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Jackson was running through the park when the gun went off. This everyone was agreed upon. The young black man he was chasing was named Trey, a 20-something who made his living lowjacking cars. Trey sold the wheels, spinners and tires through local body shops, part of the gray economy.

There are those who would say that Jackson shot Trey. Right-handed, Jackson was carrying the gun in his right hand when it discharged. Ka-blam! Both men were sprinting raggedly through Fillmore Park. The chase had already gone on for three city blocks. The steel-jacketed slug traversed a space of about 20 feet and entered Trey’s back at chest height. It pierced his heart and killed him. This everyone could agree on. Whether Jackson had intentionally shot the young man was a horse of a different color.

“Now this here name on your driver’s license,” asked Detective Stanislawski breezily, apparently unperturbed by a life spent investigating crime. Heavy-set, he had laugh lines around his eyes. “You say your name is Jackson,” he grunted good-naturedly, “but it says ‘Jacek’ on your driver’s license.”

“I’m Polish. Like you,” replied Jackson, staring at the gold-colored nameplate on the detective’s sky blue shirt.

“Just like to nail down the facts,” answered the detective, jotting a notation on the yellow legal pad in front of him. The interrogation room was a study in gray: gray walls, a gray metal desk, gray chairs. Even the ashtray was gray. Stanislawski was smoking a stogie. The acrid white smoke made Jackson/Jacek squint uncomfortably. “You comfortable?” asked the detective, peering at him. Looking up at the video camera mounted on the ceiling in the corner, Stan gave a little wave and cried out, “The perp has indicated that he is comfortable!”

 

Normally the case would have gone to trial without further ado. The anger in the black community, however, necessitated a public hearing. The hearing room was packed, a restless crowd seeking absolution.

“I refuse to believe that any crime was committed,” insisted Councilman Evers with the kind of dogged insistence that comes from a lifetime of being instantly obeyed. Seated on the dais, Evers, a white man, had a craggy disposition that brokered no arguments.

“Huh? How does that work?” asked Detective Stanislawski gruffly, poised at the witness table, leaning over and peering at his notes distractedly. “First degree manslaughter seems about right to the police department and the district attorney.”

“And yet Jacek Andrzej is not a policeman, but an ordinary citizen,” rebutted the councilman. “A citizen who came upon a carjacker stealing— ”

“Lowjacker.”

“What?”

“The term is lowjacker. He stripped the wheels, rims and tires off of cars.”

“Did he do so in Fillmore Park?” asked the councilman sharply.

“No, he— 22-year-old Trey Gibbons— was caught in the act of lowjacking a car on 12^th Street NE by the owner of the vehicle, Jacek Andrzej, who then chased Gibbons three and a half blocks up to and into Fillmore Park where the shooting incident took place.”

“Yet, no crime was committed in the park,” declared the councilman. “That’s my whole point, you see. This is not a trial, only a public hearing, but I wish to make it clear that no crime adheres to Mr. Andrzej.”

Obviously, the councilman had a lot of Polacks living in his district.

“Well,” drawled Stanislawski, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth, “somebody sure shot somebody.”

“That’s my point,” Councilman Evers lectured the detective. “That’s my point! It was a shooting accident. You know, like what’s-his-name, who accidently shot his friend in the face— ”

Murmurs in the hearing room. Shifting of chairs. Has the councilman finally lost his marbles?

“You mean Vice President Cheney?” asked Stan slowly, smiling, but fighting to keep incredulity out of his voice.

“Yes,” agreed Evers, frowning authoritatively. “I guess I do.”

“A shooting accident?” asked Stan incredulously.

“May I speak?!” shouted Brad Jones, the district attorney, jumping to his feet. Young and lithe as a marathon runner, his face had turned beet red. “If we’re discussing charges, my office is the correct correspondent, not the detective in the case.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” harrumphed Councilman Evers. “We’ll get to you in a moment!”

“I’d just like to say,” Mayor Daniels interjected, waving his stubby fingers at Stan from his seat on the dais, “what a disgrace it is to see this fair city’s name being dragged unnecessarily through the mud by a police department intent on nailing someone, anyone, for a crime which may not even have taken place.” A practiced politician with the face of Porky Pig, he made a great show of his outrage. “Now I ask you! Where did it happen? Did it happen? If it happened, was it in front of a tree? Behind a tree? Uphill? Downhill? On a grassy knoll? Was it raining? Were there squirrels, squirreling away nuts for the winter? Who was the nutjob here?”

Stan knew better than to say anything at all.

