Good Footing

June 17, 2001

The last time I couldn't catch Charlie, it was because I broke my ankle, pushing too hard off a rotten stump that gave away under my weight. It seems I'm always chasing after Charlie. But that's because he always starts the race and I'm forced to catch up to him. And I always do catch up to him. There was always one secret that I had that I told no one, especially Charlie, and that was that I focussed on the ground just ahead of him to catch him. I think maybe it was something my father had said before he died on the highway by a drunk driver. I was nine and nursing a broken ankle, the ride to the hospital in the cab on my dad's old Ford was silent for a long while. When we were finally getting close to the city and the hospital, he turned to me and watched as I winced in pain at every bump and pothole in the old country road.


"You know why you broke your ankle son?"


I mumbled a response that evidently couldn't be heard over the rumble of the engine.


"Speak up son, do you?"


Looking out the window, watching the cornfields, this time I spoke loud enough to be heard but to the window. "Because Charlie is too fast and I fell."


He seemed to ponder that for a moment.


"You fell because you weren't focussed on your own footing, you were focussed on his," he paused looking at me and when I didn't respond he continued. "In trying to catch him you focussed only on him, not trusting yourself to be fast enough to catch him."


"He had a head start!" I bursted out in defence of myself.


My father raised his fingers from the steering wheel and looked at me with amusement. "I know that son, but you are fast enough. But to catch him you have to carefully choose your own footing. Act as though you were ahead of him and be calm. If you are merely chasing him you will focus entirely on his back and you will fall behind. But if you run as though you are in the place of strength, you will find real strength. You always have been and always will be fast enough, all you have to do...is run."


For years I would hear my fathers voice in my head, long after he had passed on, telling me I was fast enough, I just had to run.


This time Dad was wrong. This time I couldn't chase after Charlie because the race had started and ended before I even realized there was a race to begin with.


Reality began to take hold again and my attention snapped back to the large courtroom. To my right, twelve people filed out of a door and turned to their left and took their seats in the hury box. A black women, in a black gown turned to them and asked them if they had reached a verdict.


The leader of these twelve, a middle-aged white man in a business suit stood and said that they had, unnanimous 12-0 vote for guilty. I could feel the eyes of every person in the room but there was only one pair whose gaze I met. Seated over my right shoulder, Charlie sat in the second row behind the federal prosecutor.


My attorney told me to focus and I tore my stare away from Charlie's icy expression and prepared to recieve my judgement. I shifted my feet from one foot to the other and looked up at Judge Williams. She first consulted the federal prosecutor in private, overruling the protests of my attorney. They exchanged words for a couple minutes and the fed walked back to his table, eyeing me up with something close to pity.
Judge Williams asked everyone to stand. When everyone had complied with her command she continued.
"John Michael Jennings you are found guilty of possession of an illegal firearm, grand theft auto and resisting arrest. You will serve either 12 years in a federal penitentiary or 8 years in a branch of the armed services. The prosecution has extended to you the second option and you will have four hours to decide which you shall choose. From that point on you will be a prisoner of the state, one way or the other. Case closed." The gavil hammered against the desk with finality.
Four hours later I was on a bus. An hour after that I boarded a plane headed for Ellis Island, famed training ground for the United States Marine Corps.