The Insurrectionist (25 page)

            “You need to wash up and take off that shirt,” said Mikail.

            Deni numbly removed his shirt and handed it to his brother, who immediately dumped it in the washing machine and added about a cup of bleach. Mikail offered Deni a damp cloth to wash blood from his face. “You know I’d do anything to protect you,” said Mikail. “Those guys were no good. They were leading you down a path of self-destruction with their drugs and western indiscretions.” Mikail lifted Deni’s chin and looked earnestly in his eyes. “I worry about you brother. Ma worries about you and your lifestyle. We’re just trying to get you straight.” He put his arms on Deni’s bare shoulders. “We all want what’s best for you.”

            Deni nodded, but none of it was coherent.

            Jamie entered the kitchen with two-year-old Elena in her arms. “Is everything okay?”

            Mikail turned toward Jamie and calmly said, “Yeah, just giving Deni a pep talk.” He walked over to Jamie and kissed her on the cheek and then took Elena from her arms. He turned to Deni. “Try to relax and get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”

            When Mikail and Jamie left the kitchen and retired to their bedroom, Deni remained standing in the kitchen for some time. He couldn’t move; he saw nothing and then finally walked to the pull-out sofa in the living room. Jamie had already had it made with the bed sheet turned down for him. It was all so sweet and perfect, but instead of crawling into bed, Deni headed for the bathroom.

            Upon first sight of the toilet, Deni vomited a combination of Christmas cookies and beer. He hung over the porcelain bowl until he no longer had any contents in his stomach. He undressed and turned the water onto its hottest setting. Stepping into the stream of water, he didn’t even feel it; he didn’t even know his skin was turning beet red.

            Deni stood in the shower with his head lowered under the showerhead. The water rained over him, but it could never wash away his suffering. He wanted to cry, but his body was frozen, paralyzed with guilt and fear. No longer could he face himself—ever.

            He stepped out of the shower, dried himself off and dressed into his underwear. Quickly he stepped back out to the living room and slipped under the covers of the sofa bed. He tried to close his eyes, but when he did, he witnessed the shooting over and over again. The only way to block it from his mind was to keep his eyes open, but then if he couldn’t sleep, he would have to think about it.
What a dilemma,
he thought.
There is no escape.

 

            The next morning Deni slumped at the kitchen table. Jamie handed him breakfast. “Are you okay, Deni? If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me,” said Jamie.

            “I’m cool,” he said.

            Jamie sat across the table from Deni. “I know Mik can be intense. He can be very passionate, but I know he means well. If there’s anything you want to talk about, it goes no further than you and I.”

            Deni regarded Jamie’s kind expression. There was no way he could confess to her. Whether her love was blind, or she too was living in a bubble, Deni was not going to be the one to burst it.

 

            Deni sat across from Marsha and based on her expression, he knew he should not have confessed to her. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. Now, you can charge me and my brother with these murders.”

            Marsha stared at Deni. “I think I need a drink.”

            “I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I report the crime? Why did I cover for my brother? Well, you know it’s not that easy. My brother did it for me; he was protecting me. He loved me.”

            Marsha remained silent.

            “You don’t understand,” Deni continued. “My brother took care of me, protected me since I was a little boy in Grozny. I always trusted him completely.”

            “I do understand. I understand your loyalty,” replied Marsha.

            “But you judge him. You think he’s bad and therefore you think I’m bad for trusting him, for loving him,” said Deni.

            “That’s not what I think.”

            “He’s not bad you know; he’s not evil like everyone thinks. He had a lot of love in his heart for me, for our family, for his wife and daughter, for God. It’s not bad to love is it?”

            “Deni,” Marsha said softly.

            “The problem is America. He loved America. He had dreams of playing football, even coaching football. He was given the same opportunity from Coach Schwartz that I was to play. He loved football, even more than I did. He gave it his all and then, when he couldn’t get into a good school, his dream fell apart. He had nothing. He was led down the path to glory and then denied. It broke his heart. I understand that, I could see his pain and his suffering.”

            “His pain and suffering was not your pain and suffering. It was not your burden to carry,” replied Marsha.

