Twelve years in prison and Robert Peckham had put on weight. The clothes his lawyer had brought for him were the biggest he could find in one of the cardboard boxes he’d left behind in a self-storage space over a decade ago. Back when he stopped being a physicist. Back when he was a rapist. But he wasn’t a rapist anymore, so it was okay. And now he would put on the fat clothes, a black sweatshirt and some jeans with a 40-inch waist along with some running shoes that had begun to break down over time. So he would put on his street clothes and walk out of prison, away from that fresh paint and Lysol smell, away from the yowling of the insane and the hissing of headphones. So everything was okay. That’s what the state said. An error, a sort of human bookkeeping error had been discovered and set right. Reset button. Reboot. A couple of registered letters of contrition. Done.
Robert Peckham’s lawyer had arranged for any interested reporters to meet the two of them at the front gate of the San Quentin State Prison, across from the guards’ shooting range. And if no one was there, then a car driven by the lawyer’s intern would be there to take them all home. But a few reporters did show up, and two camerapersons. One was a black guy, the other a big, strapping, dykey-looking bruiser. They all saw Robert Peckham coming out; hair was straightened, throats cleared, cameras were hefted. A woman with a microphone stepped forward with the group.
“Mr. Peckham, how does it feel to be free?” Robert Peckham stopped and for a moment seemed confused. For a second he wasn’t looking at the reporters. There was something bewildering, even dazzling about the view of the Marin County hills. Outside, even the sunlight seemed brighter. If he wanted to, he could roll down to Sausalito for a beer. He could go for a walk. Run to Safeway for a roast chicken and over to Video Droid for a movie. He was free. Even though exactly twenty-three minutes ago he was a prisoner of the State of California and in the absolute control of a system that could change his life in any way it saw fit: add time to his sentence, take away canteen privileges, toss his cell for infractions as small as speaking while standing in line. Twenty three, now twenty-four minutes ago. Somebody signed on a line. Somebody turned a key. Somebody pushed a button, and all of that vanished. And why was he free? Because someone somewhere decided to take another look at his case. Not some crusader, mind you, just someone checking the facts. Just making sure that there was no doubt that a rapist, male oppressor motherfucker like the famous Robert Peckham was unquestionably feeling the righteous revenge of a newly enlightened society, where women were …. And then they looked again, and by God, there was a bit of an inconsistency. And it all could have died right there if they had slipped that inconsistency back into the file. But that inconsistency became a bothersome detail. And that bothersome detail became a question. And that became the ugly fact that, just as Robert Peckham had told them twelve years ago, he never committed the crime for which he was imprisoned. A minor detail of sloppy DNA analysis. Something that could have been checked but wasn’t. Twelve years. Twelve years.
“How does it feel to be free?”
“Hell, ask me how it feels to be robbed,” Peckham said.
“Perhaps, but right now, right at this moment, how are you feeling? What are you feeling?”
“That’s private.”
“What? What’s private?”
Robert Peckham looked at her quizzically, again not understanding why she did not understand.
“Do any of you want to talk about my case?”
Another woman stepped forward. “All right, Mr. Peckham, how do you feel about the people who put you here?”
“They’re thieves. Except they steal parts of a life. They destroy lives. For politics. To make stories for people like you.”
“Surely your life is not destroyed.”
“The average physicist at a mid-level job is about thirty years younger than me. Do not tell me my life as a working physicist is not destroyed, you cunt.” Robert Peckham looked squarely at the reporter when he called her a cunt. At first she said nothing, not believing he had said it. Then her eyes widened. Then she was afraid. Another woman continued.
“If you could talk to them right now, what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Can you forgive?”
Robert Peckham stared in disbelief. The woman pressed on. “Can you reach closure?”
“Closure? Closure will come when they’re all dead. How old are you?”
The reporter, used to being in the crowd and throwing the torches in, stopped. “What does that have …”
“How the fuck old are you?” Robert Peckham shouted.
“I’m, uh, twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three. Honey, I’ve been in there since you were eleven years old. Oh, never mind.”
“So, this is the moment you get to make a statement. What would you, Robert Peckham, like to say?”
He breathed in and gathered himself. It took him a moment to speak. Anger takes a moment to choke down. He began quietly. “In my case …”
“Get this. Get this.” Someone shouted.
“In my case, the state used its entire arsenal of weapons to convict and imprison an innocent man. Because that innocent man was the perfect foil for the sanctimonious zealots of that moment. So they just fucked me. They fucked me for sound bites and for votes. They made me walk in handcuffs and shackles to be filmed by vampires like you. And now, at this moment, a moment even more tragic in a sense than the day I walked into this prison, where are those self-righteous accusers? Where are the political and social activists for whose phony causes I was demonized? Where are the liars and the frauds? Where’s their punishment? Who cuts away twelve years of their lives? Where is their prison? Who fucks them? Got an answer, kid?”
“Not, I, I don’t know.”
“Well, they’re still out there, and they need a good fucking.” Robert Peckham turned and walked from the cameras. Someone called to him.
“Could you say that all again without all the ‘fucking’ … part? And maybe quicker?”
