Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (12 page)

Tim threw Danny’s wet soccer shorts into the dryer and set the machine for fifteen minutes. Danny came forward, full frontal, and kissed Tim on the lips while he pressed his palm down Tim’s jeans.

“No, Danny,” Tim said, withdrawing the boy’s hand and wrapping the towel around him. “We can’t do that.”

Danny stepped back adjusting the beach towel around his waist. “You’re not like the others.”

“What do you mean?” Tim asked.

“Well, my older brother, Brian,” he started, “who’s at UC San Luis Obispo, comes home every once in a while on weekends with his frat buddies.”

“Yes, so?” Tim asked, probing, suspecting there was more to the story.

“Well … we all smoke some weed and drink beer in the garage.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “That’s what college guys do.”

“Yeah,” Danny said sheepishly. “Then they want to do stuff.”

“What stuff?” Tim asked. Danny paused, but it seemed he wanted to talk.

“Well, the guys tell me to strip down … and then they get naked.”

“Including your brother, Brian?” Tim asked.

“All of them.”

“And then what happens?”

“Then they take turns,” the boy said matter-of-factly.

Tim froze as he listened to the boy’s story.

“Brian’s always first,” he said smugly.

“Your brother?” Tim asked incredulously.

“Yes. He’s always the first. Then Robert and Dillon, his frat buddies. At first I didn’t like it, but then I got used to it, and the joints and the beer made it easier.”

Tim did not want to believe what he was hearing. The boy seemed indifferent as he described the events in the garage.

“Danny,” Tim said after a long pause. “You are a sex slave to these guys, especially to your brother. You’ve got to get out of this.”

Danny looked at Tim pathetically. “Where can I go? I have no money, no job, no education.” He seemed resigned to the situation.

The dryer buzzer went off, and Tim went to retrieve Danny’s soccer shorts, which he tossed to the boy.

“Here’s your beach towel,” Danny said as he threw it at Tim playfully; he was the frisky car wash kid again.

Tim handed Danny a ten-dollar bill for the car wash, twice what the boy had asked for.

“Thanks, Mr. Halladay,” he said as he opened the gate. “How about a full wash tomorrow? Not the car, but you. No charge,” he smiled. “I also give a great back rub.”

Tim hesitated a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Too bad. Let me know if you change your mind,” Danny said as he left and closed the gate.

A week later as Tim was picking up the mail, he encountered Danny’s brother, Brian. “Hi, I’m Tim Halladay,” he introduced himself. “I’m house-sitting for the guys on the other side of the gate.”

“I heard about you,” Brian said, extending a hand.

“I’m out here from New York for some job interviews, and my friends let me stay at their house while they’re away. I feed the dogs, take in the mail and stuff.”

“Sounds like a good gig—especially in January.”

“Yeah, it is,” Tim paused for a moment. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure. What?”

“A few days ago Danny came over and washed my friends’ Mercedes. I saw him washing your car, and he asked me if I’d like ours done.”

“Yeah, he’s really good at that,” Brian acknowledged.

“Well, he got pretty graphic,” Tim continued. “He told me a lot of bad stuff about things that happen when you and your frat brothers come down for a weekend. I mean really nasty shit.”

“Tim, I don’t know you,” Brian offered. “But you have to understand that Danny has a lot of problems. That’s why he dropped out of school. He sometimes has trouble with reality. You know … fantasies about things that aren’t real. I don’t know what he told you, but I can guess. We know he’s gay, and that’s all right with the family. But he needs help.” Brian seemed to be sincere.

“Sorry I brought it up,” Tim apologized. “But …”

“I understand,” Brian said sympathetically. “It isn’t the first time.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Tim asked, concerned.

“We look out for him.”

Tim took the mail and headed for the gates. “Nice meeting you.” He waved to Brian. “And thanks for the input. Danny does a hell of a car wash, but tell him I won’t be needing another one.”

Brian looked confused. “Sure. I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks,” Tim said, disappearing behind the gates to spoil the Beagles with more Milk-Bone treats.

