In His Father's House 1

IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE - 1, Rev.

All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, “In His Father's House” is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@verizon.net

In addition to numerous articles on the problems faced by juveniles incarcerated in adult prisons - especially those sentenced to life sentences without the possibility of parole - the author is especially indebted to three books: Santos, Michael G., Inside, Life Behind Bars in America (New York: St. Martin's Griffin edition, 2007); Parsell T. J., Fish, A Memoir of a Boy in a Man's Prison (Cambridge, MA; Da Capo Press, 2006); and Gagnon, Robert J. 053803, Life at Fifteen, updated ed. (np, Robert J. Gagnon-Paperback, 2006). Echoes of each will be heard in my story that follows.

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, please respect yourself and those around you by practicing safe sex.

CHAPTER 1

(Land o' Goshen!)

The beautifully groomed woman looked across the table at the Country Club at the three other women whom she had joined for their weekly luncheon. Her gaze was fixed on the woman who sat on her immediate right. Completing a short telephone call, Mary Taylor, replaced the receiver, gestured for the waiter to remove the phone, and sat for a moment as if paralyzed. "Mary, dear," her friend Naomi whispered, "you are as pale as a ghost. Are you well?" Obviously having to employ the last measure of her self-control to avoid breaking into tears - or worse, the imposing matriarch murmured, "I fear I must return home. Do forgive me." With that...and without another word...she rose from the table and moved towards the exit of the well-appointed room.

Naomi Adams' eyes followed the community's commonly accepted social arbiter as she walked, somewhat woodenly, away from the table. Her position as Mary's confidant allowed her to ask tersely, "Does anyone know what has happened?" When silence greeted her question, she continued, "Oh, come now. Something terrible has happened to our dear friend. If we are to help her, we must have reliable information." Following another moment's silence, she turned her gaze to Mildred Parsons who had hesitantly lifted a hand from her lap. Suspecting that she knew the source of her friend's information, Naomi said quietly in a voice that left no room for discussion, "Everyone knows that we must respect your confidences, Mildred, and never breathe a word to anyone other than those sitting at this table. Now help your friend and help us by telling us what you know."

Mildred, the wife of the Gold Star sheriff, responded in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. "I was up early, as usual, fixing breakfast for Pat...my husband, you know," she began in a mousy little voice. "Pat received a phone call from his office. At one point, his face reddened and he absolutely exploded. "Not Jeb!" he yelled. "Not the Taylor boy!" He said some other things that I just don't remember...before breaking into the worst profanity that I have ever heard him utter - and he KNOWS that I will not have that in my house! Noticing that I was watching him, his face stiffened and he growled that he had to get down to his office. He didn't finish his coffee. He didn't even kiss me goodbye...as he always does. He just growled, 'Not a word, honey. Not one fucking word!' With that he walked out...and slammed the door. "Land o' Goshen! You must never tell!"

(Beset on Every Side)

At about two o'clock, Sheriff Parsons held a press conference attended by reporters from throughout the northern part of the state - and as far away as Little Rock, New Orleans, Oklahoma City, and San Antonio. Indeed, so many members of the Fourth Estate appeared that the affair had to be moved to the Civic Building's small auditorium. "Ladies and gentlemen," the sheriff began, "we have made important progress in the Simms case." A stir ran through the large audience. The disappearance of a County deputy sheriff's sons had been front-page news for the better part of two weeks. "Bart Simms Junior, fifteen years old, is still missing. Thanks to the involvement of the whole community, however, the body of Bo Simms, aged six, has been recovered. Additionally, Jeb Taylor, the fourteen year old son of Devon and Mary Taylor, Gold Star community leaders, has confessed to murder and is presently in custody. Questions from the reporters established that the details of his confession had been confirmed by detectives. The hall nearly exploded with shouted questions. Indeed, many of the reporters were already racing for the telephones - or a place where their cell phones would work.

The workday was not over before reporters had widened what was known. Not only had the little boy been murdered, for instance, but there were persistent rumors that he had been attacked sexually. (For whatever reasons, the community fathers were keeping a tight lid on speculation in this area.) Newspapers were already appearing with heavy black headlines. TV's evening news programs featured interviews with the District Attorney in which he promised the local citizenry that he would "demand" Jeb Taylor be tried as an adult. Although somewhat off the community's official "message", he trumpeted, "We don't allow these monsters to run around free in our state, registered or unregistered. After a fair trial, we put them away...forever!"

