Blind Revenge
An old man waits to take his revenge on a killer
I weep openly, teardrops streaming down my prehistoric face, having waited impatiently for this moment for twenty years. I shuffle my hunched and broken body toward the grey walls of the prison.
I’ve been ill for a year, coughing flecks of blood into my handkerchief. ‘One more day, Lord, grant me one more day on earth,’ I mumble.
I remember every word the judge said twenty years ago.
“Lloyd Brenner, you have callously and cold-bloodedly raped and
murdered an innocent woman, killing her twelve-year-old child. During this trial, you have shown no remorse and are, without a doubt, an evil man. This court has no hesitation in sentencing you to the maximum punishment. You are fortunate that capital punishment has been abolished recently, for I would have gladly sentenced you to the chair. Lloyd Brenner, I sentence you to a life term in prison.”
Every day, the judge’s words come back to haunt me. Today, the prison system is plagued with the mockery of so-called prison reformers. It is them I hold responsible for my daughter and granddaughter’s murderer today walking free. The same age as me, aged, broken by the prison system, but not buried there.
Not while I have a breath left in my body.
Ever since the newspapers suggested that this brutal killer’s case has come under review, now considered a harmless old man, he will be released from prison to die at home.
The gun in my jacket pocket has three bullets in it; two will be for the killer.
As the large grey steel gates open, I step back into the shadow of a tree and lean against it.
There he is, carrying a small suitcase. There is no mistaking him, his shoulders hunched and that bow-legged.
I can feel the cold steel of the revolver in my pocket. The prison dares to shake the killer's hand before closing the gates. I’ll let him get a few more yards from the gates.
The killer, wearing a flat cap and struggling with his suitcase, crosses the narrow road to the bus stop. He leaned and rolled a cigarette, ignorant of my approach.
“Brenner!” and I felt myself choking with the shout and stagger toward him, my revolver pointing.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else, friend,” uttered the petrified killer, his hands held up as if to protect himself.
“Plead all you want, Brenner. I’ve waited a long time.”
“No!” He begs.
I used my strength to pull the trigger twice, hearing the loud cracks as I watched his torso become a shade of crimson. The killer looks down, disbelieving at the gaping holes in his chest, before collapsing to the ground.
My twenty years of torment are over.
Deafening shouts follow the metallic sound of the opening prison gates. I turn my head to see two prison warders running toward me. My time is done; I feel the revolver’s barrel against my head.
The San Francisco Chronicle. January 10, 2024
Shocked prison warders ran to the scene of a shooting outside the prison gates. Two dead bodies were discovered at the scene. One body was that of Eric Jones, 79, once a petty thief, released after serving a three-year term for handling stolen goods. The other, Harold Jackson, 81, the father of Stephanie Reynolds, who was raped and murdered in 2003, along with Alison Reynolds, 12, her daughter. Harold Jackson’s granddaughter.
Police believe Mr Jackson had lain in wait, knowing Lloyd Brenner was being released under the new reform act. Brenner died of cancer a day before his release. The police said it was a case of mistaken identity.
Mr. Reynolds, Harold Jackson’s son-in-law, attended the burial. Harold Jackson was laid to rest at the side of Mr. Reynold’s wife and daughter. He had no comment.
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