            “It was. Don’t you see? He took care of me, he protected me and I cared for and protected him. It’s family; it’s love. You carry the burden for everyone you love. I had to do it, don’t you see. I had to do it. We were brothers bonded by blood¼nothing is thicker,” explained Deni and then collapsed back in his seat. “I know you don’t get it. You’re thinking how could I betray a friend? How could I let Hector lie there bleeding, waiting for his mother to come home just days before Christmas? You’re thinking how can I destroy another family?”

            “Deni, that’s what you’re thinking. That’s your guilt talking,” said Marsha.

            Deni buried his head in his hands and shook his head. By this time, he had nothing left; he was emotionally and mentally spent. “Everyone says confessing is good, but then once confessed you can never deny. You must face it every day with everyone who knows.” He looked at Marsha. “Now, it will never go away. It is out there in the open now, so thanks a lot.”

            Marsha stood from her seat, walked around the table to Deni and put her arms around his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Try to relax your mind tonight. Do some reading, writing and praying.” She collected her files. “I’ll have the guards walk you back to your cell now.”

            “Already,” Deni said. “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

            Marsha’s mothering instincts were becoming overwhelming. She wanted nothing more than to sit with him and hold him, but it would go against her professional ethics and may even damage the case. “No, I can’t. I have other clients,” she lied. “Give yourself a break, okay.” When Deni nodded, she left the interview room.

            Shortly after, the guard came in for Deni, and escorted him back to his cell. Deni sat on his bed and stared at the composition book and the Quran lying on the floor. He didn’t have much inspiration for either at the moment. He only wanted to take Marsha’s suggestion and that was to let his mind relax. He lay his head against the wall and closed his eyes. For brief moments he was able to go without any thought and it felt good.

            The next morning, Deni waited patiently in the prison interview room. He was relieved to see Marsha, someone he could actually talk to who wasn’t trying to diagnose him, chastise him, intimidate him, or frighten him. Deni trusted she was there to help him, despite being paid.

            Marsha sat down across from him and opened her briefcase. “How are you feeling this morning?”

            Deni stretched back in his seat. “I survived.”

            “I really think you should talk to Dr. Sodhi about what happened,” Marsha responded.

            “Why?”

            “It’s her profession. She is much better equipped to talk about such things.”

            “Because she has a diploma, a piece of paper that states she is qualified to talk about feelings.”

            “You don’t think that highly of psychology, do you?” Marsha asked.

            “Yeah, sure if someone’s legitimately crazy, but not this feel-good therapy shit. Everyone’s got problems,” replied Deni.

            “Some people’s problems are bigger; some people’s problems are too big a burden to carry alone.”

            Deni signed. “Can we drop it? You are my lawyer not my shrink.”

            Marsha opened Deni’s file. “Alright. Let’s see, the day after Hector’s murder you returned to Temple.”

            “I couldn’t stand to be in Reading,” he said flatly.

            “Was that to escape the police, the media?” Marsha asked.

            “The media! Good God no, do you think the media cared about the deaths of two Hispanic drug dealers? According to everyone in Reading, they got what they deserved. The police didn’t even care. They were happy someone did their job for them. What’s the difference if two undesirables are off the street?” he said with sarcasm.

            Marsha reclined in her seat and studied Deni. “That must have made you angry.”

            Deni stood from his seat and paced nervously around. “That’s when I really realized how fucked up this world is. To some, that murder made my brother a hero, while others believed it to be a hate crime. Everyone had their truth.”

            “But only you knew the truth,” replied Marsha.

            “I used to believe the truth was important, that’s why I wanted to be a journalist. I was naive enough to believe truth was justice.” He turned to Marsha with a wry grin. “I was naive enough to believe the pen was mightier than the sword. I believed when you illuminate the truth there will be justice, but people really only want to believe what they want. Most people don’t give a shit about the truth; they just want what makes them feel better about themselves.”

            Marsha peeked at Deni’s folder. “Let’s talk about what happened when you returned to Temple.”

 

            The City of Brotherly Love was a crap hole, especially the neighborhood around Temple. It was filthy, rat infested, graffiti painted, and it suited Deni’s mood just fine. Ironically, he felt at home among the desperate and impoverished. Despite being a white college boy, no one in the neighborhood gave him any trouble.

            On a blustery day, Deni walked around the neighborhood wondering how Philly got the nickname, City of Brotherly Love. He gazed at the people waiting for buses, stopping in the restaurants and bodegas.

