Stories Complete, page 16
“There is only one therapy for the elimination of psychological maladjustment in our Junior Citizens. That therapy is tolerance!”
Rowland slammed the book shut and started to replace it between the Horace Mann bookends, but somehow the act of replacing Bryant’s volume in the proximity of the great educator seemed to border on sacrilege.
He threw the book into the corner.
Rowland arrived in class the following morning to find roughly half the contour desks filled with an unruly assortment of noisy youngsters. He ignored the boisterousness and immediately commenced to set up a space movie in the daylight projector. The film, while of dubious educational value, did contain a few extremely subtle moral concepts as well as some not-so-subtle (or moral) illustrations in second-year sexology.
Primarily, of course, the purpose of the film was to quiet the room down until about 10:30 when the balance of the class would have straggled in.
The film ended with a good 75% of the seats filled—a good percentage, considering that a student was not compelled by law to attend school, unless in their own opinion the curriculum was presented in a manner interesting enough to warrant their attendance.
Rowland was just congratulating himself on an exceptional showing, when the percentage was further increased in the form of Stephen Davis entering the room.
“Good morning, Mr. Davis,” Rowland said. “Please be seated. We’re about to begin.”
Stephen Davis’ lip curled. Then his hand came up bashing one of the smaller boys across the mouth.
“Yaaa!” the smaller boy screamed.
“Please gentlemen,” Rowland said. “Go to your seats. We’re already an hour-and-a-half late.”
The Davis boy met his stare.
“I’ll sit down when I’m good and ready,” he said thinly. “I’m not taking orders from no stupid teacher!”
“Any stupid teacher,” Rowland corrected dutifully. The use of a double negative implies positive action.”
Stephen Davis grinned around tiny, sharp teeth. “What’s the difference?” he piped shrilly. “You’re still stupid.” And sat down defiantly.
The class screamed with delight.
Rowland felt his bloodpressure beginning to rise. He hated himself for allowing the boy to get under his skin this way. Yet there was something about the child that made him forget the carefully ingrained training in Progressive Education.
He crossed the room to where the daylight projector stood like a waiting robot. “Today,” he announced, “we have a film that will take us to Asia, where you’ll be able to see first-hand how people in that part of the world live. Now before we begin are there any questions?”
“If you had any brains, you’d be working instead of teaching school,” Stephen Davis said without warning. “That’s what my Father said.”
In the front of the room, one of the girls began to giggle, while the rest of the class settled into an expectant hush. Rowland commenced setting up the projector, slotting the film, carefully ignoring the boy.
It was progressive education. That’s what it was. A hundred years ago a brat like Stephen Davis would have had his backside blistered by the back of his hand. But now? He wondered if the people who’d inaugurated this so-called progressive education had ever had to cope with something like this.
He locked the film in place and reached for the on-switch.
“The first thing we’ll see,” he announced, “is an airview of the coast of Japan as we approach Tokyo harbor. Are you ready?”
“No.” Stephen Davis said. “I’m not ready. I want an ice cream soda. Where’s the attendant?”
For just a second, Row land’s reflexes jerked his index finger toward where the attendant stood poised at the Serve-All dispenser. Then he gritted his teeth and said: “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait till we’ve finished.”
The girl in the front row began to giggle again.
Rowland threw in the switch, and the shore-line of Japan leaped onto the wide view screen accompanied by the whisper of jet engines from four separate sound tracks.
Then from the corner of his eye, Rowland saw Stephen Davis derrick himself out of the form-fit desk. Slowly and defiantly, the boy began walking toward him. When he reached the spot where Rowland worked the projector he stopped, fists clenched, staring up at him through very bright eyes.
On the screen, the Tokyo skyline had flattened to a bird’s eye view of ribbons of tiny streets crawling between towering buildings. But no one in the classroom was watching. The important drama was taking place among the spectators.
