Free The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up by Jacob M. Appel

‘God Bless America
’—”
    “—
the other sister, the one who looks like a hedgehog
—”
    “—
has apologized
—
    “—
an apology
—”
    “—
at only $99.99
—”
    “—
rather moving statement from a lawyer representing the Tongue Traitor. It appears to represent a complete change of heart
….”
    How dare he?! His own best friend on his own front lawn serving him up to the lions. This was worse than Nuremberg; this was like the Politburo officials who read aloud the confessions from Stalin’s Purge Trials. He’d be remembered forever as the man who apologized for sticking out his tongue. Even though he wasn’t the slightest bit sorry—even though he’d do it again and again and again.
    Arnold was about to turn the TV off—or bash it in—when a commotion erupted behind the fast-talking reporter. The camera quickly focused on Spotty Spitford, who stood in the centre of the street with a bullhorn in one hand and what appeared to be a Bible in the other. “We will not accept no surrogate apologies,” the minister declared. “We will not accept no statement from a paid mouthpiece. You can’t buy no substitute, Mr. Brinkman. This ain’t no Civil War. We are the people and we ain’t gonna accept nothing less than a personal and unconditional plea for forgiveness.” Spitford raised his arms—the megaphone in one, the Bible in the other—as though the heavens might open and summon him up to duty. No such luck. “Let thecoward speak for himself,” the minister shouted. “We want Brinkman.”
    The mob took up the chant of “We want Brinkman!” and carried it along the block like a hearse.
     
    They were still shouting, “We want Brinkman! We want Brinkman!” when Arnold came charging up the street. The protesters now numbered in the hundreds. Not just professional agitators, but ordinary people who’d come to “defend their country.” There was even a contingent of World War II veterans from the American Legion. A smaller counter-demonstration occupied the opposite sidewalk: Fewer than a dozen college students and down-at-the-heel ex-hippies who could easily have passed as a reunion of the Chicago Seven. One waved a Soviet flag. Another wore a rubber Richard Nixon mask. Their posters read: “Free Palestine” and “Fur is Fratricide.” When Arnold passed through their ranks, none of them recognized him.
    Arnold pushed his way toward his porch, where the two officers still served as sentries, and the front door stood slightly ajar. Adrenaline and anger carried him forward. When he mounted the steps, the masses stepped back—as though fearing violence or contagion. “I’ll be brief,” he said.
    “Be sincere,” shouted Spitford.
    “I’ll be brief and sincere,” answered Arnold. “I do
not
apologize. I am
not
sorry. That man had no authorityto speak on my behalf.” He took a deep breath. “It is
you
who should apologize. I wouldn’t stand during a goddam song. You murdered Sacco and Vanzetti. You tell me who has blood on his hands?” Then he stepped into the house and slammed the door behind him.
    Judith was sitting on the piano bench. Her face was streaked with eyeliner and her hair hung down unevenly. “Sacco and Vanzetti?” she said. Her voice was hardly audible.
    “Where the hell is Card?” shouted Arnold.
    “He thought it was best—”
    “He knew I’d kill him.”
    Judith shook her head. “Please, Arnold. It’s not Gilbert’s fault.
I told him
you wanted to apologize. If you’re going to kill anyone, you’re going to have to kill me.”
    “Godammit, Judith. You had no fucking right….”
    “And you had a right to run off on me like that?” cried Judith, rising to her feet. “I couldn’t find you. I had no idea where you went. Do you know what it’s like to be all alone with that going on outside?”
    The chanting started again. Louder. Swelling with rage.
    “Is that all you have to say to me?” asked Arnold.
    “I don’t think I have much of anything