~Lee Fox~
One
Jason was a good boy. He always did what his mama told him. She had told him to stay in the yard while he played and that’s what he did. He and his friends played in the yard kicking a ball and chasing each other around playing tag, laughing, shouting, and exhilarating in the fun.
The street he lived on was partially populated with parked cars along the curb and had occasional traffic. Teenagers cruising by blasting their stereos. Soccer moms ferrying kids to practice. Crotch rockets zipping quickly by. The man texting his wife about the errand she wanted him to run as he drifted across the center line into the path of a young man on a swift moving unmuffled motorcycle filling the air with thunder.
The motorcyclist saw the car, squeezed his brakes hard, and tried to turn out of the way of the multi-ton vehicle. He was too late. He smashed into the front of the car as the driver started looking up. He was catapulted through the air and into the yard where the young boys were playing. He barely had time to see what he was landing on as his helmet smashed into Jason’s chest and face.
The driver of the car slammed on his brakes, squealing his tires as the car lurched to a halt. He got out to see the carnage he had wrought. He saw the motorcyclist laying on the ground moaning and holding the arm he had tried to break his fall with. His eyes darted to Jason laying on the ground unconscious, blood leaking out of the side of his mouth and nose. The man rushed to Jason as he dialed 911. Jason’s mom came outside to see what was happening and screamed as she saw Jason’s limp form on the grass.
Two
Rich, wood paneling covered the walls of the large banquet hall. Dimmed, lead crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Large round tables draped with crisp white cloth holding immaculate plates and sterling silver flatware covered the floor of the room. Well dressed diners sat around the tables, their attention directed to the raised stage at the far end of the room. A woman stood behind a podium and spoke to her audience.
“Finally, I just wish to restate that, as your attorney general, I, Rose Embarka, will do all I can to ensure our society thrives under the justice it deserves. Please, donate generously. With your help, we will win and continue making our great state safe for all. Now, I’m sure you’re all as hungry as I am. Let’s eat!”
The people seated around the tables chuckled and rose to their feet in loud applause as the woman smiled, turned, and made her way off the stage.
Three
Timothy, Sarah, and Ben walked in front of a large group as they made their way down the highway on-ramp. Members of the group toward the back shouted and waved off cars attempting to use the on-ramp for its intended purpose. Traffic began to stack up behind them.
At the bottom of the ramp, Timothy and Ben began lighting and throwing flares into the roadway and led the group across the traffic lanes. Startled drivers pressed hard on their brakes and came to a stop just before striking the mob of protestors blocking their path. Sarah led the group in chants with her megaphone.
At the front of one of the lanes of blocked traffic, an ambulance sat with flashing lights and blasting siren.
Four
The driver of the ambulance gaped at the mob in disbelief. This was an ambulance! Sirens blasting. Lights flashing! Still, the mob chanted and blocked their way. He tried edging forward to ease his way past but the mob surged at him. They forced him into submission by putting themselves into harms way. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. They held him hostage.
In the back, an unconscious little boy who had been struck by a motorcycle helmet was struggling to breath and the paramedic attending him was doing all he could to help.
Minutes passed and the mob chanted, “Justice for all or justice for none!”
The driver surrendered and switch off his sirens while he called dispatch to find out what to do.
“They’re calling to the cops to clear these people off the roadway,” he shouted toward the back.
More minutes passed and the mob chanted, “What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!”
Sirens slowly made their presence known over the chanting of the mob as law enforcement officers made their way to the scene.
More minutes passed and the mob chanted, “Down with Capitalism! Up with people!”
Another megaphone was heard in counter to the chanting mob. “Clear the roadway! Clear the roadway or you will be detained and prosecuted!”
The mob chanted on in defiance, “No justice? No peace!”
A sea of uniformed officers, with shields and helmets, formed into a wedge and drove themselves between the mob and the line of blocked vehicles. They turned toward the mob and pushed them back, off of the roadway. A few of the protestors were caught and arrested as they threw rocks and bottles at the officers.
