As you’ve no doubt gathered, living simply in the South is the general melody behind the lyrics that are my biweekly column. I am humbled and honored I get to share with you the sagas behind lessons learned as I get back to my roots, and it is my utmost hope that you enjoy the ride alongside me. Given the nature of my writing, I try to abstain from overt political or legal commentary other than a pithy side observation nestled within the general refrain of tall tales.
But not this week.
This week, my roots converge with my profession and a healthy dose of horse sense to find me angry. Quite angry. And, may I say, there isn’t much that can rival the intensity of a fire ablaze in the gut of an angry Southern woman, where the “Honeys” and “Darlin’s” and sweet dispositions fade into a steadfast gaze followed by a Julia Sugarbaker diatribe.
Let the diatribes begin.
There are some things in this world I do not understand. I can read the directions on a box of cake mix and still pull something unrecognizable from my oven. I shake my head with dissatisfaction in explaining why bad things happen to good people, or harder still, why good things happen to bad people. And I don’t yet have the whole dating-later-in-life thing figured out, but I do know this.
I know that a decade ago, a man named John Landingham admitted to beating his wife with a croquet mallet and broom handle and cutting her with a butcher knife. He attacked her again when he was out on bond. He had prior convictions for rape, sexual abuse, burglary and battery, and he pleaded guilty to a number of felonies and was sentenced to 45 years in prison as a habitual offender.
Hey, how ‘bout we let this guy out for a 12-day vacation every year to go home and run around Northwest Arkansas on the weekends because of his good behavior?
It doesn’t take a formal education to recognize Stupid. Good behavior isn’t what got John Landingham in prison. Part of being in jail – the big part – is that you don’t get to go do the things you used to do because you didn’t play well with others. You are sentenced to confinement and removed from the playground.
If I went to prison, I wouldn’t expect to get off on the weekends. Heck, I barely get off on the weekends nowadays as a “free” member of society.
Now, I’m all for second chances and even fourth and fifth chances depending on the situation, because Heaven knows I’ve needed and received my share of those when I’ve been struck by a case of Stupid. I also am fully aware that positive reinforcement to modify behavior works on humans inside a prison much the same way as it works outside one, and I’d happily entertain serving Twinkies and cream soda every Thursday at noon to those who followed the rules.
But the reward of periodic days of freedom for a man who has repeatedly engaged in violence when not incarcerated is disproportionate to the injury that could be – and was – sustained.
John Landingham admitted this week to raping a mentally-challenged 17-year old girl in Benton County while on vacation from prison. He was sentenced to another 20 years.
Oh well, that’s good, because the 45-year sentence he had apparently didn’t take. It had an asterisk behind it noting “Weekdays only.”
Some folks are in prison and shouldn’t be. Some are wrongly accused, mentally ill or had ineffective counsel. And some folks are there because they absolutely, positively should be there overnight and on weekends. They have proven time and time again to hurt other people when loose in the world.
I don’t know how to stop those who bomb marathons and shoot children and fly planes into skyscrapers. I don’t know how to stop something you don’t see coming. Some say you can’t. Some say that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try, and good people can disagree on what methods would work. But I submit that you needn’t have two brain cells to rub together to know to leave John Landingham behind bars.
We saw this coming. Coming right for a 17-year old girl. What do we say to her?
My sunny disposition about simplicity will no doubt rebound by my next column, but this week, I found my roots by telling the Powers That Be that they can put that in their pipe and smoke it.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL’ SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.