The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn’t order it.
But Ben didn't care, for there was only one word to describe what he felt: empty. Over the last two weeks nearly every emotion had leaked from him like oil from a drum with a hole in the bottom. Everything that was ever good and delightful in the world was gone, replaced by a sad and poignant emptiness. Leaden, he picked up the package and stuffed it in his pocket and shuffled up the stairs like an old man.
As he climbed the stairs to the second floor of his two family house the 23 year old ducked his tall 6'3 frame inside the space for his doorway and stepped into his living room. It was a treasured space that Ben and Jenny had such precious little time in, just barely two years. Ben sighed. Two Thanksgivings, two long, sweet summers and just two birthdays, and something inside him cracked when he looked down at the ugly throw pillows on the couch, "May all your sweaters be ugly and bright". Everywhere he looked the articles of Jenny's life, just like the pillows, were unmistakable. Tears sprang. And when Ben stepped into the dining room his eyes glazed over with hollow visions of a lost past while his fingers tore open the package, revealing a single grey USB key.
Without thinking he plugged the tiny device into his laptop and immediately an image sprang up on the display and his stomach tightened. He recognized the place right away. It's a grainy image, black and white, a parking lot security camera showing a woman being attacked, at night, by a large man in all black. Two figures in clear view, the smaller one chased, then stalked and then murdered. The other larger one convulsing in laughter after the fact. Unconsciously, Ben's eyes bug out with white hot anger as he realizes that this is the video. The one the news has been talking about for weeks. Where did it come from? Dimly he realized he knew and he picked up the phone.
"Sir, I have just received some kind of video, addressed to me but I don't know where it came from", Ben said. The only reply was a stubborn silence and it was a good clue about the packages origin. It was Jenny's father, and he was sending Ben a message.
Unbidden, a new set of tears brimmed and he raged for the hundredth time. How could someone be so callous? That was the thought that reverberated because now he was watching the black and white figures on the screen loop endlessly. His fiancé, chased, tackled and then executed, on repeat, and his finger couldn’t seem to find the stop button. Instead, he collapsed in tears into a dining room chair, forlorn. Ben's dining room chair groaned under the weight of him, but barely gripping the phone he heard Jenny's fathers tinny voice pleading. "It's okay, Ben, he already admitted to it. The news has even shown pictures of him in prison, and he's laughing about it. He's got friends in there, Son. 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 really am lost", Jan said.
While the words were true and kind there's a stark coldness in them that left Ben chilled. "Are you sure that you want to do this, sir?". Ben didn't remember how many times he had asked Jan that question but some small part of him couldn't stop trying to help the love of his life's father.
Two months ago, that's when the tiny hamlet of Ringwood, NJ had been rocked by the brutal murder. The small community earned a proud reputation for being welcoming and friendly, with the best tomatoes, the sloppiest sloppy joe's and one of the lowest crime rates in all the state. It was a magical place where summer nights in fields were spent under stars and Mrs. Notches annual Christmas Carolers were the pride of Christmastime. Ringwood was a town absent not just felonies, but even the petty stuff didn't happen here. It was the kind of town where you knew your neighbors names and left your front door unlocked or your car keys in the ignition when you ran into 7-11 for a quart of milk. So when the immigrants came it was natural they were welcomed with open arms.
For weeks after his daughters funeral Jan had shut himself off from the world, sequestered himself in his house absent any and all human contact. Since his daughter’s death Jan Bloomfield was in danger of turning into a ghost himself. But last night at 9pm the sharp rap on Ben's front door was more than a little surprising. Because there was Jan, on his doorstep, a strangely peaceful look on his face, wanting to talk. That's when Jan told Ben about the plan.
And so they talked, not the way they used to - when they were son and father-in-law, long ago when a bright future was splayed out in front of father, daughter and son-in-law - but they talked last night, as co-conspirators, about his mad, mad plan. The two talked long into the night.
"We've been over this, Ben. She was all I had left", and I could hear the iron in 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. Jan exhaled loudly, and Ben remained silent. He could picture Jan in his living room, just next door, the shock of grey hair turned fully white over these last few days.
"So activate the lifeline, now, son.", Jan whispered, "Make those calls. Let's get her True Justice." His voice was calm but the liquid metal underneath the words rocked Ben.
True Justice. Jan had talked to him for a long time about that... 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 recently the twinship had warped.
But a single iota of resistance would not go away, this single element stemming from belief in the rule of law. It was a single element that could not be ignored. And Jan could hear it through my silence. But he had an answer for it to.
"Ben, we both lost the most important thing in our lives, son, but we both lost something unique, son, something different I mean. I lost the last remaining member of my family, Ben, and that's hurts", the old man said, his voice finally cracking for just a moment, but he quickly recovered and pushed on.
"You, son, lost your future. A future written in the stars", and Ben felt something shift inside of him, "but that's not the worst of it. Ben, what do you think the last moments of Jenny's life were like? How do you think she felt?", he asked, his voice fully cracking now.
