WHY GOD GAVE US GUNS
Part I
by Henry Edward Fool
PRIOR APPROVAL
Sometime just after ten in the morning on the one day, the single day, the only day that Bill Tuggs had off work; the
one and only day that he could sleep in, the doorbell rang. Bill was yanked awake from a sound sleep. He pulled
himself from his bed, shrugged on a pair of old jeans, and padded, barefoot, through the house to the front door. He
did not get there before the doorbell rang again, of course. He opened it gently nonetheless, and positioning his
pale flabby upper-body nakedness discretely behind the paneled wooden door. With his head sticking out beyond
the edge he saw a woman of substantial bearing and over-amplified dignity with a clipboard in her hands. He thought
he recognized her, but in his sleepiness could not place her or give her a name. That she supplied.
“Mr. Tuggs,” she said sharply, “I am Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association and it is my duty to tell you that
the color you have chosen to paint your front entry-way door—this door—is unacceptable.”
Tuggs, still somewhat befuddled with sleep, responded by saying, “What?” or perhaps, “Huh?”, maybe both.
Opening the door completely he stepped out onto the concrete landing and turned around to looked at it. The door
was painted green, a dark green, a nice green, a reasonable green. I want you to understand the kind of green it
was; it was nothing garish (that’s what I’m getting at). Tuggs himself had just finished painting it the previous
evening. That was one of the reasons he was so tired. That was one of the reasons he felt that he deserved some
uninterrupted sleep; after a full day’s work and an evening spent preparing and painting that door, he’d earned it.
He thought he’d done a nice job too, for someone who doesn’t particularly care for painting, and his wife was
pleased, and that’s what really counts.
‘Thank you, Bill,” his wife had said and kissed him on the forehead. “The door looks really nice.”
Tuggs was confused. “It looks OK to me,” he said, scratching his head. “It’s a nice color.”
“Yes, Mr. Tuggs, I agree that it is what many would call a nice color, but this color has not received prior approval
from the Home Owners’ Association, and therefore it is unacceptable. We’re going to have to ask you to take it down
until you are given the proper approval.”
Now Tuggs was even more confused.
‘Take it down?”
“Well, you can repaint it the original color in the meantime, or you can simply remove the door altogether,” said Ms.
Cleave.
“You want me to re-paint the door the color it used to be?”
“OR, simply remove it.”
“You want me to remove my front door?”
“Or return it to its original, HOA approved, color.”
“You want me to un-do the work I just did?”
“Yes, until you receive Association approval.”
He looked at his front door, then turned to look at the front door on the place directly across the street. It too was a
dark green, and if not precisely the same green, it was certainly very very close.
“But,” said Tuggs, “Bob Willots has his front door this same color. Look,” he said and pointed across the street.
Irene Cleave did not look. She did not turn and she did not look. Instead, she said this: “Mr. Tuggs, this has nothing
to do with Mr. Willots or what color his door may be, it has to do with prior approval. Residents must be granted prior
approval by the HOA BEFORE altering the outward appearance of their property; prior approval which you did not
have. It’s a matter of consideration for your neighbors. Admittedly, the color you chose does fit within our
guidelines…”
“It does?”
“Yes, you can be thankful for that, however without prior approval we cannot…”
“The color is OK with you folks?”
“Yes, the color is acceptable. It’s on the list of acceptable colors…”
“It’s on the list?”
“Yes,: she said somewhat exasperated, “It’s not the color that concerns us, it’s the fact that you failed to present the
color to the Association for approval—prior approval I should say—before starting...”
Bill Tuggs interrupted her, “Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa- whoa, whoa,” he said. “Wait here,” he said calmly. “I think I
have a solution to this problem.”
Then Bill Tuggs went inside his house, leaving Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association standing there on the
step with her clipboard. He returned a brief few minutes later with a handgun and, without speaking another word,
shot her in the head (without prior approval).
For the squeamish among you let me say this very quickly: it was a decisive shot…a clean kill, as they say. Killed
instantly, Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association was dead long before she hit the pavement.