Jury

February 1975

T
im had never been called up for jury duty before, but there it was, the official yellow envelope from the New York State Superior Court, on the gateleg table in the entryway of his brownstone building on West Tenth Street, along with the Con-Ed bill. They knew where he lived, he thought. Tim opened the envelope even before climbing the three flights of stairs to his apartment. His instructions were to report to the county clerk’s office at the World Trade Center at 8:00 a.m. on February 14, 1975. What? On Valentine’s Day? The notice warned that failure to report would result in a warrant for his arrest.

“Fuck!” Tim said. “Just what I need when I’m trying to get a job.” But then, it did pay fifteen dollars a day. “Great. What does that buy at Balducci’s? A basket of raspberries.”

Tim showed up at the World Trade Center on Valentine’s Day as ordered.

The elevator to the forty-ninth floor was as big as his apartment and filled with prospective jurors. The doors opened, and the crowd poured out to get in line to fulfill their civic duty.

“Take a seat, Mr. Halladay,” a bored clerk instructed without even looking up at him. “We’ll call you.”

Resigned to go along with the system, Tim sat in the waiting room with about a hundred people who didn’t want to be there either. He had brought the
New York Times,
which he began to read, section after section, even Sports and Letters to the Editor. After an hour, the doors opened, and the clerk started calling out names.

“Tim Halladay,” the clerk called. “In here.” Tim followed a line of people down the hall to the jurors’ holding room. Another long waiting period ensued in an antiseptic room with fluorescent lighting and hard plastic chairs. After sitting around for another hour, Tim was instructed to go into the courtroom. He had been selected as juror number two, subject to confirmation by the prosecuting attorneys.
Well,
Tim thought.
It’s better than sitting in the holding room with nothing to do.

The jurors took their places in the courtroom jury box. The judge entered the chamber draped in her black robe.

“Is that the judge?” Tim joked with the young woman next to him. She was not amused, obviously taking the whole process very seriously.

“Sorry,” he said, burying his head in the newspaper
he had brought.

The judge read off a litany of rules and regulations, saying the attorneys could question any juror to determine if there was a reason that any prospective juror should be excused. First step: Answer simple questions—name, gender, date of birth, place of residence, and occupation.

That process over, the prosecuting attorney read an opening statement of the case. The defendant told the police that he had killed his mother-in-law when he mistook her for a raccoon. Hours later his wife had testified that she’d committed the crime. She had confessed to killing her mother in the garage, and that her husband had lied to protect her. She testified that her husband had gone to the garage with her mother to look for a raccoon. An argument took place in the garage resulting in an injury to the older woman. The husband returned to the house screaming that his mother-in-law was hurt and needed help. The wife rushed to the garage and saw her mother lying in a pool of blood on the cement floor. The wife testified that she then picked up a hatchet and repeatedly struck her mother.

The husband told police that he had hit his mother-in-law once when he mistook her for a large raccoon. The mother-in-law weighed 270 pounds. Later he told police that he hit her in self-defense. The police report showed that the older woman was struck at least eighteen times with a blunt instrument.

The jurors sat frozen in silence. No one had been prepared for such a bizarre case. The husband was on trial for murdering his mother-in-law, although his wife had confessed to the killing. This was going to be a tangled case of who did what and why, and of “he said, she said.”

The lawyers began questioning the jurors, asking if they had any previous knowledge of this case or knew any of the parties involved. This took several hours. Tim had no knowledge of this incident, and of course did not know anyone involved. The people involved all lived in Mineola, Long Island. The lawyers also questioned each juror about the death penalty, and if they could in good conscience condemn someone to death by execution. The empaneling process ended early in the afternoon, and the judge dismissed the jurors, ordering them back to court at 9:00 a.m. the next day.

The judge then advised, “Because of the sensational aspects of this case and the high media interest, I am ordering that the jury be sequestered for the duration of the trial. If this is a hardship for any of the jurors, please see the bailiff. But also be advised that any request to be excused will be fully scrutinized. Any false information will be dealt with according to the laws of the State of New York. I would advise you to bring at least three days of clean clothes, because this could go on for some time. The court will provide housing and meals for all the time you are on jury duty. You will be staying at the downtown Sheraton Hotel, but you will not have access to television or newspapers. You may not discuss this case with anyone. Thank you for your patriotic support of the system,” she said, before leaving the courtroom.

