Oliver Benjamin
rapped on the opaque window separating him from the driver. A
sound came crackling through the speaker. An old man’s voice.
Warm. Familiar. Soothing. Like God in the movies. Charlton Heston
at the drive-thru.
“Relax, Roy,” he said, “The journey will be a few hours. Feel free
to watch television or rest or even fix yourself a drink.”
Heaven was only a few hours away by car. Who knew?
He flicked on the TV. People from all over Los Angeles were
visiting the charred remains of Undergrounds to lay down flowers in
memory of Leona.
“I don’t know,” one teary girl was saying, “I felt like she was my
sister. Or my mother. Or both. My…my smother.”
A mailman cried, “She was a heroine to us all. She was a big,
beautiful lady. We should build a statue for her. A big, beautiful one.”
“A symbol for us all!” a shopworker shook her fist in the air.
Again he flipped. The young arsonist responsible for Leona’s
death had apparently escaped from the hospital in which he was
being treated.
“He suffers from chronic mental problems,” an investigator said
into the microphone. “A long history of madness.” They showed the
only snapshot they could find of him. It was a newspaper photograph
of the accident in which his parents had died. In it he was wearing the
brand new Don’t Tread on MeT-shirt. He was sitting along the
center divider and crying.
The next channel featured a detailed piece on the late Ned
Hollander, orchestrator of the Biddenbrooks bombings. “Once a
powerful lawyer,” the anchor announced, “he was hired to represent
a young girl in a murder case. But the trial went awry.”
A trial illustration appeared of a dapper and healthy-looking
Partment berating an astonished jury. The court transcript was read
by an actor: “Whosoever among you has not sinned, whosoever has
not indirectly caused death in the world, you be the first to cast
stones. But remember, you will be casting them against beauty
itself!”
The anchor continued, “The judge found the attorney in
contempt of court and declared a mistrial. Afterwards, crossing the
street in front of the courthouse, Hollander was struck by a car and
hospitalized. His deranged behavior was later diagnosed as love: The
old man was molesting his beautiful young client.”
A photo of Sprout in prison garb was shown.
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