Around 7 PM, Ms. Holland dropped me at the Trailer Park entrance. We parted with a hug and some legal advice. She said to me:

"We have won a skirmish, and few more battles are coming which we have to avoid at all costs. I hope you have learned your lessons. You have tested your physical strength in that bout with Walter; don't let that go to your head and don't entertain any ideas of punishing any other student who may have tormented you before. You know a suspended student is prohibited from visiting the school and, the neighborhoods or the places where they hang out. There is a fear psychosis afloat in your neighborhood about your exaggerated prowess and tendency to hurt people. You have a hearing with the Juvenile Justice board is set for the Monday, next week. Stay home and read, watch TV but stay safe. I have given you the list of telephone numbers to contact if you need assistance. Don't fall for tricks; there are members of our society not happy with you getting away from the punishment they were hoping for. Walter's family is not likely to bother you, but his teammate may. Don't respond and call Sheriff's office at once and also keep me informed. God bless you child; I hope you will make through this, mine did not. She chose a way out of this cruel world. You I hope will fight a difficult but winnable war with me."

Ms. Holland drove off and I stood there on the Tyler Mountain Road watching her disappear on the highway entrance ramp.

After three decades when memories of my Juvenile Justice Center visit came alive while reading my notes again, Ms. Holland's image appeared in front of me. Today, I understand her quest better than I did then. I felt that uphill task she then undertook in one sense, was consequencethe fight that own child that she lost whose fundamental rights to education and the pursuit of happiness were denied by her school in a racial inequality conditions of sixties.
Through the court battles, which she undertakes without adequate compensations for the unfortunate young children who are victimized by our perfection worshiping society and have resort to the acts of anger that are deemed criminal in the juvenile courts. Here, mental health component is conveniently put aside by the legal profession that makes money from it. Filling our jails with individuals who need mental health before they go on to the acts of desperations that are harmful to the society at large, is not a solution, and this is an exhaustively researched, established and publicized information. Our politicians and exerts are well aware of those studies and researches and yet, the lure of money they get from that flourishing industry of warehousing the misfits like myself, has prevented them from budgeting the alternatives. Tough on Crime influences the frightened society but be Tough on Preventing the causes of child delinquency is ignored in the USA. There is no serious discussion in our media, or in the Power Houses on who the beneficiaries of this commercial enterprise are, and who the victims are. Citizens too at best, are indifferent to the crisis, and at worst, fall into the schemes of elected representatives and congressmen and women, all busy with their personal hold on the power, and giving a lip service to the plights of Americans living in the Trailer Parks, dilapidated ghettos of inner cities. Number of Billionaires are going up also the number of homeless individuals of all shades of skins.
Let me tell you about the events after after I returned to my Pappy's mobile home.
I walked towards the slot where Pappy's Mobile Home was located. Darkness had enveloped the park and in the dim streetlights, I could see the silhouettes of the parked vehicles and the trailer-homes. As I turned into the street my Pappy lived, I was surprised by the darkness in the Mobile Home. My heart sank. Memory of that dream of grave sprung up and I ran towards the unit. Porch light was not on and a steel padlock became visible in the florescent lamp of the street. I couldn't think of anything, mind became numb and just sat on the wooden bench next the picnic table and began to weep in the silence of that moonless summer night. Feeling of desperation began to overcome my stoic mind.
I don't remember how long I sat there, judging by the time, Mr. Roy arrived after his shift ended at the chemical plant, I think few hours had elapsed. He saw me in the truck's lights and stopped at my location. Mr. Roy lived three lots away north of Pappy's, and was an occasional visitor, checking on us for any assistance he could give like taking Pappy to a tavern for a beer or to an errand to nearby stores or medical facilities. He too was a veteran of Vietnam War, and they got along fine. He rarely interacted with me beyond the usual inquiries about school etc.
He got out of the truck and seeing him approaching, I stood up. He opened his arms and I let him hug me. By nature, I avoided people who displayed affections with a personal contact. I was very uncomfortable with that since my childhood. I don't remember my mother hugging me. Pappy used to doit sometimes and that was an exception I allowed, perhaps because he had filled the role of that missing father. That night, unconsciously, my need for comfort overtook the age-old resistance. In a soft voice he said:
"I too miss my friend and advisor; I share your grief!"
In a low voice, I asked him:
"What happened to Pappy? I don't know anything; I just arrived."
"Were you not home when he died? Where did you go?"
Apparently, he had not paid attention to the events and news involving me. He has been doing the nightshift at the plant forever and had a part-time job as a Janitor somewhere. He slept most of the day. Alone and without a child in the school, he probably was ignorant about that episode.
"In the custody of the state; I spent two days the center for beating a bully." I told him as little as possible.
"That's what must have killed him; I died in his chair with a book on his chest. I went to check on him and found him not answering, so shook his shoulder to wake him, but then he was gone. I am so sorry and sad that nobody was there to call 911. I did and then, everything was over and county put him in the Spring Hill Cemetery where he had a plot. I will take you there in the morning."
I was shocked by the news that county had to do the last rites and only Mr. Roy was there for him. Where was his daughter and my mother? There was no time to think about that now; issue was what I could do now. I asked Mr. Roy:
"Do you have a key to this place? If not, can you open the door somehow? I have no place to sleep."
He didn't answer immediately and appeared to be thinking. As a Black man he perhaps was wondering if he could offer a bed in his place to a white teenager female and not create unnecessary scrutiny from the police who he knew were going to visit the next day to do the closing of that case. He simply walked towards the truck and returned with a crowbar.
He yanked the lock and opened the door, went in and lit switched the lights on. I followed him. Everything looked undisturbed and to me it appeared like Pappy was in his bedroom. The book fallen on the ground and the magnifier glass was on the floor. I walked to the armchair and picked the book. It was 1953 novel, "The Bridges at-Toko-ri" by James A. Michener. That was the account of bombing in the Korean war that may have been his last bombing sortie.
Mr. Roy checked all the rooms and said:
"You should be fine here; I will stop tomorrow before leaving for work. Don't hesitate to ask; for now, all you have is me; think if you can, like I am your grand uncle. He was older brother to me. Make sure you lock the door." Then I heard truck moving and I locked the door and moved to my room. My tired body and mind prevented thoughts of future life, dominating my mind and I passed out.