Chapter 12 - THE SLAP I OWNED
Trent’s cheek bruised.
The broken lawn chair cut his forearm.
No fracture.
No concussion.
My slap was recorded by at least eleven phones and two event cameras.
No self-defense argument.
Mason was already being attended to.
The rod was in my hand.
Trent was not attacking anyone at the second I struck him.
I hit him because I wanted to hurt him.
Then threatened him.
The prosecutor charged me with misdemeanor assault.
The threat was considered but did not become some theatrical attempted-extortion case.
My attorney, Rebecca Sloan, said:
"Your son’s injury is powerful mitigation."
"Not justification."
She looked at me.
"Correct."
The prosecutor offered diversion.
Anger-management.
Restitution for Trent’s documented medical expenses from my strike.
No unlawful contact.
No interference with his case.
No new offense.
Completion could lead to dismissal.
I accepted.
My first instructor asked:
"What did you want Trent to learn?"
I almost laughed.
The irony.
"You taught my son pain. Now learn fear."
I had literally described violence as teaching.
Exactly what Trent had done.
Different target.
Different context.
Same dangerous grammar.
The instructor waited.
Finally I said:
"I wanted him afraid."
"Did you think fear would improve him?"
"No."
"Then why call it learning?"
I looked down.
Because men in my family liked turning punishment into education.
May you like
Even me.
That realization stayed.