But, there were repercussions. One repercussion was that today, even as I write this, the front door of the Tuggs
house remains that same dark green. Another was that none of the remaining, surviving, members of the HOA has
since re-visited the subject. A third was that Bill Tuggs was hauled off to jail.
THE TRIAL
During the trial there were protestors outside the courthouse, and like good protestors everywhere many carried
badly painted signs. Though each of the many placards on display that day made tremendous sense—and spoke
volumes about the people who carried them—one of the protesters was given the opportunity to explain his position
further for the benefit of local TV viewers. His sign read: “JUSTICE KILLERS = JUST US KILLERS.” When the
cameraman panned in his direction, a microphone appeared under his chin and he screamed red-faced into the
camera, “SUDDENLY the PENALTY for being a PAIN IN THE ASS is MURDER? Is that it? Is that what we’ve come to?
Now we’re just gonna gun down everyone who’s a pain in the ass?” It was an interesting question…and certainly
worthy of an overly simplified answer, but we won’t get into that here.
Another sign read: “AIN’ NO FUN BEIN’ SHOT WID A GUN”. With the camera now on him, the apparently toothless
young man holding that sign proudly pulled up his t-shirt to reveal several old scars that appeared to be bullet entry
wounds scattered among his various maritime based tattoos. He winked vaudeville style. “See! I KNOW what I’m
talkin’ about!” He cackled and declared loudly, “I KNOW what I am TALKIN’ ABOUT!” Then he cackled again. (All of
his tattooed ships were square rigged, none fore an’ aft.)
A woman with a small sign reading: “BANG BANG, you’re DEAD!” explained her thinking. “There is simply no reason
why any law-abiding citizen should ever have a loaded gun in his home knowing that we have police, whose job it is
to arrive on the scene after the fact!” She said this straight-faced with a gaggle of what could only be geniuses
gathered around behind her nodding in agreement.
Meanwhile, inside, witnesses gathered in small mumbling, somewhat snappish clumps outside the courtroom door.
Many of them seemed to empathize with Bill Tuggs. Some, whose hedges had been deemed too tall, some, whose
hedges were deemed ‘of an immodest profile’; some who had planted flowering plants found on the ‘NOT
APPROVED’ list, some who had planted trees which—if they had only taken the time to look—could have been
found easily on the ‘No Longer Approved’ list; some who persisted in leaving their cars parked outside their garage
overnight, despite previous written warnings from the Home Owners’ Association…they all seemed to sympathize.
Amongst themselves they began to tack together a solid case in defense of the defendant, the man local media had
labeled “the gun totin’ Mr. Tuggs”.
Inside the courtroom, Bill Tugg’s court appointed lawyer entered a plea of innocent—which Bill did not want—based
on temporary insanity—which Bill vehemently denied—and began to build his case around two startling facts: that
Bill Tuggs had never been heard to publicly proclaimed having read every word Shakespeare had ever written—
could not, in fact, recite a single soliloquy—NOR, despite the press’ continual detailed coverage of such events,
could he say what Britney’s favorite color was, or name any of her three ugly little yappy lap dogs (Bippy, Boppy and
Boopy-Doo). The man was clearly out of touch with reality as we all know it, if not completely insane. As if further
proof might be needed, Mr. Tuggs insisted upon taking the stand himself.
Some observers seemed to think that these facts only indicated that Tuggs was an honest man. They further
reasoned that an honest man has the same rights as everybody else, the right to own a gun among them, and the
right to get some well earned, undisturbed sleep on his only day off…AS WELL AS the right to protect his own sanity.
The simple rebuttal (of course) was that an honest man with a gun is one thing, an honest man with a gun standing
over a recently dispatched Home Owners’ Association nag, is quite another. Most people who took this position
chose to ignore entirely the man’s right to well-earned, undisturbed sleep. For them, that aspect of the case carried
no weight.
It was a tough one, there’s no doubt.
Although the judge ruled that the defense “Can not raise the defense of justification.” in a strange way Mr. Tuggs
still dodged a bullet. The prosecutor leaned over his table long enough to make a point. He wagged his finger and
said, “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Tuggs; if that woman had survived, the court would be forced to consider emotional
distress, and she’d have had a very good case.”