“Do I get an ice cream soda or don’t I?” Stephen Davis inquired coldly.
“You don’t,” Rowland said sharply. “Go back to your seat.” Now that he’d said it, he felt strangely better—even though it would probably mean a hassle with the school board and possibly even the Student Council, he felt better for having taken a stand.
For just a moment it appeared that the very audacity of his action had succeeded in backing the boy down. Then Stephen Davis moved. Projector and table teetered under the boy’s vicious push. For an instant the airview of Tokyo danced across walls and ceiling, then dissolved into emptiness as the projector crashed into inaction against the classroom floor.
Almost immediately, smoke began to issue from the smashed equipment. Rowland stooped over to right it. Simultaneously, from the edge of his vision he was aware of the flash of a tiny foot and the next instant he was lying face down on the classroom floor.
The classroom literally screamed with glee.
Rowland was aware of lying there and clenching his fists while Stephen Davis’ laughing mouth and sharp, white teeth danced before his eyes. Then the boy’s face seemed to be engulfed in a galaxy of red spots and he was reaching out, grabbing the boy by the scruff of the neck and turning the struggling form across his knee.
He remembered the intense satisfaction he got out of hearing the muted whack of his hand against the boy’s rump.
He remembered the strong hands that pulled him away. And after that the uniformed men who seized him and hustled him into a vehicle which carried him to police headquarters, where they questioned him briefly and threw him in a barred room, threw him in a room with barred windows.
Rowland estimated the cell to be about ten feet wide and twelve feet deep. It contained a cot, a chair, and a piece of furniture that might pass for a combination desk and table.
He’d been there a little over an hour when a uniformed man came to the cell and informed him he had visitors. The man opened the cell door and ushered him through a corridor and into an office-like room with hard-backed chairs and oak tables.
The visitors were his Sister, and a young man whom he recognized immediately—Bill Nelson.
For just a moment a good feeling spread over him at the thought that Bill and Alice were together again. Then it occured to him that since Bill Nelson was a lawyer, he was probably here in an official capacity.
He was.
After making sure Alice was comfortably seated, Bill Nelson drew Rowland to the opposite end of the room and asked: “What’s wrong, Ted?”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
Bill Nelson shook his head. “The school called Alice; she called me; and we came right down.”
“I’m in trouble, Bill—bad trouble.”
“Oh? One of the students?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, don’t worry too much about it, Ted. If it’s a simple case of unwarranted authority, I’m reasonably sure I can get you off with a ninety-day suspended sentence.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Bill.”
“Worse? You didn’t shout at the child, I hope?”
Rowland was watching his face while he spoke. He had a sincere manner about him that seemed to imply genuine sympathy and concern.
“No,” he said evenly. “I didn’t shout at him. All I did was whale the hell out of him.”
Bill Nelson’s mouth dropped open, remained that way for five full seconds, then snapped shut with the abruptness of a sprung bear trap.
“We’ll plead insanity!” he said suddenly. “That’s what we’ll do. Maybe the S.S.C. will accept a plea of mental incompetence!”
Rowland’s face darkened. “The S.S.C.? Do you mean that the Supreme Student Council will be assigned to this case?”
The lawyer moved his shoulders. “I imagine they will be. Can’t rightly say for sure, for course, since no one’s ever been on trial before for striking a student. But considering the ninety year jail term that the law prescribes for a felony of this type, I’d expect that the highest Student governing body in the land will be assigned to your case.”
“But why a Student Council? Can’t you get me tried in an adult court?”
“Uh-uh! Can’t do it, Ted. The law is very precise on that point. Article 84, Paragraph 4, of the Educational Doctrine states that any alleged violations of the Doctrine involving a Student shall be tried by a Student Body.”
“How about my rights?”
“You don’t have any, Ted. By this time tomorrow, every newspaper in the country will be carrying your picture on the front page. All we’d have to do would be to appeal to have this tried in an adult court and every Student Organization, in the world would scream that they were being purged by adult authority.”
