You know what’s crazy I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Walking a dirt bag into court.
There’s something wildly entertaining about the walk down.
It’s raw. It’s pure. It’s unpredictable.
It’s one man in an orange jump suit and leg shackles versus another man in a suit with a camera.
The prisoner is armed with devious cunning and nefarious unpredictability. The reporter is armed with sagacious ability and desire to expose the truth.
The walk down is that unique journalistic joust where 25 seconds can make all the difference.
It’s the ultimate 2 men enter, one man leaves scenario.
Instead of a steel caged octagon, this is a court-house.
It’s a cool fall day in Maury County, Tennessee.
I have been parked outside this venerable courthouse for 2 hours waiting for my 25 seconds.
The sky is a brilliant blue. The 200-year-old court house rises majestically above the square, piercing the heavens. I watch as white puffy clouds float across the sky.
People come and go. Police cars circle the square. Patrons go to lunch at the small cafe’s across the street.
I sit in my car, engine running, radio on low. I am planning my 25 second journalistic joust.
I look for places to park, and think about how to approach the prisoner so he doesn’t see me coming. I think about questions I can ask, questions he might respond to.
The Wheel Chair Man is big news in this decidedly Southern City.
The Wheel chair man was sentenced to 6 years in jail for burglary.
Then, while behind bars, he mysteriously developed paralysis.
Jail house sources tell me he couldn’t or wouldn’t move his legs. Sources say, to sell his affliction, to make others think he was really paralyzed, he would pick up his appendages with his hands, moving them like they were dead weight, like 10 pound sacks of sugar.
One source tells me that he once tried to get a jailer to wipe his ass. What kind of mental deficiency does this guy have to ask another man to wipe his ass?
This guy is either really paralyzed and afflicted with something serious or he deserves an academy award.
And this is the journalistic joust I must prepare for.
The Wheel Chair Man is coming to court to face the judge for lying.
What did he lie about?
His ability to walk.
You see, the Wheel Chair Man’s theatrical paralysis was so convincing to jail house medical staff, a Circuit Court judge granted him a furlough. The jail is ill-equipped to handle a special needs prisoner, so they granted him a get out of jail free card till an appropriate spot in another jail could be secured.
To maintain his charade, the Wheel Chair Man mostly kept to his wheel chair. He was seen rolling around town, playing the part of the mysterious man with the strange paralysis.
But he broke character and it all came apart.
One night, while arguing with some douche bags about a cell phone, someone “jacked” Wheel Chair Man. They punched him in the chops. They smacked him around pretty good. They dumped his wheel chair, with him in it, on its side.
Wheel Chair Man is legitimately hurt and he wheels himself to the local E.R.
He doesn’t want to report a crime, but medical staff is mandated to do so and now the law is involved.
Suddenly the theatrically perverse burglar is a headline in the local paper.
THIEVES ROB MAN IN WHEEL CHAIR.
It’s a good story, if you don’t know the whole story.
And initially, very few do.
So sympathy pours in for the Wheel Chair Man.
He milks it.
But the publicity brings a tip to police.
“Wheel Chair Man is faking. I seen him walking,” the tipster says.
Detectives surveil Wheel Chair Man. They observe him walking with their own eyes.
They bring him to the station and interview him where he confesses to filing false reports. He admits he lied about being able to walk to get out of jail.
Bam.
Wheel Chair Man is re-arrested and put back in the very jail he was furloughed from.
So on this day, I am waiting for the walk down of the man who could not walk.
The sheriff’s car arrives and the deputy gets out. The law man knows I’m lurking and he nods to me surreptitiously, letting me know this is the moment.
I walk to the door and wait.
Wheel Chair Man doesn’t initially see me. He begins to gather himself and get out.
Then he notices me and my camera.
Suddenly, he hangs his head. His mind is racing. He is going to be the lead story and he is pissed.
Suddenly his affliction rears up.
He has trouble moving from the back seat. He acts like an invalid, like he is weak, like he is handicapped.
“Come on now. Don’t mind him. Get out,” the deputy says to Wheel Chair Man.
The orange clad prisoner wearing the shackles sighs deeply and slides his legs out of the vehicle. The deputy helps him stand all ready knowing that an academy award performance is about to ensue.
“How you doing?” I ask.
Wheel chair man says nothing as he laboriously trudges forward.
“Where’s your wheel chair?” I ask, trying to spike his nerves.
I can tell this jab pisses him off, but he says nothing.
I watch him walk. The 29 year old pretends to walk like an 80 year old man in need of a cane.
“You faking it dude?”
“I’m not faking anything,” he says.
I have walked down 100’s of characters in my time. I have gotten murder confessions on tape. I know when I have pierced a suspect’s armor.
The journalistic Joust is on.
“The sheriff says you are using this fake affliction to garner sympathy and get out of jail, is that true?”
“The sheriff isn’t a doctor.”
Another good quote, I think to myself as the man walks up the ancient stairs.
I watch him walk on the sides of his feet. It’s certainly awkward. If I didn’t know that he likes guards wiping his ass, I might even fall for this crap. Instead it pisses me off.
“Why don’t you get out of my face,” he says.
“We are now inside the court house.
“Hey dude. It’s America. You don’t have to like me, but I have every right to walk with you into this court house and that is what I’m going to do.”
“Man you’re good,” He says eye balling me with a slight look of acknowledgment.
“Yeah I am good. So tell me your story. What’s your affliction.”
We are now by the prisoner elevator that takes him up to General Sessions Court.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he says his back to me.
“When that door opens sir, then I’m gone. You can tell your story to the judge. If you have something to say to me, you had better say it now.”
“I don’t need you to judge me,” he says.
“I’m not judging you,” I retort. “I am using my own eyes. You look like you are walking pretty good to me.”
“You’re not a doctor,” he says keeping up the charade.
This is where he gets me mad. I realize I have plenty for an exclusive. I don’t care what he says at this point.
I see the other prisoners and court house guards hanging on our contentious conversation.
“I’m a doctor and journalist,” I say for effect. “I wear two hats, homey.”
Did I really just call this prisoner Homey?
Yes I did.
I silently laugh. I love this. It’s fun. This guy who has ripped off the public’s tax payer dollar and its trust deserves to have his feathers ruffled a little bit.
“What’s your claim to fame, Dude. Fake paralysis?”
I feel my adrenaline spiking. I’m behind the camera and I’ve got that shake that tells me that I’m firing on all cylinders.
I see the other prisoners and the guards laughing. They love the exchange. They know this guy is a dope and I’m giving him what he deserves.
The elevator door opens and he quickly steps inside, without the trace of a limp.
The door closes and the moment is over.
The guards at the front door smile. “Have a good day,” they say.
“you too.”
I pack up knowing that I have an ass kicking exclusive lead story.
Five minutes later, my cell phone rings.
It’s the guard who brought Wheel Chair Man into the courthouse.
“He wants to do an interview with you.”
“I’m practically on the interstate. I think about the time consumption to go back and talk to this man. He is a liar. He lies from the moment he gets up in the morning to the moment he goes to bed at night.
He had his chance to talk. He chose to lie and give me grief.
Let him tell it to the judge I say to the source.
“Will do.”
And with that I hang up, headed back to Nashville.
The Wheel Chair Man will lead the 6 O’Clock News.
It’s a talker and the bosses love it.
I love it to. I love the joust, the angst.
I love the moment, a moment of what if, what might happen with a bad guy who is unpredictable like a car fire that could explode at any moment.
The joust.
Life’s Crazy™