here. To get into this place, this room. The next was to the Latin Kings, who are arranging the next part of my plan", and the priest nodded, but I pressed on, "But the last call was to a woman clergy, a woman who probably called you, Father" and at this his eyes narrowed and his face tightened, and I took this opportunity to stand, now towering over the priests orbital figure.
"Father, for two weeks I've been watching Society's Justice have its way with Hugo Armes and I've watched him scoff and laugh, and I've realized that what we have isn't True Justice. It's not even close. True Justice is the Justice that society demands; society like cops, criminals and even clergy all alike. You are society too, father, so what say you?", I say, looking down at the diminutive man.
I'm exhaling the words now and I can see the impact on the priests face and my last point lands on the priests face like a left hook from Tyson and I could see all argument drain from his face. He nods, sighs, turns and begins to exit the tiny cell, beckoning for me to follow and he leads me across a large expanse of a room to a cell on the other side. A cell with a solitary sleeping figure.
I step into the doorway of the cell and suddenly the buzzing subsides, replaced by a quiet serenity in my brain. And as I step into the cell all the light in Hugo's cell is eclipsed so I can deliver true justice.