He said this as if it might be a threat.
“Just ignore that stupid bastard,” whispered his attorney.
In that courtroom, as in the rest of his life, Bill Tuggs had NO IDEA what was going on.
Once he took the stand, Bill’s grilling was grueling. Would it be going too far to say, it was a grueling grilling? (I’ll give
you a minute…)
Though our system of justice is flexible and can stretch a bit on occasion to accommodate somewhat those who can
afford to pay for such accommodation—whether politicians or high level career criminals of the non-political sort—its
has no latitude whatsoever when it comes to dealing with the good and honest man. So, it looked very much like
Tuggs had made a fatal mistake by taking the stand.
(Shooting Ms. Cleave had probably not been an example of his best thinking either.)
There’s no reason to go through all the testimony (you can thank me later). The final few minutes of his testimony,
during which he faced a perspiring prosecutor in a nicely fitted summer weight silk suit, looked especially bad. Let’s
tune in and see what that looks like.
“Mr. Tuggs, were you overheard saying, ‘This is not a feudal society and those people—referring to the Home
Owners’ Association, I would be forced to assume—are not royalty.’ And, if so, what precisely did you mean by that?
“Now, does that sound like the kind of thing I would say?” asked Tuggs slowly.
“Will you please respond to the question Mr. Tuggs?” snapped the judge.
“Well, if I did say that…you know, about feuds and, what you just said…I don’t recall it. It just doesn’t sound like
anything I would ever say. Who said I said that anyway?”
“Please just answer the question,” cautioned the judge.
As you might imagine, the prosecutor looked quite sternly at Tuggs when the judge made this demand.
“OK. I don’t recall saying anything like that…ever…to anybody.”
“You don’t recall?”
“I don’t, no.”
“Then you don’t deny having said it?”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you, if that’s allowed.” Tuggs and the prosecutor both looked to the judge for a ruling on that
one. The judge, after some deliberation with the bailiff, gave a firm, somewhat jowly nod, and considered, for a brief
moment, using his gavel.
“Please continue, Mr. Tuggs,” said the judge as he laid his gavel down with great care.
“OK. Uh…if that sentence was written down for me and I was asked to read it out loud, I’d probably have trouble with
it. It really doesn’t…”
“It’s obvious to me, Mr. Tuggs,” shouted the judge, interrupting him, “that you have no intention to cooperate with
these proceedings. Please continue…”
“Every reasonable man in here must wonder, why you insisted upon taking the stand,” added the prosecutor.
“Well, my lawyer—who I did not ask for and do not have any need of—wants to portray me as insane or insane at
that moment anyway, and I am not insane now and I don’t think I was insane then. If anything it was a moment of
clarity.”
“Ah, so, you intended to shoot Ms. Cleave?!”
“Oh, I intended to shoot her alright.”
“And did you intend to kill her?”
“Absolutely. There’s no sense in shooting anything unless you intend to kill it. My daddy taught me that.”
“And why did you wish to kill Ms. Cleave?”
“You want the truth?”
Once again they appealed to the judge, who hesitated but a moment before finding it admissible. “Proceed.”
“We do,” said the prosecutor with great pomp. “The TRUTH, Mr. Tuggs is what we are here for. The TRUTH is the
essence of…”
What the Truth was the essence of was lost as the prosecutor lowered his voice and began to mumble.
He looked to the witness, and nodded.
“Me?” asked Tuggs.
“Yes.”
“Oh, OK. Honestly, I don’t think there is a man, a woman or a child in this courtroom right now that, woken up from a
sound sleep on the only day they might sleep in a little, after having spent the entire previous evening, scrapin’ and
fillin’ and sandin’ and preppin’ and paintin’ that goddamned front door, could have listened to that woman for one
second longer than I did before going after a gun.”
“And that’s the Truth, Mr. Tuggs?,,,as you see it.”
“As I see it, yes.”
The prosecutor turned and addressed the jury, “As he sees it. It’s the truth AS YOU SEE IT, Mr. Tuggs?”
“It is. I only thank God I had a gun handy, or who knows how long that goddamned nonsense would have gone on.”
