Chapter 1 – Thomas Hutchins
I didn’t get a life for the murder of Thomas Hutchins. I got twenty-five years with no parole. While that wasn’t as harsh as it could have been—I could have gotten life or been sentenced to death—it wasn’t much of a pass, either. Twenty-five years was an awfully long time to exchange for the life of a dirt-bag like Tommy. In countless ways, he was about the worst thing that had ever happened to his dismally broken-down Southeast Side neighborhood. So bad, in fact, that after he died, no one, aside from his mother, mourned for him after his passing. Men didn’t care for him because of his violent, double-dealing ways, and the women who didn’t get away from him fast enough found out soon enough that he wasn’t just a rapist, but a sadist, as well. There were a few who called out to him on the streets, but they weren’t interested in him so much as they were in using him to make a little change for themselves on the sly. Because he was big and angry, small-time grifters used him to play the part of the jealous husband in the old Murphy Scam. For similar reasons, loan-sharks had him to put the burning desire to repay back into their delinquent borrowers. In either case, it didn’t hurt that Tommy didn’t mind throwing a few punches or breaking a few ribs. When he came busting through a locked door to find his cheating wife naked and in bed with some new-found boyfriend, nine times out of ten, the mark would fly out of there without even stopping much less thinking about his wallet and clothes.
No one, not even his mother, was surprised he’d been murdered. She knew him for what he was and knew it was only a matter of time. Still she was sad, but definitely not surprised. She knew better than anyone that there was something important inside him that was either broken or missing. He didn’t see his neighbors as people trying to cope with the same kind of problems that he had. He saw them only as opportunities to rob, cheat, and brutalize in any way he saw fit. He was contemptible in so many ways. His robbery victims never carried knives or guns or were ever a threat to him. More often than not, they were the white-haired old women with palsied hands and unsteady feet who wheeled their little wire grocery carts behind them up and down the neighborhood streets. As bad as that was, it wasn’t anything unexpected. It didn’t make anyone stop and say ‘Well I’ll be damned’ or ask ‘What is this world coming to.’ No. It was something that anyone with half a wit could have seen coming if only they had just bothered to look. He was the fruit of a neighborhood that had long ago lost all its hope and had forgotten how to dream. Now, it perched like a dried up old canker at the intersection of 83rd Street and South Mackenzie Avenue, turning out more and more guys who were immune to their neighbors just like Tommy.
He wasn’t a guy who’d turned bad after years of hate and drugs had rotted his brain. He’d been bad all his life. Even as a child, he stole money—sometimes even clothes—off the backs of neighborhood kids who had to slink past him on their way to school. No one could touch him. There was a time when a parent could count on an adult in the neighborhood to slap the mean off a child, and drop by the house later to tell the parents what their fool child had been up to. But those days were over, and dealing with an unbridled Tommy was just about as dangerous as trying to remove a sleeping red-touching-yellow striped snake that had somehow slithered into their front pants pocket. If they were lucky, they knew from neighborhood talk, or from first-hand experience, if they weren’t, that the little snake was cranky and used to getting his way. Trying to stop him from doing what pleased him was a dangerous thing. Anyone who laid hands on him, threatened, or actually called the cops, put their whole family in danger and soon came to know that little Tommy Hutchins not only had a nasty bite, but venom ten times worse than a snake’s. Before he turned twenty-five, he’d already been named as the primary suspect in seventeen neighborhood assaults, eight armed robberies, and three other murders. And those were just the ones that the cops were on to. Given who and how he was, the numbers had to be higher and only God knew for certain how many there were. With all that piled high against him, I’d have figured that the city would have named a street after anyone with sense enough to kill him, but the suits that could decide such things didn’t see Tommy’s murder like I did at all.
Perceptions count. Had it happened anywhere but in a first-floor courtroom at the Cook County Criminal Courthouse, I’d have only gotten fifteen to twenty, at most, or, if I was lucky and the judge felt sorry for me, only half the time that I got. My case proved that it wasn’t always the who, or the what, or even the why of a thing that matters. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of where it happens that either lets you slide or lands your butt in jail. Killing him in a courtroom wasn’t a smart thing. It was seen by most of the letter-writing public not just as a slap, but as a sucker punch to the blind-folded face of Lady Justice. But, I knew, just like anybody who’s ever read the paper or watched the people from the Southside being busted on the evening news that despite the bullshit you’ve hear in school, justice doesn’t put her hand out to everyone.
