The beginning and the end

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“Hey Zach, can you hear me, man?” 

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Trevor Mondale speaks in a drug-heavy whisper—no response from an already-gone Zach. 

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“I was just thinking about how you and I used to pull up the wooden form-stakes in the field where they were planning the concrete layout for the new market foundations. We played all those evenings, sword fighting and shattering those flagged stakes. Oh my Gosh, we messed them up for days. They even hired a guard to watch the field, remember?” 

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Trevor tried to laugh out loud, but could only muster a weak hissing noise from his mouth.

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The day of “the plan” finally arrived. Two boys, massive amounts of pain medications ground up and mixed in chocolate shakes, and two nondescript notes saying goodbye to different parents, but the secret reason goes unmentioned. Shame is the beast that cannot be shared.

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Trevor lies back on the spacious gaming couch, next to him rests the lifeless body of Zach Peterson. Trevor and Zach have spent countless hours in this room playing video games and eating more pizza than most parents would consider healthy, but it was “Their” place, the “cockpit”, once a place of safety and comfort, but now a destination to finish off the demons of life.

 

“This is too unreal,” Trevor speaks to himself as he slowly slips into the place he is confident Zach has already gone. “I am so afraid of this, man.” “Is there really a God? Am I blowing this? Were the notes the right thing to do? I hope the others can forgive me!” “Momma, I know I am totally making a mistake here. I don’t want to do this. Help me change my mind, please, momma!” 

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With jumbled thoughts, mixed with tons of regret, and even a bit of relief, Trevor slips away quietly, joining Zach and leaving behind a massive train wreck of family emotions that will, without a doubt, change many people’s lives.

Courtroom with Billy Maxwell

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“You, as jurors, are the judges of the facts. But in determining what actually happened -- that is, in reaching your decision as to the facts -- it is your sworn duty to follow all of the rules of law as I explain them to you.
You have no right to disregard or give special attention to any one instruction, or to question the wisdom or correctness of any rule I may state to you. You must not substitute or follow your own notion or opinion as to what the law is or ought to be. It is your duty to apply the law as I explain it to you, regardless of the consequences.

It is also your duty to base your verdict solely upon the evidence, without prejudice or sympathy. That was the promise you made and the oath you took before being accepted by the parties as jurors, and they have the right to expect nothing less.”

Superior Court Judge Angela Silverman addresses the jury in a case of assault on Michael Garcia, a Los Angeles resident of Mexican American descent, by Joshua Silver, a resident of the warehouse turned condo, next door to the laundrette. 

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The prosecution's attorney is suing Michael Garcia because he asserts that Mr. Garcia allows homeless people to stay at Mr. Garcia’s launderette late at night, and the practice leads to criminal behavior that causes the value of the neighboring building of Gentrified Lofts to go down in value, while in addition making the neighborhood dangerous for the tenants.

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Joshua Silver is charged with assaulting Michael Garcia when one of the homeless residents sleeping in front of the launderette, and too close to the condo front entrance, urinates on the front door of the condo. Mr. Silver then confronted Mr. Garcia and pushed Mr. Garcia to the ground, where Mr. Garcia sustained cuts to his face and a broken elbow. 

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William (Billy) Maxwell, Michael’s assigned attorney, sits next to his client, looking satisfied and even a bit smug. Billy knows he’s going to get the “Win” here, and with arms folded, he waits for the case to be sent to the jury. 

Introducing Victor Mannion

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Victor Manion was very pleased with himself, as he was the presenter on this Sunday night in the San Francisco NAMBLA chapter. “What a great night”, he thought to himself.  “I can’t remember the last time that I met with the group and came away feeling so comfortable, so energized. Yeah, I stayed too late and drank a bit too much wine, after all … classes tomorrow.”

 

He considers his recent successes, prosperity, promotion, and maybe even a new house. “WOW, I never imagined things could be this good. My transfer to the high school was approved; no more teenybopper urchins to waste my time in that bad neighborhood, at that crappy middle school. A fresh start, I stinking deserve it.” 