“Then you no longer cling to a plea of insanity?”
“No, and I never did. I cling to the plea that I took as much of that goddamned nonsense as any man who is neither
Buddha nor Christ himself could take. That’s my plea.”
You can imagine the murmuring of the crowd as, some aghast, others with full understanding, vented their views on
what they had just heard. “Who’s Buddha?” some were heard to say. Nonetheless, after that statement it looked as
though the only question was whether the jury would convict him on the spot without deliberation or, leave the
courtroom out of respect for the process, in which case those rising to leave would have to squeeze by those
already returning with the firm look of conviction written deeply upon their furled brows.
Despite what Mr. Tuggs thought of his defender, the man did a fairly good job in his concluding statements.
Pacing around in front of the jury, head cast downward in most sincere thought, the attorney for the Defense leaned
upon the rail in front of them—as all good lawyers do— sighed and, in a near whisper, said this :
“Did you understand what Mr. Tuggs said when he was on the stand just now?”
The jury nodded.
“Good. I’m glad you did because otherwise my task would be impossible. I’d have to be very careful with my words,
and the more I attempted to explain Mr. Tuggs’ actions on that fateful day, the more you’d doubt my sincerity. So, I’m
going to skip all that. Let’s forget about me; let’s forget about what my job is here today; let’s talk about Bill Tuggs.
Bill Tuggs is an honest man. He got up there, took the stand, despite my advice against it, and told you exactly what
he did and precisely why he did it. Why did he do that?…Because he knew you’d understand. And you did, didn’t
you?”
The jury nodded.
“You understood what he said. It wasn’t poetic, it wasn’t lofty, it wasn’t scripted, it wasn’t an excuse, it wasn’t a ploy;
Bill Tuggs wasn’t trying to manipulate you in any way, or pull the sheep over your eyes; what he said was the truth.
The Truth, plain and simple. And…and, AND, you understood exactly what the man was saying to you, didn’t you?”
They nodded.
“AND…and…and, if you have ever purchased a car, either new or used; if you have ever dealt with an insurance
company, or a hospital, or a bank, or the airlines or anyone in customer service; if you’ve ever had to face city hall,
or, I’m sorry to say, talk to a lawyer, then you can understand what Bill Tuggs did. AND…and, you can understand
WHY. If, like Bill Tuggs here, you were awaken from a sound sleep, on the only day you might get some well-earned
sleep, to face the rambling, arbitrary idiotic tyrannical demands of the blustering representative of some puffed-up,
self-appointed authority, like the agent of this Home Owners’ Association, you might, if you allow yourself to admit
it…IF you allow yourself to admit it… you might have done the very same thing. What I’m asking you to do…is to
allow yourselves to admit that.”
“Is that all?, you ask.” The lawyer threw up his hands, turned his back on the jury, and, inserting his hands into his
pockets, began to walk away. Turning to them again he said, “Yes, there’s no more to it than that. It’s that simple.”
He looked down at his shoes for a bit. He sighed. He shook his head. He pointed at Bill Tuggs.
“What Bill Tuggs did was not a crime of passion. It was not a terrorist act. It was not a random act of violence. It was,
as he saw it, the only reasonable response to an untenable situation—and effective. My god, it certainly was that!
Did he do what you yourself might have done? That’s the real question. In answering it, be as honest with yourself
as Mr. Tuggs has been with you…today…upon that stand.”
AFTER THE TRIAL
After the trial, after the foreman of the jury stood up and loudly declared Mr. Tuggs, “ASOLUTELY goddamned 100
% INNOCENT, your honor!”, and after the crowd stopped pounding on things and squealing in delight, after the
cheering died down, after the judge smiled widely, stood up and slammed down his gavel concluding the matter, a
ripple spread across the nation putting Home Owners’ Associations, and every other tin-badge tyranny on alert, and
perhaps just a little on edge.
Sure a few pot shots were taken at HOA folks after that verdict came in, but that was more a celebration of Liberty
than anything else; a declaration of independence. There was never any real threat. At any rate, a message was
sent.
It was open season on meter maids for a while there too.