“But what about me? How about the rule of a bunch of wet-eared kids being foisted on me?”
“The Supreme Student Council is fair, Ted. They’re the best in the business. They were picked for that job because they’re above petty vindictiveness. Every one of the SSC’s are over twelve years old, and a few of them are fifteen.”
Rowland drummed his fingers on the table. “Tell me, Bill,” he said seriously. “Do you think a dozen kids are qualified to judge whether or not I spend the next ninety years behind bars?”
The lawyer dropped his eyes. “You want my advice, Ted?” Rowland nodded.
“Do what I tell you then, Ted. Plead insanity. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”
The next morning, two of Bill Nelson’s predictions came to pass. First: Ted’s picture was on the front page of every newspaper in the country; and second: He was officially informed that his case would be tried before the Supreme Student Council.
He received the news stoically while sitting on the edge of his cot. He’d been refused bail for his own protection, he was told. Moreover, twice during the night, he’d been awakened by a commotion at the end of the corridor, that in his half-wakened state, he’d believed to be a lynch mob. However, upon awakening, the attendant informed him that they were merely newspaper reporters clamoring for an interview.
One thing was for certain. He was news—big news. Of all the thousands of cases involving unwarranted authority that had been tried in the courts; never in the history of Progressive Education had a teacher raised a hand to a student.
Not until now.
The morning newspapers, for the most part, contented themselves with simple three-inch headlines and a brief reporting of the facts. It wasn’t until the afternoon editions hit the street that editorial writers began to be swayed by public opinion. One of these suggested that in addition to the ninety-year jail sentence, a public flogging might not be out of order for Ted Rowland.
To make matters worse, The National Association for the Suppression of Unwarranted Authority had bought a full-page ad in every Metropolitan newspaper.
The masthead of the page was in four inch caps. It said: “SUPPOSE THIS WERE YOUR CHILD?”
Below it was a three-quarter-page splash-panel that depicted a hideous-looking caricature of Ted Rowland, grinning sadistically while he beat with balled fists on a cringing, kneeling child while he begged for mercy.
Later, Bill Nelson arrived with a bundle of the vicious news-print. And this time Rowland was not permitted to confer with his attorney in the anteroom. Instead, Nelson was admitted to the cell block where he sank wearily on the cot.
“It looks bad, Ted,” he said. “These newspapers have us in a vise and they’re squeezing.”
“I know, Bill. So what do we do?”
“Do? Why there’s only one thing we can do. Plead insanity. Throw yourself on the SSC.”
“But I’m not insane! That Davis kid deserved what he got. I didn’t hit him hard, and that paddling probably did him more good than five years of so-called progressive education.”
“I agree with you, Ted. I know that and you know that. But try selling it to a bunch of parents who were raised on the same namby-pamby methods they expect you to use on their spoiled brats. Try selling it to them and see how far you get—especially with the NASUA buying space in every paper in America!”
“When is the trial, Bill?”
“It’s tentatively set for a week from Tuesday. But I believe I could get us an extension.”
“No,” Rowland said quickly, “no extensions. Let’s get it over with.
The lawyer nodded. “Alright, Ted. Might be better that way. A quick trial without too much preparation might strengthen the insanity motive.”
Four days before the trial, a well-coached Stephen Davis made an appearance on television and told in a trembling voice “how Mr. Rowland beat him about forty times with his fists, because I didn’t know my lesson”. A day later, a small group of individuals—mostly teachers—had started a fund in his behalf. And the evening before the trial a larger group assembled around the jail screaming: “Lynch Rowland”, and had to be broken up by the police.
Because of the tremendous public interest, a large auditorium had been secured for the trial. And in addition to world-wide newspaper coverage, the event was to be broadcast over eight separate TV networks.