            It was around two in the afternoon when Deni stopped inside a local dive bar. He bought a beer and a pack of cigarettes. The first beer went down fast, so he ordered another and lit a cigarette. Gazing around at the other patrons, he realized he was way too young to be one of them. The joint was full of down-on-their-luck souls whose survival depended on their next drink.

            After a while, Deni stopped counting drinks and when he finally left, it was dark outside and the City of Brotherly Love was ripe for the battle. Derelicts lingered, the prostitutes were out, and the cop cars flashed their lights.

            Deni watched as a black kid, a kid who reminded him of his friend T-Bone, strolled casually down the street with his hood pulled low over his eyes and his hands deep in his pockets. A cop car slowed behind the kid and suddenly turned on its lights. The kid turned, paying no mind to the cop.

            “You there,” said the cop through his speaker. The cop parked the car and approached the kid, while the kid stood motionless and afraid.

            “Hey!” Deni yelled at the cop. “Why don’t you leave him alone? He’s not doing anything?”

            “Why don’t you stay out of this!” yelled the cop.

            Deni stepped up between the kid and the cop. “Why don’t you let him be? Why do you gotta be bustin’ in everyone’s business. Have a quota to make? Do you get bonuses for how many kids you pick up?”

            The cop could smell the alcohol on Deni’s breath. “Can I see you identification?”

            Deni hesitated and immediately thought of Hector’s murder. “No.”

            “Wrong answer!” The cop grabbed Deni by the arm and pushed him up against the squad car. He frisked Deni and found his wallet in his back pocket. The cop studied the contents—Deni’s driver’s license, college I.D. “Nineteen. Does mommy and daddy know what you’re up to when you should be studying?”

            “None of your fucking business!” slurred Deni.

            The cop cuffed Deni’s wrists behind his back. “Again, wrong answer. I’d suspect a college student to be a little smarter.” He opened the back door of the cop car and pushed Deni inside.

            Deni slumped in the back seat as the cop pulled away from the curb. “Fuck,” he muttered.

 

            Deni sighed and glanced across the desk at Marsha “It’s the same old shit, but different town. The police go after the brothers and even some sisters if you know what I mean.”

            Marsha glanced at Deni’s file. “Underage drinking and drunken disorderly charge.”

            “Sure, I guess I was drunk; disorderly was questionable. I think the cop was being disorderly. I was expressing my public outrage.” Deni sat forward, leaning on his elbows. “So many real crimes committed, but the cops target a poor man, a black man for an ounce of pot. It’s all a joke. No one cares for crimes; they care for filling prisons like this one. Someone is making big bucks on my solitary confinement, yet the idiot Americans believe they are paying for it with their taxes. They’re paying for the profits of the corporate prison CEO’s. ”

            Marsha sighed. “Okay. Let me explain this to you, I’m trying to build a defense. You have a shining high school report, but things seem to fall apart during college. Your angst and angers can be used against you, so it’s important for us to give it some context. The reason you are here is not the media, or government injustice. You are in here because you committed a crime. You can’t keep hiding behind these idealistic and intellectual walls you build.”

            Deni shrugged and sighed deeply. “Marsha, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be here.”

            Marsha quietly read Deni’s police report. “Tell me what happened afterward?”

            “Afterward?” Deni questioned.

            “Yes, at the precinct,” she repeated.

            Deni leaned against the wall with his hands folded. “I don’t quite remember. I was stoned drunk.” He laughed. “I don’t even remember how I got home.”

 

            Deni paced around the Philadelphia’s 15th precinct holding cell, trying to avoid the other drunks and derelicts. One old guy smacked his lips at him and another kept muttering, “White boy.”  He kept his back to the bars and slid down to a seated position with his hands in his head.

            “Daudov!” yelled a cop. He opened the bars for Deni. “Bail is posted; you’re free to go.”

            Shuffling to the waiting room, Deni paused and then lifted his head and gave a big smile. “Thanks for coming.”

            “Two hours in the middle of the night is asking a hell of a lot,” Heather said. She looked exhausted and strung out.

            “What did you tell your parents?” he asked.

            “That a friend was in trouble,” she replied. “What the hell happened? Does this have something to do with Hector?”

            Deni stared at her. “You know?”

            “Deni, all of Reading knows. It sucks; Hector was a good guy. He was always lots of fun. I can’t believe someone would shoot him like that. I can’t wrap my head around him.” She put her arm around Deni’s waist. “And now you; is that why you were drinking, because of Hector?”

