Joe Dillard - 03 - Injustice for All Read Online Free PDF

eyes, but I can’t. Even though I find the entire matter hypocritical and disgusting, I’m riveted. Thirty seconds after the EMT disappears, Johnson’s chest rises, his eyes flutter, and he is still. The thought crosses my mind that the death he’s just been given was so much more serene than the one he doled out to little Tanya. Even so, I wonder how what I’ve just witnessed could possibly be called justice.
    I sit in the seat for a moment, feeling awkward, not quite knowing what to do. Then the family rises, and I do the same. The show’s over—figuratively for the audience and literally for Johnson—and I hurry out into the night.

4
    I sleep fitfully in the hotel room. The voices that haunt me alternate between Phillip Johnson’s and a young girl’s. Both are begging for their lives, asking me to save them. But I’m frozen in fear, unable to move or even speak. I wake three times during the night, drenched in sweat. Finally, at five thirty, I roll stiffly out of bed, go into the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. I look into the mirror and wonder whether the nightmares will ever end.
    They’ve dogged me for most of my life, these snippets of violence and horror, exploding ordnance, and cries of anguish. They began when I was a young boy and stumbled onto a rape. My teenage uncle was raping my sister, who was only a year older than I. I tried to stop it, but my uncle overpowered me, threw me out of the room, and I wound up lying on the floor, helpless, listening to my sister’s muffled cries.
    Later I marched off to the army in a misguided attempt to feel some kind of kinship with my father, who was killed in Vietnam six months after I was conceived. I wound up parachuting into Grenada with two battalions of Rangers from the Seventy- fifth Infantry. The things I saw and did there enter into my subconsciousness randomly, like pop-up targets on a firing range, nearly always when I’m sleeping. The images don’t appear as often as they once did, but when they do, they come complete with digital sound and brilliant color, and they remain as vivid as the day they happened.
    If I’d had any sense, I would’ve chosen a career that promised to be relatively uneventful—something like accountancy or maybe pharmacy. But some irresistible force has always pushed me toward self-flagellation, and in my early twenties, I made the unfortunate decision to become a lawyer and subsequently—driven primarily by a need to support my family—entered the world of criminal justice with its sociopaths, psychotics, narcissists, and idiots. I practiced criminal defense for more than a decade, until I wound up getting shot by the deranged son of a murder victim. I took a year off after that, but eventually I was drawn back in as a prosecutor. The first case I prosecuted involved a group of Satan-worshiping Goths who murdered six people. Their leader—a psychopath named Natasha Davis—nearly killed me. Now, as I gaze into the mirror at a face that looks much older than it should, I wish I could somehow lift the top of my skull, remove my psyche with a spoon, and start all over again.
    I leave the bathroom and pull on a pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, and my ragged running shoes. The hotel where I’m staying is a block from Vanderbilt University, so I spend the next hour jogging through the campus and around the park across the street that surrounds the Parthenon. By six thirty I’m showered and seated in the hotel restaurant. A couple of minutes later I see my son walk through the door.
    Jack is six feet three now, the same height as me. His hair is dark like mine but cut much shorter. His eyes are a chocolate brown and reflect a natural intensity and intelligence. He’s twenty years old, a junior at Vanderbilt, and a member of the baseball team, a program that prides itself on discipline and toughness. He carries himself with the confidence of an athlete, and as I stand to hug him, my heart seems to swell in my