Judgment Call

Fiction by Darrell Z. Grizzle

“So old Homer Jackson’s boy Amos is a queer, huh?”

I looked over at the man in the passenger seat of my car. He was wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, even though I was running the AC at full blast.

“No,” I said, “Amos said he has a girlfriend.”

“Ain’t that what they all say? Trust me, he wouldn’t be in cell block C if he didn’t have AIDS, and he wouldn’t have AIDS if he wasn’t a queer. God’s judgment,” he sniffed.

“First of all, there are quite a few ways to get AIDS besides being gay,” I said. “My Uncle Joe got it from a blood transfusion. He was a missionary all his life for Floyd Baptist Church and when he got AIDS, they cut him off. Had nothing to do with him or my aunt. Acted like he was already dead.”

Harold (I never did know his last name) shifted in his seat uncomfortably. I could tell he wanted to make a snappy comment, but he refrained.

I kept going. “Second of all, I’m happy to give you a ride home from work ‘cause your car is in the shop, but not if you’re going to use bigoted words like queer.”

“Bigoted? You act like you’re a dang queer yourself.”

I slammed on the brakes and swerved the car into an empty parking lot. “I am gay,” I said. “If you can act politely and not use insults like queer, you can stay in the car. Otherwise you can get the hell out of my car and walk home.”

“This is the way you talk to an ordained chaplain?”

“This is the way I talk to a bigot. You gettin’ out or staying in?”

For just a second or two, I saw fear in his eyes. I’m a big guy, and I look like a competitive powerlifter, which I am. Then Harold composed himself and said, “OK, no more insults. I appreciate the ride home.” I knew there was no way in hell he would walk home in this heat.

I got back on the road and we rode in silence for a few minutes. Finally he said, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“I thought you was a Christian.”

“I am. I’m Episcopalian.”

“I don’t understand how you can be a Christian and be a, a” – he stuttered before he finished the sentence – “and be gay.”

“That’s OK,” I said.

“What’s OK?”

“It’s OK if you don’t understand. It’s none of your damn business.”

He flinched at my use of profanity. “You’re the one who brought it up,” he said.

“No, you brought it up when you started using the word queer.”

“Does your chief know?” he asked.

“Yes. Chief Singleton knows.” When I came out to my boss, the Chief Probation Officer, she told me to let her know if any of the other PO’s gave me a hard time about it. I told her I can handle myself but I appreciated her saying that.

“And she’s OK with it?”

“I still have a job, don’t I? This is 1987. Gay law enforcement officers exist.”

“So,” said Harold, trying to change the subject, “what were you visiting Homer’s boy about? Did he get a violation?”

I figured I’d make small talk with the idiot. It was only a couple of miles to his house. “Yes,” I said, “he’s one of my probationers and he failed a drug test for pot. The judge will let him out in a couple of days, at the hearing.” Nothing Harold couldn’t find out on his own, in his job as jail chaplain.

I knew that when Amos did go in front of the judge, the officers bringing him out of the holding cell would be wearing surgical masks and gloves. I had seen them do that before, with inmates who have AIDS. Supposedly the officers were “protecting” themselves from the virus, but I knew the real purpose was to shame the ones afflicted with the disease. This might be 1987 but gay-bashing still happens, in many different forms.

Harold broke the silence again. “Why ain’t you carrying your gun?”

“The new policy is we only carry when we’re going out to make an arrest. Otherwise our revolvers stay in our desks.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said.

More silence as we rode along. Then he asked, “Do you mind stopping by the church? I left some stuff there I need for work in the morning.”

I knew his church was on the way. I sighed. “OK.” He probably wanted to grab a box of his fundamentalist tracts and some King James Bibles to foist off on the inmates.

A few minutes later I saw the cinder block building and pulled into the parking lot by the church cemetery. The sign out front read, “AIDS IS GOD’S JUDGMENT FOR SIN.” Not exactly the most welcoming message for a church. “Did you post that?” I asked, pointing at the sign. He looked at me and once again I saw that fear in his eyes. Then his face grew hard and he turned away without answering. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, getting out of the car.

I watched him go into the side door of the dumpy little church. After about a minute he came out and waved at me. “Can you come help me with something?”

Sighing, I turned off my car and walked toward the church while he kept talking. “I need to move a few heavy boxes, and you’re a lot stronger than I am. If you don’t mind.”

Of course I minded, but he was being polite, or it seemed like he was trying to be. He led me into the basement of the church, which had folding chairs set up in a circle, like for an AA meeting or a Sunday School class. “Let me get the light,” he said, stepping behind me.

“There’s plenty of light in here,” I said, turning around – just in time to see him swinging a baseball bat at me, a look of pure hatred in his eyes.

All those drills in self-defense classes kicked in. I ducked down instinctively and the baseball bat swooped through the air where my head had been just a second earlier. I tackled him like a football dummy, which he wasn’t expecting. He dropped the baseball bat and fell to the ground, crying out in pain.

I was on top of him now, his arms pinned beneath my legs. “What the hell?” I yelled at him. “You were gonna bash my head in?”

“Serves you right,” he said, squirming but unable to get free. “That’s what you deserve for disrespecting me the way you did. I am a man of God, and you, you’re just–” I could tell what he was about to say, and I punched him in the mouth before he could say it. He started sputtering and spitting out blood. I punched him again, this time blacking one eye.

“I’m gonna tell your chief,” he said, whimpering. “I’m gonna tell everyone how you attacked me. They’ll fire you so fast, and I’ll press charges. You will know the full extent of God’s judgment for your sinful lifestyle!” He stopped talking and spit out some more blood.

“You’re not gonna tell anybody,” I said. “You’ll make up some lie about you falling down the stairs or something.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone the truth.”

“The truth?”

“The truth about how you got your ass kicked by a queer.”

The expression on his face changed drastically. He started to say something else, but I was tired of listening to him. I delivered one last punch to his face and knocked him out.

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