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As Victor bathes in the warmth of his recent good fortunes, he is unaware of his foot pressure on the accelerator, just a small bit heavier. He doesn’t notice the speedometer has crept up past 75. It’s a dark road with few streetlights and only the occasional car or big rig passing him going the other direction.  That is why he takes this route home from the meetings. He can be alone with his thoughts and plans. Finally, he looks down at the dashboard and realizes he’s now doing 75, 20 miles an hour over the speed limit. “Crap,” he whispers to himself and eases back on the pedal, “No need for a ticket to ruin my perfect weekend”…

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Too late! Those few victorious musings are about to send Victor Manion down a corridor of pride and doom, victory and fear, pleasure and the kind of pain reserved only for the most selfish of men…..He is faced with the last kind of thing anyone with secrets wants to have to deal with….The red lights of a local CHP cruiser.

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“Damn,” Victor mutters (more like grunts) to himself.  “All right, Victor, just take a deep breath, pull over, and get this done with.”

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Thomas Wesley pulls behind the 2004 Lincoln LS he just “lit up” and casually strolled up to the driver’s side of the car. He doesn’t care about the scene much, really!  Thomas is just putting in his time, running the back roads in the middle of the night, looking for the time when he can get the good shifts and some other newbie can get boring ones. Thomas rolls his wrist at Victor, signaling him to lower the window. Victor complies. 

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“License and registration, please!” Thomas politely recites the standard mantra that starts the ball rolling. He’s also thinking, “The next comment from this guy is gonna dictate just where this stop is going to go, my guess…nothing to see here.” It’s looking like a good guess, as Victor already has his license and registration in hand by the time Thomas makes it to the door. “You know why I pulled you over, correct?” 

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Thomas likes this part. He likes to bet with himself, even make odds, on what direction the speeder plans on taking in the conversation. There’s a mental list of responses that range from “Officer, I have no idea why you stopped me”, to, “I know I was speeding, sir”, with multiple variations in between. So it is no surprise when Victor says very apologetically, “Sir, I know I was speeding, I am sorry, but I was not paying as close attention to my speed on this long straight-away as I should have.” Thomas was ready for that and took the information to his car to check for warrants. 

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Victor was OK with the fine and the ticket. He hasn’t had a moving violation in more than 10 years and he realizes the insurance company won’t even hear about the ticket if he takes a boring traffic class. So, why worry? 

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“Things are good right now, Victor. Don’t give the cop any grief over this. Just take the ticket, get home, and get some sleep.” He sees Thomas walking back to his car, shining his flashlight into the car, and checking out the back seat. “Have you been drinking tonight, Mr. Manion?”

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“Yes, officer, I had a glass of wine at a monthly dinner meeting I attend in the Embarcadero.” Victor suppressed the crankiness he was feeling at the fishing question.  

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“That was 5 hours ago, sir. Is there a problem?” The anxiety bomb hits Victor like a flood. Thomas calmly points out the case of wine in the back seat with the one bottle of wine that appears to be open. 

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“Officer, the case of wine was a gift from a friend who meets with my monthly group. It’s a very nice Merlot, he knows I like Merlot, and we each had a glass at dinner. I didn’t want to finish it before driving, so I put the cork back in the bottle and stuck the case in my car…IS THAT A CRIME?” “Doesn’t that make sense to you?” 

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Realizing his blunder, Victor tried to back-peddle on his terse comment. 

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“I’m sorry, officer, I am a bit tired from the long drive, and I shouldn’t have been chippy with you. I know you’re just doing your job, forgive me, please.” 

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What came next was going to send Victor’s world into a new galaxy, much like billiard balls on a pool table when struck by a good shooter.