“I disagree,” declared District Attorney Jones. “I think a serious crime has been committed and the public expects justice to be done.” Plainly upset, he looked about ready to jump out of his three-piece suit and run naked around the hearing room.

“Justice!?” thundered the mayor. “Now wait a minute there, buster. Just you wait one minute. By God, I hope you never run for public office, sir, and if you do, I sure hope you never win!” Disgruntled, the mayor shifted in his chair, fixing his pig-like gaze on a spot on the wall up by the ceiling. Apparently, it was from there that God communicated with hizzoner.

 

In the court of public opinion, Jacek’s supporters faced off against a much larger community of enraged citizenry. If he could have taken back that bullet, Jacek definitely was up for it. Even members of his church were divided over his presumed guilt or innocence. Some felt that, like Jesus, they should show mercy for the afflicted. Others wanted to call on the Pope to have Jacek excommunicated. Some simply wanted to see him hung out to dry.

A novice in criminal proceedings, Jacek used Ricky van Schystereau as his public defender, based on a suggestion by his sister-in-law. Squat, rotund and sporting a moustache, Mr. van Schystereau sat behind his desk making faces while Jacek explained his dilemma.

“Don’t lie to me,” warned the lawyer forthrightly. “I need to know the truth. Did you shoot him or didn’t you?”

“Of course I shot him. By accident! That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Likely story,” mumbled van Schystereau, swiveling his chair to gaze out the bay window behind his desk. “I can probably get you a plea bargain. Ten to life with chance of parole, based on time served.”

“I haven’t served any time yet,” answered Jacek uncertainly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ricky reassured him. “You will.”

 

Whether or not she knew the law, Stephanie, the paralegal in Ricky’s office, was a lady of fashion model beauty. Svelte, dressed in black, Steph’s pancake make-up, her blush, her eyeliner and her stunning cherry red lipstick brought male clients panting back for more. Ricky van Schystereau called her “my little cash cow.” Even Jacek was drawn to her steely demeanor. Although it cost him hundreds of dollars an hour, he longed to show up in Ricky’s office for coaching sessions. Where Steph, an ice princess, hardly gave him the time of day. With an ass to die for, her most attractive trait was her chunky-heeled strut— clack! clack! clack!— carrying manila folders around Ricky’s office.

Which made it all the more shocking when she finally spoke to him! As Jacek entered the courtroom behind a bailiff, there she was, leaning up against him. Her exotic perfume enveloped him in waves of lust. Those lovely lips perched an inch from his ear. “Don’t worry,” she breathed, sending Jacek’s heartrate soaring. “Ricky’s histrionics ain’t half bad. He’s a cokehead.”

“Wait. What?” stammered Jacek, stumbling to the table for the accused, where Ricky himself, his eyelids at half-mast, gave his client a leaden look.

Too late, Jacek watched helplessly as Stephanie clacked away on her chunky black heels. Clack! clack! clack! The clerk of the court shouted “All rise, the Honorable Judge Robert O’Reilly presiding.”

Judge O’Reilly marched into the courtroom from his private chamber, scowling beneath a bald pate. His black robe billowed wildly. Must be made of rayon, thought Jacek, but he wasn’t going to tell that to the judge.

Judge O’Reilly took his place in the courtroom.

“Be seated,” declared the clerk.

No sooner did he sit, then Jacek was stunned by Ricky van Schystereau’s almost rocket-like delivery: “If it please the court,” Ricky bellowed, jumping to his feet, sniffing audibly. “My client has been falsely accused!”

“I would prefer for the clerk to identify the case before the court,” croaked the judge, giving Ricky a withering stare.

“As you wish, Your Honor.”

The clerk barely finished speaking before Ricky again hopped to his feet: “This is more than a travesty of justice!” he howled, launching himself toward the bench. “This entire proceeding is an embarrassment!” Sniff, sniff. “I’m ashamed to be a party to it.” Sniff, sniff. “My client should be released on his own recognizance, the charges against him dropped, his good name restored.”

“Counsel will please be seated,” croaked the judge.

Ricky sat.

“May we hear from the prosecution,” requested His Honor.

“What are you doing?” Jacek whispered excitedly, grabbing Ricky’s arm.

Pulling himself from Jacek’s grasp, Ricky shushed him, while leaning forward dramatically to fasten an iron gaze upon the prosecutor.

Reid Talbot, standing in for Brad Jones, who had business in another courtroom that morning, marshalled his papers, stood erect and addressed the court. A dapper dresser with long, tawny hair, he gave off a patrician sense of place. “In the case of the People versus Jacek ‘Jackson’ Andrzej,” he declared, “we charge the defendant with first degree manslaughter, reckless endangerment and a number of lesser charges.”

