The Wrong End of the Barrel

There were four rules my Drill Instructor taught me about weapons during Marine Corps Boot Camp before he shipped me over to 'Nam. Rule number one: There's no such thing as an unloaded weapon. Keep it loaded. That way there's never any doubt. Rule number two: Don't ever pull a weapon unless you plan on using it. If you pull it out, you'd better go ahead and use it. Rule number three: If you use it, aim to kill. Don't allow the other guy to be around to tell a different version of what happened. And rule number four: If you find yourself looking down the wrong end of a barrel, assume that the guy on the other end goes by the same rules that you do. Kill him before he can kill you.

I'm sitting here writing this down as I wait for the jury to come back with a verdict. The D.A. says I'm guilty of pre-meditated murder. My defense attorney says I'm not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. I figure I just found myself looking down the wrong end of the barrel.

I'm going to give this to my attorney when I'm finished and tell him to give it to the press in three days no matter what the verdict. If the jury finds me guilty, maybe this will get in the paper and the people of this town might understand what happened. If the jury finds me not guilty, I'll disappear and the people of this town might understand what I'm doing. Let me explain.

About six months ago, my wife and children and I were coming home from her parents' house late one night. It was my father-in-law's birthday and we had gone down to my wife's parents' house to help celebrate. They live about four hours away from us. We had stayed a little later than we had planned so it was around one in the morning when we got back into town.

We lived over on Jansen Avenue. You take the Taylor Street exit off the Interstate and go left at the light under the highway for six blocks. Then you make a right on Jansen and we were the third house on the left in the second block.

I was driving the Datsun wagon and I had laid the back seat down so that the kids could stretch out and get some sleep on the way home. My wife was curled up with a blanket in the front seat next to me. I have to have the window down when I drive and she was cold that night. She had taken off her seat-belt so she could get as comfortable as possible as she slept.

I came off the interstate at the Taylor Street exit and slowed to stop at the light. Before the light changed, I saw this car come tearing off the highway down the exit. I never had a chance to do anything before it plowed into the back of our wagon.

I don't know how I got out of the car. I just found myself standing there next to that mangled mess. Police cars and ambulances were parked everywhere and had their flashing red lights going. The para-medics were trying to lead me over to one of the ambulances.

I looked at the car. The rear of that little wagon was pushed up into the back seat. I could see my little boy's hand in the side window. I could see my little girl's red hair in that twisted metal that had been my car. My wife, Karen, was laying with her head resting on the dash under the broken windshield. Firemen were working trying to get her out of the car.

I looked down at myself. I guess I was in shock. I was covered with blood. I don't know how or why I survived. I had four broken ribs from the steering wheel. I received a broken nose and a concussion from the windshield. I don't know how my left arm was broken.

The para-medics dragged me toward the ambulance. Another ambulance was sitting next to it and I could see a police officer talking to this guy as a para-medic checked him out. There wasn't a scratch on him. I don't know what was being said. I really don't remember anything else about that night.

I woke up in the hospital. I was told later that my family had died in the crash. The police came and talked to me. I was told that the guy driving the other car had been drunk. He was being charged with vehicular manslaughter for killing my family. I found out later he'd been picked up twice before for drunken driving.

After I got out of the hospital, I found out he'd been let out on bond while he waited for the trial. He worked at the appliance factory out on Abernathy. He worked the second shift so he got off at eight each night.

When I was in 'Nam I used a riot gun in the bush. That's a short twelve-gauge shotgun that holds anywhere from seven to ten rounds of buckshot. I had bought one after I got back to "the world." It was kept locked up in a case in the closet of my den. The one I owned held ten rounds in its magazine.

One night I got the riot gun out and loaded it with double-ought buck. I pulled out my jungles and put them on. I drove out to the appliance factory just before eight. When the second shift got off, I watched him walk out and get in an old pickup truck.

I followed him to the Dew-Drop Tavern out on the south side of town and watched him go in. I sat in the car and waited. He was in there till after midnight. When they shut off the lights, he came out and staggered toward that old pickup.

He was standing next to the pickup door fumbling for his keys as I got out of my car with the riot gun. He looked up at me as I walked toward him.

"This is for my little boy Jimmy," I said as I pulled the trigger. The first blast caught him in the right shoulder and knocked him back against the side of the pickup. He looked at me in disbelief as he slid down to the ground.

"This is for my little girl Jamie," I said as I pumped the riot gun with one hand and aimed at his left shoulder. As the second blast rocked the quiet of the night, I could hear people coming out of the bar behind me.

The guy kept trying to scream but not a sound came out of his mouth. He just sat there on the ground, his shoulders and arms turned into hamburger meat. I pumped the riot gun again and aimed right at his head.

"And this is for my wife Karen." The riot gun roared again.

I walked back over to my car and set the gun on the hood. Then I sat on the back of the car and waited for the police.

As I wait here for the jury's verdict, I don't feel any remorse for him. He killed my wife and kids as sure as if he had put a gun to their heads. As far as I'm concerned the murder of my wife and children was premeditated. He knew what he was doing when he walked into that bar and took that first drink. All he needed was a weapon and the car he ended up driving was good enough.

The law wasn't going to take care of him. He had already been picked up twice before for drunk driving. He was still driving the night he killed my family. All they had charged him with was manslaughter. He was out drinking and driving again the night I killed him.

Some people try to tell you that people who drink are sick and shouldn't be held responsible. I don't think so. They know what they're doing when they pick up that first drink. It's premeditated.

That guy was going to kill somebody else sooner or later. Maybe me. I was looking down the wrong end of the barrel as far as I was concerned.

Whatever the verdict is, I just want people to think about it when they walk into a bar and start drinking. When they get good and drunk and walk out to get in their car I want them to look around the parking lot and think about me. Maybe I'm sitting there watching them. Maybe I'm dressed in my jungles. Maybe I've got my riot gun with me. Maybe I'm feeling like I'm looking down the wrong end of the barrel. Maybe, just maybe.