Whatever had shifted in me a moment go had now broken free.
"So activate the lifeline, now, son, please", Jan repeated.
"Yes sir, I will, sir", Ben whispered in reply, acquiescing.
"Very well then son, then", and Jan 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 unasked question got stuck in my head, but it fleeted away as soon as it came.
"Sir, good luck. I'll see you soon", Ben said weakly, because his mind was spinning. Spinning, busy reconciling the fact that no, he would never be able to call the old man Dad again.
*
An hour later Ben trembled as he dialed the first number of three on the slip of paper Jan had left him with. It was near midnight, but that was good. A call like this should only be made late at night and Ben wasn't at all sure what to expect.
" 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 wasn't much better.
"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 it was the third call that hit hardest.
"This is Benji, Jan asked me to call", Ben said.
" ohhh ...¿quién es Jan?", a smooth Latin male voice replied. Who is Jan? I wasn't sure how to respond to that...but the words spill out automatically.
"Jan me pidió que llamara"... Ben repeated, 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 Ben could hear a smile in the question, like this was some kind game.
Ben felt something rise up inside him. No parent should ever have to bury their child. And a kind of hardness just spilled out, words so vile and putrid Ben could only utter them in Spanish.
"La persiguió en una acera pública y la asesinó por deporte. Podría hacerle lo mismo a tu hermana", he whispered. 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.
Ben hung up the phone and collapsed into a fetal position on his dining room floor, his small part in this unbearably lunatic plan complete.
*
On the other side of town Jan Bloomfield was committing the blandest felony he could think of.
Cow tipping in Alamosa County is actually 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, stressing his muscles with all his might 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 was waiting for him, right there across the street, watching the whole thing, trying not to equivocate about what came next. But he was trying to be resolute. True Justice. There's was a small town and Jan's daughter was like a daughter to him too, and Franks own daughter was despondent over what happened to her best friend. How horribly she 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 all told, 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 on 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 to the sky, noting Franks eyes are all business. But oddly, neither of them was at all nervous, though Franks gun was drawn. Because Officer Frank and Jan Bloom were the tightest of friends of more than 20 years; side-by-side choir boys, touchdown kings in high school football and even shared Thanksgivings, the pair were as close to brothers as two unrelated people could be. In some ways the family you select is stronger than the family you're born into. And Frank was one of the few who remembered keenly the Jan before Maria died, how his eyes were perpetually smiling, eyes crinkled with the never ending effort. And how after Jenny's mom had died it was a long time before that smile returned, but begrudgingly it did. But tonight, looking has his good friends gaunt figure and glazed expression, Frank was afraid Jan's smile was gone for good.
"Sir, turn around and put your hands behind your back!", he yelled kindly, and as he corralled his friend and cuffed him gently behind the back he whispered in his ear, "Everything 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 speeds towards Five Points Correctional Facility Jan Bloomfield is a man apart. Stony faced and granite, every single convict on this bus knows who he is and why he's here. Mostly because of the news. What the press really feasted on was a grieving father, photogenic in his misery, and they feast they did. So much so that in their own bent way many of these convicts were now 'rooting' for him. Rooting for a kind of jailhouse justice. So they give the old man a wide berth, though not many would test him anyway. There's something about him that signals...unhinged. An imposing figure at 50 years old, 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 travel up his biceps, old and well defined and looked a lot like the steel cables that hold up suspension bridges. And the shock of white hair on such a daunting figure is not lost on these bus-mates. It was hair that spoke of something old and violent and angry. Because Jan didn't have 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.
JAN
As the bus crosses out of Alamosa county and into Alooma county I sit in silence while thoughts of my Jenny, loss and anger all swirl together. I put my head down. The pain radiates like a walking tooth abscess times 10,000, and I'm oblivious to everyone around me. They mean nothing. No one, really, means anything anymore. It's curious, I think, white hot rage cannot last in perpetuity, it has to get energy from somewhere, but it's been 14 days now and the buzzing has yet to stop. But as Jan mentally prepared for what came next he wasn't sure he wanted it to stop.
You see, Jenny Bloomfield is my 24 year old daughter. Was, my daughter, and after me the last remaining member of the Bloomfield name. A nurse, I raged, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, chains rustling. One of the most benevolent professions a human being could choose, I was the proudest father that could be. Knowing that all that she had already been through in her life...and now this? I clenched my stone mitt hands in anger, feeling the cuffs straining and rippling at the effort. I didn't care about the nervous glances from the people around me.
Why did he do this? Why is he allowed to live? And I couldn't help it as the deeper question surfaced, again, the one maybe we should all be asking ourselves. My mind scrambling for a rationale as I question, again, what I'm doing. But 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 number that we call price, it raises a very particular question. Is that price of a person the same across the world?
And if life is so cheap to this person, is it safe for the rest of us to live here?
The buzzing in my head continued unabated.