            “Yes,” Deni replied, but it was only part of the answer.
The truth
, he thought. He couldn’t even tell Heather and he trusted her above all others.

            When they arrived at Heather’s car parked outside the precinct, she handed Deni a bag filled with homemade chocolate sandwich cookies neatly folded in festive colored paper. “I made these for you; I was hoping to see you over the holidays. I didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances.”

            Deni unwrapped a cookie and took a bite. He was still a bit drunk and even though the cookie tasted like paradise; it didn’t go down well. On the drive back to Temple campus, Deni admired Heather. She had let her hair grow long—real long, almost down to her mid back. Looking rather plain and natural, she could not have been more beautiful.

            Once they returned to his dormitory room, he couldn’t help himself. He had to have her and have now. He kissed her hard and pushed her back down on the bed. She put up a slight fight, concerned by his recent incarceration, but gave in rather quickly.

            For the first time since they were together, Deni made love to her like she was a clandestine, forbidden mistress. He wondered when their last time would be together. Would it be tonight? Would they have other times yet to come? Regardless, all his pain, fears, and resentments came out. Heather hardly had a clue; she assumed it had to do with Hector, so she let it be.

 

            Deni glanced at Marsha quickly and then darted his gaze away. He thought of Heather and where she was now and who she was making love to.
Most likely some well-established American guy
, he thought. “I can’t imagine what they are saying about me?”

            “Who?” asked Marsha.

            “The media,” he said.

            “Why?” questioned Marsha.

            Deni shrugged. “Well, you don’t know whose watching. I don’t want the media to say something wrong and people get the wrong idea.”

            “You’re under investigation for terrorism charges; what exactly don’t you want people to get the wrong idea about? It’s a little late to be concerned about your reputation, don’t you think?” asked Marsha.

            He rested his head against the wall. “They’re not spreading lies about me, are they?”

            “What lies are you concerned they are spreading?”

            “I don’t hate,” he said. “I really don’t. I’ve known many assholes in my life, but I never hated any of them. I always just felt sorry for their ignorance. I don’t hate people. I don’t judge people.”

            Marsha sat back in her chair. “What are you saying?”

            “Everywhere I have gone, people have made judgments about me. I’ve had people assume I was a Christian American just like them. I even had someone ask what I felt about the uprisings in Egypt, believing I was Egyptian. People found out I am Muslim, they assumed I hate Christians and Jews. They assume I devalue women. I have been taken for a punk, for a wimp, for a jock, a druggie, for a loser, and a player. All these people assumed, but never bothered to get to know me,” explained Deni.

            “Deni, how open have you been with people in your life? You’re a hard shell to crack. If you haven’t been open in your life, people are automatically going to assume things about you and most often they will assume the worst. People who know you, who truly know you, will always assume the best,” said Marsha. “Your solitary isolation began way before your incarceration and it was self-inflicted.”

            Deni glanced at the floor and noticed dust, pieces of paper, and stains that most likely were blood and urine. It was true; despite his friendships he was always reclusive with his feelings.
Oh damn Dr. Sodhi and all this talk of feelings
, he thought
. They always seem to come back and haunt.

            “The media is so biased in their reporting. They care nothing for the truth, only for creating a story. They like to create heroes; they like to create villains, and it is the media who decides who is what. A hero can be a villain and a villain can be a real hero and to all those people who watch and read the paper, will they ever know or care about the real truth? What has the media said about me?”

            “Is this what you’re in it for—attention, celebrity, notoriety?” Marsha questioned.

            “No, I don’t go in for that vanity crap. It’s the truth; it’s enlightenment of the injustices in the world.”

            Marsha leaned forward. “No one gives a crap for your cause. People’s attention span isn’t that long.  They don’t want to think of things that are unpleasant. You’re just a picture on a wanted poster and most want you dead.”

            Deni chuckled sarcastically. “See. No one cares for the truth. No one cares for anything rather than the sensation of it all. It’s all just such bullshit. Marsha,” he pleaded, “if no one pays attention to words, nor actions what chance do we all have? What do you have to do if you drop a bomb on people’s heads and they still have no fucking clue? What’s left of all of us? Good God!” he shouted, “the Japanese got the hint after Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

            “Deni, they were much bigger bombs,” said Marsha.