Part I
by Henry Edward Fool
PRIOR APPROVAL
Sometime just after ten in the morning on the one day, the single day, the only day that Bill Tuggs had off work; the
one and only day that he could sleep in, the doorbell rang. Bill was yanked awake from a sound sleep. He pulled
himself from his bed, shrugged on a pair of old jeans, and padded, barefoot, through the house to the front door. He
did not get there before the doorbell rang again, of course. He opened it gently nonetheless, and positioning his
pale flabby upper-body nakedness discretely behind the paneled wooden door. With his head sticking out beyond
the edge he saw a woman of substantial bearing and over-amplified dignity with a clipboard in her hands. He thought
he recognized her, but in his sleepiness could not place her or give her a name. That she supplied.
“Mr. Tuggs,” she said sharply, “I am Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association and it is my duty to tell you that
the color you have chosen to paint your front entry-way door—this door—is unacceptable.”
Tuggs, still somewhat befuddled with sleep, responded by saying, “What?” or perhaps, “Huh?”, maybe both.
Opening the door completely he stepped out onto the concrete landing and turned around to looked at it. The door
was painted green, a dark green, a nice green, a reasonable green. I want you to understand the kind of green it
was; it was nothing garish (that’s what I’m getting at). Tuggs himself had just finished painting it the previous
evening. That was one of the reasons he was so tired. That was one of the reasons he felt that he deserved some
uninterrupted sleep; after a full day’s work and an evening spent preparing and painting that door, he’d earned it.
He thought he’d done a nice job too, for someone who doesn’t particularly care for painting, and his wife was
pleased, and that’s what really counts.
‘Thank you, Bill,” his wife had said and kissed him on the forehead. “The door looks really nice.”
Tuggs was confused. “It looks OK to me,” he said, scratching his head. “It’s a nice color.”
“Yes, Mr. Tuggs, I agree that it is what many would call a nice color, but this color has not received prior approval
from the Home Owners’ Association, and therefore it is unacceptable. We’re going to have to ask you to take it down
until you are given the proper approval.”
Now Tuggs was even more confused.
‘Take it down?”
“Well, you can repaint it the original color in the meantime, or you can simply remove the door altogether,” said Ms.
Cleave.
“You want me to re-paint the door the color it used to be?”
“OR, simply remove it.”
“You want me to remove my front door?”
“Or return it to its original, HOA approved, color.”
“You want me to un-do the work I just did?”
“Yes, until you receive Association approval.”
He looked at his front door, then turned to look at the front door on the place directly across the street. It too was a
dark green, and if not precisely the same green, it was certainly very very close.
“But,” said Tuggs, “Bob Willots has his front door this same color. Look,” he said and pointed across the street.
Irene Cleave did not look. She did not turn and she did not look. Instead, she said this: “Mr. Tuggs, this has nothing
to do with Mr. Willots or what color his door may be, it has to do with prior approval. Residents must be granted prior
approval by the HOA BEFORE altering the outward appearance of their property; prior approval which you did not
have. It’s a matter of consideration for your neighbors. Admittedly, the color you chose does fit within our
guidelines…”
“It does?”
“Yes, you can be thankful for that, however without prior approval we cannot…”
“The color is OK with you folks?”
“Yes, the color is acceptable. It’s on the list of acceptable colors…”
“It’s on the list?”
“Yes,: she said somewhat exasperated, “It’s not the color that concerns us, it’s the fact that you failed to present the
color to the Association for approval—prior approval I should say—before starting...”
Bill Tuggs interrupted her, “Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa- whoa, whoa,” he said. “Wait here,” he said calmly. “I think I
have a solution to this problem.”
Then Bill Tuggs went inside his house, leaving Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association standing there on the
step with her clipboard. He returned a brief few minutes later with a handgun and, without speaking another word,
shot her in the head (without prior approval).
For the squeamish among you let me say this very quickly: it was a decisive shot…a clean kill, as they say. Killed
instantly, Irene Cleave of the Home Owners’ Association was dead long before she hit the pavement.