Had it happened just a few blocks deeper in the barrio, no one—not the guy on the street, not the chief of police, not even the Archbishop of Chicago—would have even raised an eyebrow. Killings happen there all the time and the unspoken sentiment of most of the city was that it’s only Mexicans who live there, anyway, and one or two less won’t matter. The choice of location made everything ten times more difficult for me. It showed a profound lack of respect for the city and its courts that fired Jude Serna up into such a fever pitch that I might just as well have pimped his wife, beaten his kids, and held his eighty year-old grandma at gunpoint. He was damned and determined to make sure it didn’t go unpunished.
Surprisingly, the hard feelings didn’t end with judge. Anyone even remotely connected to the jail and courthouse wanted my head jammed on a pike and displayed out in front beneath the powder blue stars on the city flag. From the guards who browbeat the prisoners on their way to and from the courthouse to the janitors who took care of the overflowing toilets, they all wanted to see my butt busted into a thousand pieces and bound up in a sling.
The craziness didn’t stop outside the building. Once the suburban suits read about it in the Tribune on their Northwestern train-rides into work, they called the mayor the instant they plopped down in their soft leather chairs in their mauve and pastel colored high-rise office boxes that protected them from any contact with the whores, addicts, and other lower working-class people who were anything close to the likes of me. The stuffed-shirts didn’t stop with the Mayor, either. Once they finished with His Honor, they launched into tirades against the Chief of Police, and followed it up with phone calls to any toadies who owed them homage. They screamed “Lawlessness” with vein-pulsing necks, and demanded to know what the guys that they’d left in charge were going to do about this snowballing, overwhelming problem. With tons of high-profile press and strong interest from downtown, it came as no surprise that the Assistant State’s Attorney wasn’t in too charitable of a mood when it came time for my plea bargain conference.
Even my Public Defender, who might have at least feigned a small token of allegiance, whispered in my ear, “Stop complaining about their offer and take the fucking deal. You’re lucky,” he whispered, “that they’re even talking. With the kind of heat this thing has garnered, I’m surprised they just don’t hang you.”
“I want a better deal than this,” I protested.
“Don’t be stupid,” he sneered. “Prosecutor Norris and Judge Serna know Judge Hodgkin.”
I waited for him to make his point, but he must have assumed I’d forgotten who he was talking about.
“He’s the judge you threatened to take hostage. These guys play golf together. They’re buddies. You need to take this deal because they sure as hell aren’t going to give you any better. Besides, if you piss them off, they might take this one off the table.”
“The guy was a dirt-bag,” I complained. “I should get no more than twenty with time off for good behavior. I don’t mind doing ten or even fifteen, but twenty-five is bullshit. I did you guys a favor. He’d have been back here on another murder in no time at all.”
“Maybe so, but you’re a dirt-bag, too. Just be glad they don’t want to pound you with the death penalty just for bringing this shit in here.”
He looked at me with an expression that alternated between boredom and disdain. Then, just like anyone who has more important things to do, he looked at his watch, which, according to the clock on the wall, said a quarter to lunch, and looked over his shoulder towards the door.
“Take the deal,” he whispered. “You can’t gamble with your life”
I knew from a life-time of short straws that this was the best I could do. It was a fact of life that poor guys had to be ready for sex the instant they walked into a courtroom because there wasn’t any doubt that they were going to get screwed. It’s different for guys with bank. With their big money lawyers, the courts bend over backwards. A felony Driving While Intoxicated gets them rehab followed by 100 hours of community service, and, if the state’s really got a hard-on for them, maybe a year or two on probation. They take all the time in the world talking about how the guy’s got problems, and how he’s suffering from a disease. If you’re poor, none of that crap matters. You get six months to a year in county.
Cook County is the biggest felony courthouses in the country. They run guys through there by the thousand. Prisoners guilty of small-time misdemeanors who’d been sentenced to time-served, plus those making bail and that precious few who the court has found not guilty, exit out the front door to freedom. The rest of us, who didn’t make bail, which is typical, or had no luck with our sentences, which is even more so, are shuffled out the back and into custody.
It’d already been a long day. It started at 5:30 AM when we were marched through the tunnel that connects the courthouse with the Cook County Jail. From there, we hurried up and waited until 9 AM when the Judges arrived, court went into session, and the bailiffs got around to calling our cases. I drank an eight ounce can of apple juice from a red and silver can and ate a pale grey baloney on white at around quarter to eleven. We were jammed jowl to jowl in the bullpen, and because I didn’t want to play any part in anyone else’s drama, I was careful not to talk to or touch any of the other prisoners. You never know when one of them had gone off their meds and were listening to the shit that was playing in their heads.