“I object, Your Honor!” thundered Ricky, up and pacing. Sniff, sniff. “Permission to approach the bench!” Sniff, sniff.

“Permission granted,” sighed the judge.

Mumble, mumble, mumble, Ricky, Reid and the judge conferred.

“The court will adjourn until such time as counsel has finished preparatory remarks to be made before this court,” declared the judge, banging his gavel.

Jacek felt his heart sink. What the hell was going to happen now?

“It’s just a fly in the ointment,” Ricky assured him, glassy-eyed, approaching like an express train. “A glitch. A spanner in the works. Six ways from Sunday. Son of a bitch!” Sniff, sniff.

“What’s going to happen now?” wailed Jacek, aware that every delay sank him deeper in debt.

“I need to track down Ms. Monticello.”

“Who in the world is that?” gawked Jacek. “I’ve never even heard of her.”

“Star witness,” murmured Ricky, peering myopically about the courtroom for Stephanie. “I use her testimony whenever I find myself lacking a plausible defense. She has a Ph.D. in ancillary rocket science. Tarot card reader. Extremely incompetent lady.”

“Wait,” panted Jacek, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Was she a witness at the scene of the shooting?”

Staring at him stonily, Ricky did not deign to grace this question with a response. “Stephanie, there you are!” he declared instead. “Coffee and a burrito from Taco Bell, darlin’. Please!”

Jacek had the feeling his goose was cooked.

Two weeks later, a hung jury left the judge no option but to declare a mistrial. Jacek wasn’t even convicted of carrying a concealed weapon without a concealed carry permit. Demonstrators— blacks, women, young people— paraded angrily outside the courthouse. Strangely for a Midwestern city, the building was wreathed in Spanish moss. It didn’t matter what anybody said. The fix was in: A gay pizza delivery man on the jury was a ringer. He had delivered pizza to Jacek’s residence two or three times in the past and he clearly remembered getting a decent tip. Ergo, not guilty. Rough justice.

What goes around, comes around, although as a parable, this tale might leave something wanting. For want of a nail? “For want of a nail, the horse’s shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of a message, the battle was lost. For want of a battle, the war was lost. For want of a war, the nation foundered.”

In the civil trial, focused on damages, things got off to a rocky start. Due to the protesters, the presiding judge took a page from Congress and held the proceedings at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

Peyton Dixon, the lawyer representing the Gibbons family, cross-examined Jacek dramatically. “Wouldn’t it be proper from your perspective, Mr. Andrzej, to call the late Trey Gibbons a car thief? A carjacker, a lowjacker, whatever. A thief?” demanded the lawyer.

Unsure where this is going, Jacek frowned and shrugged.

“I ask the accused to give a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, Your Honor.”

“The defendant is so ordered,” said the judge noncommittally.

“I haven’t categorized him,” Jacek answered.

“A ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ please.”

“No. I wouldn’t call him a thief. He was molesting my car. That’s why I chased him.”

“Didn’t you in fact purposely aim your .38 caliber weapon at the thief and knowingly shoot Trey Gibbons in the back?” asked Dixon with a flourish.

“No. I was scared. If he was a practiced criminal, maybe he had a weapon,” Jacek explained plaintively. “What did I know? I was certainly scared of him. That’s why I pulled my gun. If he turned and shot at me, I knew I would never have time to pull my gun.”

“Didn’t you in fact purposely aim your .38 caliber weapon at the thief and knowingly shoot Trey Gibbons in the back?” repeated Dixon. Head thrown back, his hands on his hips, he acted as if he had caught the defendant in a bald-faced lie, solving the case. At any moment, Jacek expected him to declare “Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“No.”

“No?” asked the lawyer incredulously. “No? What does ‘no’ mean?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I never…” insisted the lawyer, but the sense of outrage had already dissipated.

Jacek had to pay damages.

 

Her name was Trisha, a good-looking black woman. Despite her nice tan suit and strawberry-colored beret, she seemed plenty angry. “Now we know who you are!” she seethed, confronting Jacek on the steps outside the courthouse.

“I said I was sorry,” he whined miserably.

“No tag-backs! ‘Sorry’ only counts in horseshoes. What you did, you just got yo’self a lifetime appointment, baby!” insisted Trisha.

All was not lost, however. Eventually— based on his bona fides— Jacek was hired as a writer on the daytime soap “A Bleaker Tomorrow.”