Why do I feel like I’m the one on trial?
Tim wondered as he left the World Trade Center. He opted to walk back to his apartment on West Tenth Street, not knowing what was going to transpire in the coming days.

Tim reported back to the World Trade Center the next morning at 9:00 a.m. with a duffel bag full of clean underwear, socks, some basic toiletries, and a few paperback books.
How did this happen to me?
he kept wondering.

After a long, boring day of questions by the attorneys and back-and-forth discussions with the judge in her chambers, the jurors were dismissed for the day to check into the Sheraton.

Tim got his key card, went up to his room, and dumped his duffel bag on the bed. He opened the sliding glass doors to a small balcony overlooking the Hudson River. In the distance he could see the Statue of Liberty.

He was not about to have dinner in the buffet dining room with the other jurors. Maybe he’d have a cheeseburger from room service, if the court would pay for it. If not, he would use up his fifteen-dollar-a-day fee just to get away from the others; it would be worth it for the privacy.

He dialed room service, and the voice at the other end said, “Yes, food is allowed, but no alcoholic beverages.”

“Fine,” Tim said. “Just a cheeseburger and a Coke.”

“Pepsi all right?” was the response. “We don’t carry Coke.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Tim answered as he hung up the phone. This was like being in prison.

He unpacked his duffel bag, put his clothes in the drawers, and then deposited his toilet kit in the bathroom. He had no idea how long he was going to be cooped up at the Sheraton, cut off from the outside world. The television had been removed from the room, and there were no newspapers—all because of a 270-pound raccoon.

The knock on the door came sooner than he had anticipated. A large dyke with a short-cropped military haircut entered the room with a tray balanced on her shoulder.

“Where do you want it, honey?” she asked.

“Oh, just on the desk over there,” Tim said, a bit taken aback at her familiarity.

“Sure, kid,” she said. “You got it. Jury duty?” she asked as she put the tray on the desk.

“Yeah,” Tim answered. “I feel like I’m in prison.”

“Well, the Sheraton’s a lot nicer prison than the real thing,” she offered. “I know, honey.”

Tim didn’t know what to say, but he got up and offered the woman a few dollars’ tip.

“We’re not supposed to take tips from jurors,” she said. “But then a girl has to eat.” She smiled, pocketing the money. “Have a good night, honey. You’re really cute.” She winked as she closed the door.

Well, that was something,
Tim thought.

He pulled the chair up to the desk and opened the Pepsi. The fizzing bubbles were refreshing even though Tim would have preferred having a real drink. As he bit into the cheeseburger, there was a rattling sound on the sliding glass doors off the balcony. What was going on? An earthquake in New York City?

Tim pulled the sheer curtain back to see a hunky, muscled guy on the terrace off his balcony. He slid the door open in amazement.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, even though he knew he had seen this person before. “And what are you doing outside my room?”

“I’m juror number eleven, and I’m in the room next door. I thought you might like some company, so I brought some wine,” he said, referring to a bottle of chardonnay he was holding. “I just climbed over the balcony to come pay a visit. It’s so boring here with no TV.”

“Are you crazy?” Tim asked astounded. “You could get killed.”

“I’m actually Spiderman,” he joked. “Are you going to ask me in?”

“Well, come in, I guess,” Tim said, opening the sliding glass door.

“Thanks. I saw you checking me out this afternoon in the jury box. I could tell,” he teased, mischievously.

“I was checking out the other jurors to see who they were,” Tim admitted.

“And you knew. You got it right away.” He smiled. “I’m Jackson Templeton. I know how pretentious that sounds. Just call me Jack.”

“Hi. Tim Halladay.”

“Good to meet you.”

“How did you get the wine?” Tim asked.

“I work on Wall Street. I know how to get things.”

“I guess,” Tim said.

“I found a way to get into the minibar without a key, the same way I found out how to open the adjoining door to our connecting rooms. Open it up and we can have a suite here at the downtown Sheraton. And we can hang out together while we’re deliberating over this 270-pound raccoon.”