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“Mr. Manion…can you please unlock the back doors and step outta the car?” Thomas pulled the box of Merlot from the back seat and inspected the bottles. He believed Victor’s story. It made perfect sense to him. Victor didn’t seem impaired, and about two glasses were missing from the one opened bottle. Thomas decided to cut Victor some slack and asked him to perform a simple task. 

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“Mr. Manion, I am going to ask you if you wouldn’t mind putting this case in the trunk of your car, just in case you are stopped again tonight. Wouldn’t do to have you go through all this again, right?” With that, Victor felt his gag reflex begin to slip into gear. He struggled for a comment that would make the opening of his trunk less fearful and personally frightening. “Sure, officer, no problem,” Victor managed to keep it together for what seemed like a half hour of terror, but was 30 seconds in reality. 

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“It’s kinda dark here, sir. There’s a gas station up the road about a half mile, I’ll put it in the trunk there where it is well-lit.” Thomas picked up on something being wrong and said to Victor. “Not a problem, sir. I have a flashlight here and will be happy to wait while you do what I asked.” 

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Victor pops the trunk and opens it up, walks to the back door and grabs the case of wine, and brings it around to the trunk. Thomas stands six feet back (and to the right) from Victor and shines the flashlight into the trunk. Victor hurriedly tries to put the wine into the trunk and close it, but Thomas’ light stopped on the loose magazines of child porn just lying in the open. “Mr. Manion, I need to ask you to step away from the car and stand on the shoulder over there, indicating a spot about ten feet away in an area where it was easy to visually monitor Victor while checking out his trunk contents. 

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“Sir, I am going to have to place you under arrest.” “It is against the law in the State of California for anyone to possess this kind of material”.

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Detective Rosen at the scene of the apparent suicide

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Senior Detective Wiley Rosen eases his way out of his car and takes a moment to get organized before heading up the aged brick walkway at 2234 Cedar Grove Road, home of Sheri Mondale. Wiley (he goes by Gator) heaves a heavy sigh as he grabs his ever-present cup of coffee and gets started with what is always an emotional experience. Gator has seen many crime scenes involving all kinds of people, but never gets used to kids being the victims. A confident and methodical investigator, Gator doesn’t get sucked into knee-jerk assumptions and always keeps his thoughts to himself when processing the scenes. That said, he has yet to see any situation more emotionally charged than suicide. There are always reasons, mostly explained in notes left to family, but in the case of double suicide involving 14-year-old boys, keeping a tight lid on any kind of information leaks is essential. 

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Looking directly at Ted Waters, the first officer on the scene, Gator grunts, “Is Marshall here yet? I don’t see the coroner’s truck or the M.E.’s van”. Waters blurts out a perfunctory “Coroner isn’t coming till the M.E. gets done, sir! He parked around the back of the garage, asked me to only let YOU in.” Gator bristled at the officer, “Good call on Newmann’s part. Don’t want anyone interrupting his highness, now do we?”  

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Gator strolls into the house, carefully surveying the scene. Sheri Mondale, sitting head in her hands on the living room couch, sobbing quietly, with an occasional upward glance to see who just walked in. “Are you Detective Rosen? I’m Sheri Mondale. Trevor’s my boy, I mean was my boy…oh gawd, what the hell am I saying? Oh GAAWD!.” Gator struggled to go by the book, reflexively offered his condolences, and asked… “Ms. Mondale, is anyone coming to be with you? Is there anyone you would like me to contact?” “No detective, Trev’s dad is on his way, (she pauses and starts sobbing again) Oh my, I don’t even know how to talk tonight. This can’t be happening!”  

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In walks Donald Mondale, being escorted in from the street by Officer Waters. “Sheri?” Donald looks past Gator and strains to contain himself, asking. “Sheri? What the hell happened here? What the HELL’S HAPPENED TO MY BOY?”