But, there were repercussions. One repercussion was that today, even as I write this, the front door of the Tuggs
house remains that same dark green. Another was that none of the remaining, surviving, members of the HOA has
since re-visited the subject. A third was that Bill Tuggs was hauled off to jail.
THE TRIAL
During the trial there were protestors outside the courthouse, and like good protestors everywhere many carried
badly painted signs. Though each of the many placards on display that day made tremendous sense—and spoke
volumes about the people who carried them—one of the protesters was given the opportunity to explain his position
further for the benefit of local TV viewers. His sign read: “JUSTICE KILLERS = JUST US KILLERS.” When the
cameraman panned in his direction, a microphone appeared under his chin and he screamed red-faced into the
camera, “SUDDENLY the PENALTY for being a PAIN IN THE ASS is MURDER? Is that it? Is that what we’ve come to?
Now we’re just gonna gun down everyone who’s a pain in the ass?” It was an interesting question…and certainly
worthy of an overly simplified answer, but we won’t get into that here.
Another sign read: “AIN’ NO FUN BEIN’ SHOT WID A GUN”. With the camera now on him, the apparently toothless
young man holding that sign proudly pulled up his t-shirt to reveal several old scars that appeared to be bullet entry
wounds scattered among his various maritime based tattoos. He winked vaudeville style. “See! I KNOW what I’m
talkin’ about!” He cackled and declared loudly, “I KNOW what I am TALKIN’ ABOUT!” Then he cackled again. (All of
his tattooed ships were square rigged, none fore an’ aft.)
A woman with a small sign reading: “BANG BANG, you’re DEAD!” explained her thinking. “There is simply no reason
why any law-abiding citizen should ever have a loaded gun in his home knowing that we have police, whose job it is
to arrive on the scene after the fact!” She said this straight-faced with a gaggle of what could only be geniuses
gathered around behind her nodding in agreement.
Meanwhile, inside, witnesses gathered in small mumbling, somewhat snappish clumps outside the courtroom door.
Many of them seemed to empathize with Bill Tuggs. Some, whose hedges had been deemed too tall, some, whose
hedges were deemed ‘of an immodest profile’; some who had planted flowering plants found on the ‘NOT
APPROVED’ list, some who had planted trees which—if they had only taken the time to look—could have been
found easily on the ‘No Longer Approved’ list; some who persisted in leaving their cars parked outside their garage
overnight, despite previous written warnings from the Home Owners’ Association…they all seemed to sympathize.
Amongst themselves they began to tack together a solid case in defense of the defendant, the man local media had
labeled “the gun totin’ Mr. Tuggs”.
Inside the courtroom, Bill Tugg’s court appointed lawyer entered a plea of innocent—which Bill did not want—based
on temporary insanity—which Bill vehemently denied—and began to build his case around two startling facts: that
Bill Tuggs had never been heard to publicly proclaimed having read every word Shakespeare had ever written—
could not, in fact, recite a single soliloquy—NOR, despite the press’ continual detailed coverage of such events,
could he say what Britney’s favorite color was, or name any of her three ugly little yappy lap dogs (Bippy, Boppy and
Boopy-Doo). The man was clearly out of touch with reality as we all know it, if not completely insane. As if further
proof might be needed, Mr. Tuggs insisted upon taking the stand himself.
Some observers seemed to think that these facts only indicated that Tuggs was an honest man. They further
reasoned that an honest man has the same rights as everybody else, the right to own a gun among them, and the
right to get some well earned, undisturbed sleep on his only day off…AS WELL AS the right to protect his own sanity.
The simple rebuttal (of course) was that an honest man with a gun is one thing, an honest man with a gun standing
over a recently dispatched Home Owners’ Association nag, is quite another. Most people who took this position
chose to ignore entirely the man’s right to well-earned, undisturbed sleep. For them, that aspect of the case carried
no weight.
It was a tough one, there’s no doubt.
Although the judge ruled that the defense “Can not raise the defense of justification.” in a strange way Mr. Tuggs
still dodged a bullet. The prosecutor leaned over his table long enough to make a point. He wagged his finger and
said, “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Tuggs; if that woman had survived, the court would be forced to consider emotional
distress, and she’d have had a very good case.”
