Deadly Consequences

Deadly Consequences

         Beth Hartman was both frightened and sad that it all came down to this. She watched as Harold Becker took the stand for cross-examination. Please, God, let them acquit him!

         Her mind raced back to the past year’s events that led up to this tragedy, wondering over and over again why it happened – why her son turned out to be a cruel, vicious person. She had tried her best to raise him as a good, God-fearing Christian. After his father died, though, Greg Hartman took the wrong path.


         Beth and Harold were neighbors, both living in modest trailers in the country, each on five acres or so, and each with a small vegetable garden. Both were feisty, in their seventies and managed to exist on their own. The North Country in upstate New York can be a rugged place to live for the elderly, but it also toughened them up with the inherent challenges: splitting, stacking and hauling firewood, shoveling snow, working the garden, etc.

         Harold viewed his challenges as opportunities -- he thought couch potatoes were a doomed species. He welcomed splitting firewood and carrying it into his trailer. In spite of the loss of his left arm, or perhaps because of it, he didn’t back down from trying anything. No, defeat was not an option: not after he survived World War II as a Marine and the machine gun fire that tore off his arm.

         While pushing his lawn mower with his right arm, he noticed Beth’s little patch of grass could use a cutting and proceeded to take care of it. Almost done, he saw Beth on her front step waving to him. He turned the noisy, old mower off.
“Hello, Harold. You didn’t have to do that. I was fixing to cut it later on today,” she sang in her sweet voice while her well worn dress billowed in the warm wind.

         “Oh, hell, Beth, it ain’t nothing. Besides, I needed to burn a few more calories after that chocolate cake of yours last night!” Harold said with a wide grin.
He went over to the tiny porch and leaned his tanned, muscular arm on the railing. “Beth, I need to ask you something that’s getting the better of me.”

         “Sure, Harold, what is it?”

         “Well, I never see Greg around here to help you out with the chores. He’s a strapping thirty-nine year old that seems healthy enough to do it!”

         “I know, Harold, I know. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m glad he doesn’t come here very often. It seems the only time he visits is to borrow my Social Security money…”

         She was somewhat embarrassed to mention this to Harold, but also relieved at the same time. How do I tell Harold that Greg is demanding my money every month?

         “Well, Beth, if he was my boy I’d knock some sense into him. That’s no way to treat his mother!” Harold’s anger was rising like a volcano.

         “Harold, hold on a minute. I’ve got some fresh chocolate chip cookies for you,” Beth said, glad to change the subject.

         Harold thanked her and pushed the mower back to his shed, carefully clutching his precious cargo of cookies in the same hand.

*****

         A few weeks later, there was an urgent knocking on Harold’s door.
“Hold your horses, dammit! I’m coming,” He said.

         “Harold, please let me in!” Beth begged.

         He motioned her in. “Sorry! What in the world’s wrong, Beth?”

         Sobbing, she said “My son is on his way over here for my money again. I can’t give him any, as I’m almost out of food and have bills to pay!”

         Harold was silent for a few seconds, his neck veins sticking out like small tree branches. Trying to maintain composure, he said “Well, don’t give him any! Beth, I’m sorry but he’s a worthless S.O.B. and has no right taking your money.”

         “But Harold, he threatened me last time and I believe he’ll hurt me. Between the drugs and booze, there’s no telling what he’ll do to me.”

         “You can stay right here, Beth. He’ll have to deal with me if he shows up. Meanwhile, why don’t you sit down and I’ll fix us some tea. Try to relax.”

         “Oh, thanks Harold! I don’t mean to be such a nuisance.”

         “Don’t worry about it, okay?"

*****

         Later on that afternoon, the sound of crunching gravel outside alerted Harold to a visitor. He looked out the hazy window and saw Greg’s beat up truck stop in front of Beth’s trailer. While Greg approached his mother’s place, Harold went to his closet and got his shotgun. It always stood ready, fully loaded with five slug-shells that would take down a large deer -- or other wild animal.

         The loud rapping at Harold’s door startled Beth. Visibly frightened, she looked at Harold.

         “Beth, please go to the other end of the trailer and stay out of sight. Let me handle this.” She quickly shuffled away, her white hair bun bobbing in agreement.