My case was in the first five of those on the docket that morning. There were sixty or seventy guys in the bullpen with me who were scheduled for later that morning along with a couple of middle-aged black women. The ladies got loud and whined the whole while about being picked up for trying to score a couple of ten cent bags of heroin off of an undercover cop. They quieted down after a deputy came up behind them and screamed in their ears for them to “Shut the fuck up.” With the exception of a couple of drunk and disorderlies, most of the cases were victimless ten dollar felonies with little or no jail time.
When my case was finally called, I wasn’t a guy they had to waste time or niceties on. The hearing lasted only five minutes, and there wasn’t any negotiation.
“For your guilty plea, you will be sentenced to twenty-five years with no parole or reductions in time for good behavior,” Prosecutor Norris stated.
He wore an expression of such hostility and contempt that I was sure even though he was white and Tommy was black that the two of them were somehow related.
“Your Honor…” I started to say, but was cut off by Prosecutor Norris.
“If you’re not satisfied with these terms, the state is more than prepared to bring the case forward in a death penalty trial.”
Judge Serna looked at me to see if I was following the drift of the conversation.
I was. That statement scared the crap right out of me. The first time you hear somebody say “death penalty” in reference to yourself, it doesn’t matter if you’re the toughest guy on the block, you knees go weak, the oxygen drains out of your brain, and it’s hard to breathe. When I agreed to those terms, Judge Serna went through the mandatory cautions, and I stood there on shaky legs.
“Do you give up your right to a trial by jury?”
"I do.”
“Nothing else has been promised you in this matter?”
“No, Your Honor. It hasn’t”
Once he was finished with his list of cautions, I signed all the paperwork and stood there with my mouth hanging open and my mind in a daze.
“Why are you still here, motherfucker?” One of the deputies barked in my ear. “Move your ass to the back.”
I looked back at the Judge.
“Eyes front,” he said as he pushed me hard in the small of my back. “Nothing for you back here but an ass whipping; Start moving.”
They processed me out at the end of the day and shuffled me off in cuffs through the tunnel that led back to my cell in County. The following morning, I was loaded, along with twenty-four others—eighteen black, five Latinos, one Chicano, and me, the only stupid white guy—into a red, white, and blue Department of Corrections bus that carried us down-state for processing at the Joliet Reception Center. None of the guys stayed there. Some got transferred southwest to Clayton. Others went north to Dixon, while most of the others were shuttled a few miles down the road to Statesville. Only two of us got bunks in the old castle.
Even though I knew that Serna and Norris had been pricks about my plea, I really didn’t know how to feel about it. Part of me felt cheated. Had I been eligible for good behavior credits, I could have been out in as early as twelve years. Nobody ever does a whole stretch. They give you a day off for each day that you serve. They say it’s for good behavior, but guys don’t get it for making some fantasy breakthroughs in an imaginary rehab plan. They get it even if they try and burn the place down. That was the part that stuck in my craw, but on the other hand, it’s wasn’t like I was drunk, stoned, or stupid at the time and didn’t know what I was doing. I was doing time for penance, and, if I could possibly manage it, to save someone else’s life.
Probably more for that reason than for any other, I didn’t hold a grudge. Had Judge Serna or Prosecutor Norris really had a hard-on for me, either one of them could have made certain I was facing the big jab. And because John Q. Public isn’t all that keen on people killing each other in courtrooms, they probably would have gotten it, too. Knowing that I was at least spared from that, I couldn’t bitch too much about doing the extra nickel and dime.
It was the whole premeditation thing that screwed me. After five years of planning, it was as open and shut a case as being tagged with radar for speeding. There was no denying it. Anyone watching from the judge’s bench or the jury box knew you did it, that they caught you red-handed, and was wondering why the hell you were wasting their time arguing about it. I knew, even before I stepped inside the courtroom that they’d have to make an example of me. Only a rich, dumbass white kid would have thought any different, and that was one thing I definitely was not. The most damning thing I did was get a judge involved. Even had I wanted a trial, which I didn’t, there was no way to impeach a trial judge’s testimony. Even if a story broke in the morning paper that he’d been caught with his pants down with three or four homosexual prostitutes banging out tunes from “My Fair Lady” in one of the Grant Park restrooms, his testimony still would have trumped mine. I was nothing but a dirt-bag.
The whole thing wasn’t smart, but even now, after twenty-four years, nine months, two weeks, 14 hours, and some thirty odd minutes, I’d do it all over again, and I wouldn’t think twice.
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I really liked this chapter. Nothing jumped out and took me off track, in fact, I found the characters voice very engaging. It might just be me, but I found the tone somewhat melancholy, which I liked. That tone, and-going back to the characters narration, made me think a bit of Chuck Palahniuk (a favorite of mine.) The character/narration flows well, very natural delivery and 100% believable. Overall, a good first chapter, it sets up the story very well, and left me ready to turn to the next chapter.