He said this as if it might be a threat.
“Just ignore that stupid bastard,” whispered his attorney.
In that courtroom, as in the rest of his life, Bill Tuggs had NO IDEA what was going on.
Once he took the stand, Bill’s grilling was grueling. Would it be going too far to say, it was a grueling grilling? (I’ll give
you a minute…)
Though our system of justice is flexible and can stretch a bit on occasion to accommodate somewhat those who can
afford to pay for such accommodation—whether politicians or high level career criminals of the non-political sort—its
has no latitude whatsoever when it comes to dealing with the good and honest man. So, it looked very much like
Tuggs had made a fatal mistake by taking the stand.
(Shooting Ms. Cleave had probably not been an example of his best thinking either.)
There’s no reason to go through all the testimony (you can thank me later). The final few minutes of his testimony,
during which he faced a perspiring prosecutor in a nicely fitted summer weight silk suit, looked especially bad. Let’s
tune in and see what that looks like.
“Mr. Tuggs, were you overheard saying, ‘This is not a feudal society and those people—referring to the Home
Owners’ Association, I would be forced to assume—are not royalty.’ And, if so, what precisely did you mean by that?
“Now, does that sound like the kind of thing I would say?” asked Tuggs slowly.
“Will you please respond to the question Mr. Tuggs?” snapped the judge.
“Well, if I did say that…you know, about feuds and, what you just said…I don’t recall it. It just doesn’t sound like
anything I would ever say. Who said I said that anyway?”
“Please just answer the question,” cautioned the judge.
As you might imagine, the prosecutor looked quite sternly at Tuggs when the judge made this demand.
“OK. I don’t recall saying anything like that…ever…to anybody.”
“You don’t recall?”
“I don’t, no.”
“Then you don’t deny having said it?”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you, if that’s allowed.” Tuggs and the prosecutor both looked to the judge for a ruling on that
one. The judge, after some deliberation with the bailiff, gave a firm, somewhat jowly nod, and considered, for a brief
moment, using his gavel.
“Please continue, Mr. Tuggs,” said the judge as he laid his gavel down with great care.
“OK. Uh…if that sentence was written down for me and I was asked to read it out loud, I’d probably have trouble with
it. It really doesn’t…”
“It’s obvious to me, Mr. Tuggs,” shouted the judge, interrupting him, “that you have no intention to cooperate with
these proceedings. Please continue…”
“Every reasonable man in here must wonder, why you insisted upon taking the stand,” added the prosecutor.
“Well, my lawyer—who I did not ask for and do not have any need of—wants to portray me as insane or insane at
that moment anyway, and I am not insane now and I don’t think I was insane then. If anything it was a moment of
clarity.”
“Ah, so, you intended to shoot Ms. Cleave?!”
“Oh, I intended to shoot her alright.”
“And did you intend to kill her?”
“Absolutely. There’s no sense in shooting anything unless you intend to kill it. My daddy taught me that.”
“And why did you wish to kill Ms. Cleave?”
“You want the truth?”
Once again they appealed to the judge, who hesitated but a moment before finding it admissible. “Proceed.”
“We do,” said the prosecutor with great pomp. “The TRUTH, Mr. Tuggs is what we are here for. The TRUTH is the
essence of…”
What the Truth was the essence of was lost as the prosecutor lowered his voice and began to mumble.
He looked to the witness, and nodded.
“Me?” asked Tuggs.
“Yes.”
“Oh, OK. Honestly, I don’t think there is a man, a woman or a child in this courtroom right now that, woken up from a
sound sleep on the only day they might sleep in a little, after having spent the entire previous evening, scrapin’ and
fillin’ and sandin’ and preppin’ and paintin’ that goddamned front door, could have listened to that woman for one
second longer than I did before going after a gun.”
“And that’s the Truth, Mr. Tuggs?,,,as you see it.”
“As I see it, yes.”
The prosecutor turned and addressed the jury, “As he sees it. It’s the truth AS YOU SEE IT, Mr. Tuggs?”
“It is. I only thank God I had a gun handy, or who knows how long that goddamned nonsense would have gone on.”