A terrible hush fell over the six-thousand spectators when Rowland flanked, by an even two-dozen guards, was led into the hall and hustled through a solid wall of smouldering humanity to the dais where the Student Judge and his twelve members of the Student Council sat waiting.
Climbing the platform, Ted had the awful feeling that he was climbing onto the target area of an immense microscope slide. There were eyes—some of them in the audience, but most of them behind the sixteen TV cameras—following him, recording every movement, witnessing his nervousness.
Bill Nelson touched his arm then, and a youth whose voice had just begun to change began calling the court to order.
After that, Judge Jimmy Hager, an intelligent-looking lad with straight black hair and high cheekbones gave his instructions to the audience and reports. Judge Hager, according to the newspapers, was sixteen years old, and an honor student at Albert Einstein High School.
While Judge Hager was speaking, Rowland allowed his eyes to go over the twelve members of the Student Council. The boys ranged from twelve to fifteen years of age and sat emotionless around a horseshoe shaped tier of benches arranged around the Judge’s platform.
Except for the fact that they were immaculately dressed, any one of the boys might have been neighborhood children who played in the local softball league, or swam at Jones Beach, or stomped up his Sister’s rosebushes.
Sitting there in the hard-backed chair, Rowland tried to think of them as the neighbors’ children. But the deception refused to stick. Underneath their milk-white skin and youthful appearance, there was a subtle hardness. Maybe it came from too much authority. Or maybe it came from too little experience. Whatever it was, it was there. Rowland could feel it each time one of the boys happened to glance in his direction.
Judge Hager completed his instructions, rapped the gavel, and ordered the first witness—a troublesome youth who sat near Stephen Davis—to the stand.
Ted Rowland listened, while in a shaking voice, the boy told how Stephan Davis had always been a model student. And how, “for no reason at all, Mr. Rowland had beat on him with a stick. The boy laid heavy emphasis on the last two words while flurry of excitement rippled through the audience at the introduction of this factor.
Ted Rowland leaned over toward his attorney. “How about Ralph Sparks?” he whispered. “Surely the classroom attendant would know what really happened and testify in my behalf.”
Bill Nelson shook his head. “I’ve already asked him. He won’t become involved. Claims he’s got kids of his own and can’t afford to buck all this public opinion.”
Judge Hager rapped the gravel.
Another well-coached witness came to the stand.
Then Judge Hager ordered Stephen Davis to the witness stand.
A cold, white silence fell over the assembly as a wellscrubbed and pensive-looking Stephen Davis limped to the witness stand and in answer to the prosecuting attorney’s obvious opening question announced that: “He hadn’t been able to walk right since Mr. Rowland had beat him”.
More questions followed: “How many times did Mr. Rowland strike you? . . . Did you do anything to make him angry? . . . How do you feel since Mr. Rowland administered the beating?”
And white-faced, and oddly well-behaved, Stephen Davis answered the questions: “Mr. Rowland beat me about forty times, Sir . . . I can’t think of anything I might have done to make him angry, Sir. Unless he was mad because I didn’t know my lesson. . . . And: Ever since Mr. Rowland beat me, I’ve had trouble walking, Sir.”
Bill Nelson leaned over and couched Rowland on the arm. “It’s even worse than I thought,” he whispered “Our only chance now is a plea for insanity. And all these lies and false evidence will serve to strengthen our case. That’s why I haven’t objected or interrupted the proceedings. Now listen closely, as soon as the prosecuting attorney is finished, I’ll reach up and scratch my ear. That’ll be the signal. You jump up, scream that the boy is a liar and threaten to whale the tar out of him . . . Now make it dramatic! Don’t worry about hurting him. The court attendants will stop you before you get to him. And while everything’s in a state of confusion I’ll drop in an insanity plea . . . Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Your witness,” the fifteen year-old prosecuting attorney said and did a standing broad-jump off the dais.
Bill Nelson got up and climbed to where Stephen Davis sat. The TV cameras and mike followed him like hovering buzzards.