Standing defiantly, with their hands bound behind their backs as they were escorted to waiting police cars were Timothy, Sarah, and Ben.
In the back of the ambulance, a little boy was slowly losing the fight for his life.
Five
Grey clouds filled the sky. Hiding the sun from view, they threatened rain on the assemblage of dark clad people in the quiet cemetery.
The service for Jason was a small, low key affair. His parents cried, holding each other, as his small coffin was lowered into the ground. A black clad minister spoke words of little comfort to his parents and the assembled witnesses.
They all thought the tragedy would end there.
Six
As days and then weeks passed, the District Attorney’s Office was silent on the crimes that led to Jason’s death. Rumors swirled the DA sympathized, not with the grieving parents, but, with the cause of the mob led by Timothy, Sarah, and Ben.
The local newspaper interviewed Jason’s parents. Television stations sent their trucks to talk with them. Everyone agreed, their story was that of tragedy. Everybody wondered why nothing was being done about the mob that prevented Jason from getting the help he needed in time. Doctors interviewed said there was no doubt they could have saved him if there hadn’t been a delay.
The protestors denied any guilt on their part. They didn’t cause the death of little Jason. The real cause of Jasons death was the Injustice they were fighting. Injustice drove them onto the roadway to stop traffic. They weren’t responsible.
They shouted to anybody who would listen how corporations get away with murder. How America was founded on racism. How it’s time to end fascism. How we need more regulations. How businessmen’s greed is driving profits at the expense of the working man. How it’s time to hurt the corporations running the system.
How sacrifices, like little Jason, are necessary for the good of all.
Seven
It was a bright, warm day with crisp sunlight drawing sharp shadows on the concrete and glass in front of City Hall. Rose Embarka, stood proud in her dark blue business suit behind a podium with a collection of microphones mounted on top of it. Her hands rested easily at her side. She displayed perfect calm. This was her chosen element. This was her calling. The spotlight adored her.
A mass of newspaper and other reporters stood expectantly before her as she quietly gazed across them. Their eyes traced the sharp, definitive lines and creases of her suit before looking up to meet her eyes in silent awe.
She lifted her hands and lightly rested them on the podium. Her voice was steady, level, and focused. “I know there has been a great deal of talk about the tragic events that led to the death of a boy. I, and the rest of my team, have put a great deal of time, effort, and thought into those events.
We’ve been subject to threats and harassment. We will not tolerate such lawlessness. Our rights have been violated in a vain attempt to force us to engage in an improper prosecution of innocent people who were simply following their conscience.
These innocent protestors were working for the greater good by bringing to light the injustices foisted upon us all by systemic racism, fascism, and unchecked greed.
Prosecuting them for a tragedy they had no part in would be injustice.
Prosecuting them for speaking out would be injustice.
I was elected to bring justice to our city and that’s exactly what I am doing.
Thank you, everyone.”
She nodded with a gentle smile, turned and quietly made her way back into the building. The reporters scrambled to get their reports in to their editors and broadcasters.
At the edge of the throng, a quiet man and woman watched.
Eight
A few weeks later, on the first anniversary of Jason’s death, Timothy, Sarah, and Ben were found in an abandoned house just outside of town. Their hands were bound behind their backs, Sarah with a microphone shoved deeply into her mouth. Ropes dropped down from pulleys screwed into the ceiling beams. Nooses around their necks forced them to stay up on the balls of their feet or choke themselves. Cheap, serrated steak knives driven into their chests punctured their lungs and caused them to slowly bleed out.
Long, agonizing deaths.
Like a little boy who could have been saved.
Nine
Rose Embarka sat in the luxurious, leather clad chair behind the desk in her expansive home office. She was surrounded by her expensive knick knacks, awards, and collection of modern art.
Her eyes were open, gazing at the graffiti sprawled across the wall in front of her. A small hole in her forehead leaked a drop of blood down her nose. The back of her head was a massive, gory exit wound spraying blood, bone, hair, and brains across the fine leather of her expensive chair.
The graffiti filling her dead, unfocused eyes said, “Justice.”
Jason’s Parents could not be found.