Thursday, March 26, 2009

Still Angry

I was 14 years old when I entered my freshmen year of high school.  I never dreaded going to school.  So, I expected to have an unremarkable year.  Unfortunately, it was, and my first visit to the 9th Grade school guidance counselor was clouded with the suspicions of one Detective Everyasshole.  What a freaking way to meet the man that for the next four years would assist me in scheduling courses, applying for university admissions, applying for scholarships, and generally saving my sanity in the 12th grade by allowing me to be his runner.  I loathed "study hall" and Mr. S, our "class" couselor for all four years of high shcool, was kind.  And, somehow, he wrangled a one year tuition scholarship at the coummunity college for me from a local bank.  God bless Mr. S.

Anyway, the dick accused me, rather, he berated me with the tone and words of a man not looking for the truth but already convinced of my guilt.  I sat mute.  I endured his assurances that if I did not come clean this burglary would forever haunt my conscience.  Well, forever my ass.  It has been forever that I am angered each and every time that I recall that autumn morning.  Right there in that small office with Mr. S sitting silently I fumed as the dick loomed over me.

The victims were customers on my paper route.  That's all he told me.  I found out later that Detective Everyasshole had been to the house to speak to my parents and to see if my gloves were at home.  It seems that one of the thieves had left behind a glove.  The  funny thing was that all four of us boys had kept an active glove drawer with interchangable pairs of the very same brown "Jersey" gloves.  That's all my mom ever bought for us and all that we ever wanted.  They were great "work" gloves, dead common, but great for folding newspapers in the frigid cold of a Michigan winter and tossing perfect snowballs.  So, I think the glove drawer had in it at least four and 1/2 pairs of gloves.  And, there was the pair I had in my coat pockets.  Oh, yes, if the glove fits.....

Not once, not once did he ever ask me if I had committed the crime or if I had an alibi.  I freaking had to sit there mute because the prick never asked me a question.  It was all "I know you did it and guilt guilt guilt guilt forever and ever", and ever, fucking man.

I do not protest too much.  I didn't do it.  That sort of shit simply isn't part of my makeup.  And, I have an alibi.  That is, the dick could have chosen from one of two since I wasn't certain of the night in question.  Did the burglary occur on the night that my parents went out and left me babysitting my little 6 year old sister?  Was I really that irresposible to take time out from my dear sister and rob a house?  Don't you think she would have noticed my absence and told my parents?  They would have killed me.

Or, Sir, was it the night that that old guy drove me out on a dark deserted countryroad and raped me?

Detective Everyasshole's accusation and conviction without trial really pisses me off.  It's funny.  Not Ha Ha, but in the strange sense that for the last uncertain years, I've been more angry about the police officer's lack of questions and his total rejection of even allowing me to defend myself, than the rape (that's a helluva self-revelation).  I guess that I do have some reasons for "depressing" the memory of the rape that happened sometime near the date of the robbery.

He never asked, "Did you do it?"  He really didn't let me speak.

I never had the chance to tell someone of my innocence...

...and my innocence lost...

Yep.  That freaking robbery still haunts me.

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