         Harold opened the door while he held the shotgun between his left armpit and chest. “What do you want?” his voice boomed at Greg.

         “Get my mother. I know she’s in there!” shouted Greg, almost losing his balance on the top step.

         “No. You get the hell off my property now!” Harold said while rapidly shifting and leveling the shotgun at Greg in one smooth motion.

         “Old man, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Greg said as he tried to enter Harold’s trailer.

         Harold let off an ear-piercing round in the air above Greg. “I told you once, and I won’t tell you again: get the hell out of here!”

         Greg ran down the steps towards his car, but turned and shouted an obscenity at Harold.

         Beth heard a second and then a third shot go off – she was too terrified to see what was going on. Then there was an awful silence for a minute, and a loud, sad groan from Harold…

***

         The Prosecutor seemed sympathetic towards Harold, and soft-balled her approach with him. She also knew Harold had the full support of the community.

         “Mr. Becker. Did you confront Greg Hartman on the steps of your trailer on the afternoon of October 18th, 1987?”

         “Yes,” Harold answered, sitting ramrod straight in the stand. His dark suit and white tie softened his normal crusty demeanor. It was also only the second time he had worn it – the first was at his wife’s funeral fifteen years earlier.

         “And is it true that you exchanged words with him, and threatened him?”

         “Yes, but I wanted him off my property!”

         “Please answer with just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, Mr. Becker.”

         “Yes.”

         “And did you have a gun during this exchange, a 12-gauge shotgun?”

         “Yes.”

         “Was Greg Hartman armed? Did he have a knife? A gun?”

         “Not that I could see.”

         “I’ll take that as a ‘no’. And did you fire the shotgun at Mr. Hartman?”

         “Yes, a warning shot.”

         “But Beth Hartman has testified that she heard three shots. Is that correct?”

         “Yes.”

         “If you only fired a warning shot, what were the other two that she heard?”

         Harold fidgeted in his chair, an uneasy look on his face while beads of sweat formed. “The low-life ran to his car after my warning shot. But he didn’t have the common sense to shut up. Oh, no! He stopped and made an obscene, lying remark about his mother and me!”

         “And then…?”

         “I lost my temper and shot him twice.”

         “Was it in self-defense?”

         “No.”

         “You shot him in the back, correct?”

         “Yes,” Harold answered in a whisper.

         The courtroom gasped and groaned over Harold’s admission. Beth’s heart was pounding now. Why didn’t he say that he thought Greg was getting a gun from his car? Oh, Harold!

         “But Mr. Becker, are you telling me that you were able to shoot your gun with just one arm?” The Prosecutor tried to give him some leeway, some room.

         “Hell, I can shoot the wing off a fly at 100 yards. Just ask anyone who knows me!” he said with a proud grin.

         Oh God! Not good. Not good at all… thought Beth.

         The Prosecutor stood there stunned, silent for a few moments. “That’s all I have for this witness.”

         The judge advised the jury once again not to let the defendant’s age and circumstances affect their decision. He knew this was a very unpopular trial and most people considered Harold a hero for defending Beth against her psycho son.

         The jury came back with the verdict after five days of deliberation. They solemnly filed back into the courtroom, their faces allowing no indication of the verdict.

         "Ms. Foreperson, do you have a verdict?” the judge asked.

         “No, your honor, we don’t. We are hopelessly deadlocked,” she replied.

         An excited hum of chatter filled the courtroom.

         “Does the jury need more time to break this deadlock?” he asked.

         “No, your honor, that won’t help. We discussed that already and concluded the outcome would be the same.”

         “Well, I have no choice but to declare a hung jury. Mr. Becker, you are free to go.”

         The building erupted into cheers and clapping, the judge’s demand for “order” barely audible.

         Harold’s head was now hanging down with tears falling on his pants like a soft, sad, summer rain. He slowly got up and left the stand, walking towards the back of the room. He just wanted to get the hell out of there.

         Beth rushed to him and hugged him tight. “Thank God, Harold! Thank God!” This was the first time she had seen him since he went to jail. She had mixed feelings, but this was the ending she had prayed for.

         “Beth, I killed your son!” he said, tears now streaming madly down his tired cheeks. “Please forgive me!”

         “No, Harold, you didn't. My son left me ten years ago. Let’s go home now…”