A good argument can be made that my son, Luke, is the greatest person in the world. He is a tall, lanky, handsome 18 year old with nothing but beautiful vulnerability about him. He always aims to please and is incapable of organized intrigue. He doesn’t know what a lie is and couldn’t try to hurt another person on his worst day. While his frailties can frustrate the most patient, he always tries his best; any shortness with him is not something whoever exhibits it will be proud of. Yes, on balance, my boy is as good as it gets in the son department…my hero. He also happens to be pretty darn autistic. In the parlance of the epidemic, he is moderate to high functioning, verbal but not conversational. And though he’s now 6,5” and likes to shoot baskets, there will be no inspirational videos of him getting playing time on his high school’s varsity squad.
Several years ago a neighbor from down the street showed up at my door. Our cul-de-sac is nice, permeated with a level of comfortable cordiality, but there is enough transience to prevent anything more intimate. So when Beth rang my doorbell it was the first time either of us had visited the other.
She said we may have a problem, and I asked her why? She told me a dead squirrel had been left on their front porch and her teen age son had ID’d Luke. I told her the last thing Luke would ever do is touch a dead animal of any kind; he would just as soon pick up a burning log. One of Luke’s therapists, who happened to be in my living room working with him at the time, laughed at the notion. Beth turned a bit defensive and assured me her son wasn’t a liar. I said I’m sure he wasn’t but there was no chance Luke was responsible. She suggested we ask him, so I did.
“Luke, were you down at Beth’s house yesterday?”
“No… I wasn’t,” he replied, his voice tailing off, as it usually did when he was confused.
“Did you see a squirrel yesterday, buddy?”
“Yes, I did see a squirrel.” He answered, telling the truth. Beth gave me an I-told-you-so look.
“Did you see a dead squirrel?”
“No, I did not.” Again, his voice tailing off warily.
Beth, now emboldened, and wanting to close the deal, asserted: “Luke, did you put a squirrel on our porch?”
“Yes. I did.” He looked at me seeking approval.
I told her he was simply trying to please her and wasn’t following the sequence of the conversation anymore. But Beth was now certain she had her man. Shaina, the therapist, was getting angry, telling Beth the answer meant nothing and she should go talk to her son. Things were starting to deteriorate, so I reiterated to Beth that I was quite certain Luke was not guilty, but even if so, he meant no harm and I was sorry it had happened. Satisfied, Beth departed, certain the issue was settled. Aside from having to calm Shaina, who wanted to go 10 rounds with Beth, I figured that was the end of it.
A couple days later a very chastened Beth showed up again at my door, this time with her son. She declared he had something to say to me, to which he mumbled how sorry he was for lying, and it wouldn’t happen again. Apparently, some kids were bullying him and thought it funny to leave a dead squirrel on his porch. He was too scared and embarrassed to do anything other than pin the blame on the weird kid up the street. As he slinked away Beth, riddled with guilt, offered to apologize to Luke for the accusation. I responded he would neither know or care what she was apologizing for, to which she seemed to suffer yet another pang of shame. And with that an injustice was righted.
Down in Shreveport, Louisiana, Corey Dewayne Williams was not so lucky. By all accounts lower functioning than my son, Williams was in the wrong place at the wrong time when a pizza deliverer was shot and murdered in January of 98’. Detectives swept the Queensborough neighborhood, picking up Williams for questioning after somebody, never further corroborated, fingered him as the shooter. One can only imagine how that interrogation went, a 16-year old, intellectually disabled black boy, alone for hours with teams of angry white cops. Not surprisingly, he confessed before declaring he was tired and “l’m ready to go home and lay down.” He never did get to do that.
Based solely on his confession, with zero physical evidence, and despite finding some of the victim’s money and pizza boxes near another suspect’s home, Williams was convicted and sentenced to death, later commuted to life in prison. This, a boy who “still sucked his thumb and urinated on himself regularly.”
Twenty years and the constant entreaties of dozens of former federal prosecutors, including a former Attorney General, later Louisiana has grudgingly admitted that the boy’s “constitutional rights were potentially violated at his original trial.” And in a fit of magnanimity, the state has allowed Williams to plead down to manslaughter with time served, so long as he agrees to forego his right to civil liability or any other redress. In other words, he’s still a penniless felon, but he’s free. Case closed…. Makes me want to take a knee. BC
As usual a very poignant piece BC. I was particularly impressed and engaged with this essay as you related personal struggles with the awful events in Corey Williams’ tragic story. Society must learn to respect and understand those that are different from ourselves. Hopefully that life lesson has not been lost on Beth’s son.
As an aside, I suggest you begin packing because the orange imbecile thinks those that take a knee in protest should leave. I kneel with you in solidarity my friend.
Bob, I wanted to take a knee at a high school game last year, but it was my good friend’s son’s game and I didn’t want to drag him in to it. Honestly, can’t afford to get arrested, and there is a big chance of that if I knock the crap out of somebody who wants trouble because I took a knee. I’m thinking it would be a good documentary to chronicle actually doing it and the reaction. When I was younger, I was big enough to deter trouble. Now that I’m an old man, I’m not much to worry about anymore.