Overall it’s a good Robin Hood like story. The bad trying to do good for the people of their community. Here are a few errors that I saw.
“I didn’t get a life for the murder of Thomas Hutchins.” – I would take the A out so it reads I didn’t get life for the murder…”
This seems to just repeat the sentence just before it. I think you should take out “I could have gotten life or been sentenced to death” or even replace it with something like “like death”.
“While that wasn’t as harsh as it could have been—I could have gotten life or been sentenced to death—it wasn’t much of a pass, either.”
This sentence is hard to follow; try rephrasing it. ” For similar reasons, loan-sharks had him to put the burning desire to repay back into their delinquent borrowers.”
The “if they weren’t” in this sentence throws the whole thing off and makes it difficult to read in my opinion - ”If they were lucky, they knew from neighborhood talk, or from first-hand experience, if they weren’t, that the little snake was cranky and used to getting his way.”
I think the word you need in this is “heard” not hear. - “But, I knew, just like anybody who’s ever read the paper or watched the people from the Southside being busted on the evening news that despite the bullshit you’ve hear in school, justice doesn’t put her hand out to everyone.”
I don’t think Judges needs to be capitalized in this sentence, I could be wrong but it just doens’t seem appropriate for this specific sentence – “From there, we hurried up and waited until 9 AM when the Judges arrived, court went into session, and the bailiffs got around to calling our cases.”
I think this could make for a good story. A lot of your sentences are run-ons and sometimes hard to follow. Read it aloud to yourself and see if you can catch them yourself. I think you have a good story to tell and I like how it ended as if “he’s getitng ready to get out”.
The reason I gave this treatment such a low score is not that it is so bad but that it needs to be gone over more critically to remove some grammar and repetition errors. What type of genre is this piece? I feel like you were too close to a person you represent as the character Tommy because the description is too heavily dwelt on. And he’s like a one-dimentional character. He needs more inner conflict or some nice traits as well as all the thug traits. That’s why I asked what genre is the target story? I need something to admire in this character or as a reader I will lose interest. Another thing is that although there is good description, like, the little snake, there isn’t much action. You have chosen to create a colorful character but not much for him to do. You have to also decide if the character is a big thug or a little snake or explain the inconsistency. I did get the idea that you have a clear picture in mind of this character. So, keep working with it.
trying to remove a sleeping red-touching-yellow striped snake that had somehow slithered into their front pants pocket.-HUH?
So he actually didnt get to kill the guy, right?
I was entertained but also found myself just reading to get to the end. I figured it would morph into a prison story, but I think your ending works better. Grammar wise I didnt find anything wrong and I like how you had a lot of creative lines…like the tagged with a radar sentence. I learned more about what kind of world the character live in than the actual character himself. But this is like a realistic hero story…killing a guy villian or not..it’s a crime.
you need a ? after “what is this world coming to” instead of a period.
directly following- you need a comma after No instead of a period.
no comma after “but those days were over”
period after “first hand experience” otherwise it’s a comma splice.
comma after “letter-writing public”
“the judge” instead of just “judge” in the sentence “Surprisingly, the hard feelings didn’t end with judge.”
comma after “lower” and before “working class”
not sure anyone would want to go to jail for any amount of time let alone 15 as your narrator says-especially if he thought the guy was a terrible person.
Also, not sure if his lawyer would call his defendant a dirt bag- he is getting paid.
I understand you sentiment about poor people getting harsher penalties, but a DWI doesn’t warrant jail time for the first offense not even for poor people. My dad’s a probation officer, so I’m pretty familiar with misdemeanors. It takes 3 to warrant jail time for anyone (in Ga, anyway). Check with your local law enforcement for the exact time in your area. It will be more believable that way.
deputies aren’t allowed to swear in court on penalty of getting fired.
felonies are jail time, misdemeanors are “ten dollar” offenses. Terminology is super important. Even though this is fiction, you’re still writing about what goes on in reality. Do some research and you’ll a better writer for it. I think you’ve got a great story on your hands, you just need to clean it up a little.
all murder are jury-tried. you must have the judge ask the jury what the verdict is. also if you try to burn the prison down, you’re not going to get “good behavior” time. No way.
Court rooms are public domain, so I would suggest that you spend some time researching your story. You can also sign to do a “ride-along” with a cop. This will all be very fruitful in your journey to writing a great, fact-based story.
I like what you have so far. It’s engaging and informative. Clean this up a little and you’ll be golden.
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