“Then you no longer cling to a plea of insanity?”
“No, and I never did. I cling to the plea that I took as much of that goddamned nonsense as any man who is neither
Buddha nor Christ himself could take. That’s my plea.”
You can imagine the murmuring of the crowd as, some aghast, others with full understanding, vented their views on
what they had just heard. “Who’s Buddha?” some were heard to say. Nonetheless, after that statement it looked as
though the only question was whether the jury would convict him on the spot without deliberation or, leave the
courtroom out of respect for the process, in which case those rising to leave would have to squeeze by those
already returning with the firm look of conviction written deeply upon their furled brows.
Despite what Mr. Tuggs thought of his defender, the man did a fairly good job in his concluding statements.
Pacing around in front of the jury, head cast downward in most sincere thought, the attorney for the Defense leaned
upon the rail in front of them—as all good lawyers do— sighed and, in a near whisper, said this :
“Did you understand what Mr. Tuggs said when he was on the stand just now?”
The jury nodded.
“Good. I’m glad you did because otherwise my task would be impossible. I’d have to be very careful with my words,
and the more I attempted to explain Mr. Tuggs’ actions on that fateful day, the more you’d doubt my sincerity. So, I’m
going to skip all that. Let’s forget about me; let’s forget about what my job is here today; let’s talk about Bill Tuggs.
Bill Tuggs is an honest man. He got up there, took the stand, despite my advice against it, and told you exactly what
he did and precisely why he did it. Why did he do that?…Because he knew you’d understand. And you did, didn’t
you?”
The jury nodded.
“You understood what he said. It wasn’t poetic, it wasn’t lofty, it wasn’t scripted, it wasn’t an excuse, it wasn’t a ploy;
Bill Tuggs wasn’t trying to manipulate you in any way, or pull the sheep over your eyes; what he said was the truth.
The Truth, plain and simple. And…and, AND, you understood exactly what the man was saying to you, didn’t you?”
They nodded.
“AND…and…and, if you have ever purchased a car, either new or used; if you have ever dealt with an insurance
company, or a hospital, or a bank, or the airlines or anyone in customer service; if you’ve ever had to face city hall,
or, I’m sorry to say, talk to a lawyer, then you can understand what Bill Tuggs did. AND…and, you can understand
WHY. If, like Bill Tuggs here, you were awaken from a sound sleep, on the only day you might get some well-earned
sleep, to face the rambling, arbitrary idiotic tyrannical demands of the blustering representative of some puffed-up,
self-appointed authority, like the agent of this Home Owners’ Association, you might, if you allow yourself to admit
it…IF you allow yourself to admit it… you might have done the very same thing. What I’m asking you to do…is to
allow yourselves to admit that.”
“Is that all?, you ask.” The lawyer threw up his hands, turned his back on the jury, and, inserting his hands into his
pockets, began to walk away. Turning to them again he said, “Yes, there’s no more to it than that. It’s that simple.”
He looked down at his shoes for a bit. He sighed. He shook his head. He pointed at Bill Tuggs.
“What Bill Tuggs did was not a crime of passion. It was not a terrorist act. It was not a random act of violence. It was,
as he saw it, the only reasonable response to an untenable situation—and effective. My god, it certainly was that!
Did he do what you yourself might have done? That’s the real question. In answering it, be as honest with yourself
as Mr. Tuggs has been with you…today…upon that stand.”
AFTER THE TRIAL
After the trial, after the foreman of the jury stood up and loudly declared Mr. Tuggs, “ASOLUTELY goddamned 100
% INNOCENT, your honor!”, and after the crowd stopped pounding on things and squealing in delight, after the
cheering died down, after the judge smiled widely, stood up and slammed down his gavel concluding the matter, a
ripple spread across the nation putting Home Owners’ Associations, and every other tin-badge tyranny on alert, and
perhaps just a little on edge.
Sure a few pot shots were taken at HOA folks after that verdict came in, but that was more a celebration of Liberty
than anything else; a declaration of independence. There was never any real threat. At any rate, a message was
sent.
It was open season on meter maids for a while there too.