As the bus approached the prison gates I saw the canary yellow prison sign announcing: "New York State Correctional Institute” and for the first time I survey some of my fellow convicts. The angst I've been feeling must somehow must have been radiating from me. Since I've gotten on this bus there's not been a single instance of eye-contact, in fact most gazes have been deliberately averted. And for a moment I'm uncertain Ben got all my instructions right, but I realized it didn't matter. The tough part was getting in here, and here I am. I was almost there.
Black, white, brown .. prison is a very diverse ecosystem and every single inmate tried to look tough but it just came off wrong. Mostly because everyone on this bus has two things in common; they are all 20 years younger and most were a foot shorter than me. 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, situated behind several high-fences and I sigh with relief at the sight of the prison building. Hugo is in there. After a moment one of the guards corrals all the prisoners off the bus and when I finally stepped off I looked straight up at the sun. They had stripped me of my watch yesterday, but time 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 one of the 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. I'm close.
The chain gang rattles as we enter Inmate Intake and again I realized that I stand a full head taller than nearly everyone. Thirty inmates form a single file line, bound together, and I'm in the first batch to file into a large room until the movement abruptly ceases, with about 10 inmates filling the room.
"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 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, a bald white guy, 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. Respectful. The man nodded and looked down at his feet,
"You go, brother", he said quietly to the ground. Though I hadn't seen his lips move.
Inmate Intake is large room, the size of a high school gymnasium and there's prison 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 incarceration. The room 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 obediently approach him with my head down, silent-like.
"Bloomfield, right?", he says, standing up at the table, 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 my direction.
*
"You see, Bloomfield, he's in there", the guard said, pointing through a one-way mirror that looked out on a large cafeteria with at least 500 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 the 100 keys on his ring.
"What's your name, son?", I ask as I survey the large cafeteria and the inmates that are all eating lunch. The cafeteria is stadium sized and must have had fifty giant steel picnic tables, battleship grey and enormous industrial fluorescent lights. With many hundreds of prisoners.
"You can call me Aiello", the guard replied curtly.
I was feeling relieved. Ben must have made the call, otherwise I wouldn't be in this room right now, and that gives me the sense I can ask this question. Alone in this small room I can only ask around the edges, "So tell me about what I'm looking at?".
Aiello seemed to be prepared for the question. Expertly he described 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, working out and reading, but in the final two corners of the cafeteria, taking up nearly half the room my eyes narrowed at the 100 Mexicans all congregating around 20 or 30 tables. I search table by table, but there are just 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 the smiling inmates sitting near him, was Hugo Armes, his daughters murderer. The man was holding court.
Armes was not a big man, or particularly threatening looking. Unless you're a diminutive 24 year old girl jogging at 9 at night with no one else around. 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 dull buzz 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, alone in this cell for hours, unable to leave, 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, not made for pacing. 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 a mirror over the sink and it occurs to me that this cell is some kind of solitary confinement. As I search 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 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 looking at the prisoner appraisingly. 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 to him 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, and how you arrived here", the priest continued, and for a moment the solemnity of the occasion was marred by a twinkle in his eye, "like what you did to get here. Cow tipping? Really? Could there be anything more innocuous?"
I shuffled in my bunk, my eyes revealing nothing. 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, his eyes narrowing.
"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 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 flicker. Like he's seen something that frightens him. Normally the idea of frightening a priest would fill me with disgust. Today, I lean into the fear and 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 had to give the priest credit, his face passed from fear to beatific in barely an instant and for a moment I could only admire the quick recovery. And his response was anything but rote,
"The Lord is an avenger in all these things, as we told you beforehand and solemnly warned you", he replied quiet and heartfelt, his eyes searching the ground.
Thessalonians, if I remember correctly, and for a moment I let the words wash over me. I choose my next words carefully. While I'm sitting on the cell's bed and he's standing over me, 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.
"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's eyes soften, 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 now I'm towering over him now but he doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable. If anything the priest looks sorry for me. Something is telling me that this is a tipping point for him but there's a hardness in his expression. The priest is an immovable object. 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, likely the very woman who called you, Father" and at this his eyes narrowed and his face tightened.
"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. Ben, my son-in-law is society and I am society, father. And you are society, father, or have you forgotten?", I say, looking down at the diminutive man.
I'm sputtering the words now and I can see the impact on the priests face, it lands like a left hook from Tyson and I could watch as the argument drains from his face. He sighs, nods and for a moment Jan saw something longing in the priests gaze, maybe a close cousin to affectionate but he wordlessly turned to exit the tiny cell, beckoning for me to follow and led me across a large expanse of a room to a cell on the other side. The only cell with an open door and a solitary sleeping figure. It's past midnight now but not a single cell has a sleeping inmate, every single cell has men wide-eyes and watching what's going to happen like it's some kind of premier discovery channel event. Like they're going to see nature take its course.
I step into the doorway of the cell and as I look at the sleeping figure suddenly the buzzing subsides, replaced by a quiet serenity in my brain. And when I step into the cell all the light in Hugo's cell is eclipsed while I deliver true justice.