Those who had contact with the Taylors throughout the area asked themselves - and everyone that they knew or did business with - how this tragedy could have befallen one of the region's leading families. Devon Taylor, for instance, was a well-known (and highly successful) insurance agent. Anyone who had even seen the interior of the large home he provided for his family in the town's "best neighborhood" knew that they lacked for nothing. Further, no one was more generous in providing for the homeless and other unfortunates in Gold Star. And, as an active member of the American Legion, it was he more than any one individual who had brought the large national cemetery to the hills above the town. Yes, he had only seen his son once while in the County jail. While there, he had loudly and publicly turned his back on the boy as a "murdering pervert", one who was no longer a member of his family. As an overwhelming percentage of men in Gold Star argued, however, what else could a man do?

His wife Mary, a former college beauty queen - and still a beautiful woman - was a stereotypical matron of the region, i.e., active in her church, involved in community affairs - especially in supporting her husband's charitable endeavors - and generally regarded as a "good mother". God knows, she had labored to bring up a God-fearing son, a son who at fourteen had widely been seen to have great promise. Yes, some of Gold Star's mothers shook their heads about the degree to which she stood with her husband in casting Jeb out of the family. When pressed, however, most of them had to agree that they didn't have her responsibilities in the community...nor were they married to Devon Taylor!

And what of Jeb, the fourteen year old? Handsome and well-built, he was both vice president of the freshman class and a fine athlete. (He had already lettered in frosh-soph water polo - and the baseball coach said that he expected him to develop into an outstanding shortstop.) True, his grades were not keeping pace with his middle school averages, the house was not crowded with friends as it had been in years past, and his parents frequently found him to be sullen and distant. His father said that he attributed this to "raging hormones". Having placed the lad under stricter discipline since the beginning of the Holidays, however, he expected that he would come around ere too long.

Needless to say, the community was in chaos. Its informal leadership patterns were shaken; influential people were jockeying for power. There was satisfaction that Jeb had been caught, but Bart Junior (the elder brother of the murdered boy) was still missing. Parents continued to fear for their offspring. When some of the most extreme community pressure lessened, the Police Department relaxed accordingly. They knew, far more than others, how much more had to be done to ensure that the murderer would be punished. Further, attempting to put a juvenile in adult prison, let alone without the slightest chance at eventual parole, was not without its dangers...whatever the District Attorney trumpeted!

(Legal Niceties)

In order to retain control of Jeb, he was formally bound over to the Superior Court and charged with aggravated murder early in his detention. He was nearly half-way through his fourteenth year, however, before he was taken to trial. The State finally decided that the trial was theirs to lose, a rather ineffectual public defender was provided, and the area news media set about whipping public emotions into a froth. (Not they had far to go... It was obvious to all that this would be a "fair trial"...down-home style.)

Finally, with great fanfare, a sweating, seemingly shell-shocked youngster, chained and manacled, was brought to the courthouse through long lines of popping flash bulbs. On the periphery of the raucous crowd, members of local churches carried signs that warned all concerned about the demands of God's justice and the dangers of hellfire were they even partially ignored. A "Mothers Posse" marched as they sang a lament for little Bo Simms. Inside, even a few of the most conservative spectators gasped during jury selection. How in the world could Jeb's lawyer sit mute while several of the most extreme types were seated as jurors alongside mothers of young children and men who had always owed much to Devon Taylor? Yes, the trial was clearly the State's to lose. In all honesty, however, they could probably have won the case handily with a jury considerably more representative of the community and sensitive to constitutional safeguards.

No mistake made by the police was mentioned by the attorney - and there were many such as questioning the boy without his father or mother present and before the public defender arrived. Jeb was never put on the stand; no witnesses were called. No effort was made to counter the rumor that there had been a sexual element in the murder. The attorney offered little beyond his summation. The trial lasted less than a week. Neither Jeb's parents nor any other members of his family ever appeared. The jury deliberated for less than three hours before returning a verdict of "guilty of aggravated murder". Before he pronounced sentence, the judge spoke to Jeb in open court, castigating him as a murderous pervert who did not belong on the same planet as "good" people. Stating bluntly that he would have ordered Jeb to be hanged had it been possible under the law, he then sternly sentenced the fourteen year old to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The teen's eyes, expression, and stumbling gait as he was led from the courtroom suggested that he had long since fled that monstrous place.

(To Be Continued)