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As if things couldn’t get more frustrating and strained,  a frantic Sylvia Peterson comes crashing into the living room, exploding and smashing into whatever is in her way. “WHERE IS ZACH?” Hollering at the top of her lungs, face covered in snot-soaked tears, Sylvia demands to see her son. Looking directly at Gator, she blurts, “Who are YOU?” Stunned by the perfect storm of parental emotions, Gator stops Sylvia from going to Sheri and Donald Mondale. He knows the need for calm is going to be the most important task he can accomplish, so Gator asks Waters to escort Sylvia to the kitchen. Time to separate the families into different rooms.

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“Hey, Marshall!” Gator stops at the door of the man cave and waits for Marshall Newmann to permit him to enter the room.  “Hello Gator, you can come in, but keep to the wall with the 72” TV; there’s nothing you can contaminate over there. Oh, and what am I always telling you about bringing coffee into a room before I’m done working?” It was not meant to be a real question for Gator, but it was Marshall’s not-so-subtle need for scene control. 

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“Sorry, Marshall, whadda you got for me?” Marshall looks into his box of tools and grabs his notebook. “You’re gonna want to tread carefully on this one, Gator! Looks like there’s a pot load of all sorts of pain pills, old Valium and Dilaudid from years of kept old prescriptions involved here. The boys were not taking ANY chances that they might fail in this deal, Gator! I won’t know for sure just how many pills they crushed and put in the shakes till I do the autopsies later, probably tomorrow.” Gator sighs and asks, “What the hell, Marshall, this is crazy! They’re just what, barely 14? What makes this an option for kids? Find any notes? “Yeah, Gator, you gotta see this too. The notes are over there on the gaming table. Creepy man! The boys cleaned up the room, vacuumed, dusted, wiped the furniture with Pledge, and then put all the electronics in neat piles. They put the two sealed notes on the wiped-down tabletop in a gentle and shrine-like way! The envelopes are already dusted. They are sealed. I need to open the envelopes to process the contents before I get outta here. I am dying to read them, but I wanted you to be here before I opened them. You cannot let the parents in here till that happens, Gator. They’re gonna be a mess, man!” 

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Gator puts on his gloves and gingerly opens Trevor’s letter. Looks like an antiseptic form letter written to get the job done. Trevor was just communicating a final, clean, and formal assessment of the facts and not much more. Near the end, though, Trevor changes gears and tells them both how much he remembers life before the divorce.  He carefully places the letter on the table, and Marshall photographs it. Gator starts reading Trevor’s letter while the clicking of the camera shutter goes on in the background. 

 

​Trevor’s Letter

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Hey Mom and Dad, I know you’re not going to really get it why I have done such a terrible thing to myself. I have my reasons, and that is that. I know you guys will have a really bad time with this and may never get past it, but please don’t blame yourselves. Zach and I just couldn’t face being alive anymore. Dad, I know these past two years have been hard for you. You have always tried to make it plain to me that it wasn’t my fault that you and Mom divorced. I loved the before times and missed the fishing and playing catch in the front yard. I know you loved me, Dad, but don’t be mad at Mom; it’s not her fault this happened. Mom, I know you and Dad couldn’t stay together. I am glad you guys aren’t fighting much anymore. Momma, I want you to know that I am glad you never tried to get another husband, and I didn’t have to call someone else dad. You are the best mom ever! I don’t know what to say anymore, Mom! I love you! Please forgive me someday!

Trevor

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Turning his back to Marshall and his methodical camera clicks collecting information, Gator regrets having to have to read Trevor’s letter, knowing that Sheri and Donald are in the next room fighting enormous emotions and adrenaline-filled imaginations. Gator considers the letter’s message and thinks, “Geeze, what the hell makes this necessary? Really? This letter doesn’t sound like a messed-up kid over a divorce, even a nasty one. This kid is articulate and thoughtful. There’s gotta be something more. Maybe Zach’s note can help.” 

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Zach’s letter

Momma, I love you! Don’t hate me for this. I am so ashamed!  Zach

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“So much for helping me understand.” Though Zach’s letter was so brief, a misty-eyed Gator found it hard not to feel more empathetic after reading it, and more anger at the WHY!