Trial by Fire

The following poem is written by Susie Spiegel and presented with her permission to be distributed only on the Swimming to Casablanca website.

Prelude:
The story of Willingham, a true story, first broke in the New Yorker magazine where I read it years ago. The story was profoundly disturbing. Recently I saw a few seconds of a trailer from a film called “Trial by Fire,” with Laura Dern. I knew instantly that the movie was about the Willingham saga. I pulled out the poem and after many edits, decided to share it., The story is remarkable, not only because of the tragic deaths of Willingham and his three babies, but also because of the gross injustice and great love that are also part of the story. It is the juxtaposition of the two, and the enormity of both that ensure the Willingham Saga will never be forgotten.
  
THE BALLAD OF WILLINGHAM
Willingham lost
Three babies
Burnt to death
In bed,
Windows blew, the
Door frame melted;
Like candlewax.
He took a stick,
Smashed a hole,
Nothing he could do.
 
“Never mind that space heater!”
So said the fire sleuth,
An opinionated man of little note;
 
“Patterns like puddles on the floor, brown stains,
Must be accelerant;”
But he did no tests,
Crash course of 45 hours;
 
“Crazy Willingham, demon possessed, bent
Below the bunk, poured accelerant, burnt
Those babies in their beds!” so said
The fire marshal;
 
“And he sometimes hit his wife!” so
Said the prosecutor;
 
“Crossbones and a skull,
Black ink beneath his skin, evidence of
Demonic tinkering!” so said the expert on misfits,
 
“Listened to Led Zeppelin and
Megadeath,” so said the psychologist, “further
Proof he did it.”
 
“Plead guilty, son, we take your time,
Remain quiet, we take your life!” So
Said the judge.
 
Willingham said nothing, stoic and quiet
In this grief.
 
This young man,
A cage, a prison
Became his life,
“Baby-killer” they called him;
Though the trial had ended,
His inmates tried him every day.
 
Twelve years he clung to sanity,
Fighting for appeal,
Asking to be heard,
When Gilbert came,
Sent by the church,
 
She understood:
He burnt those babies.
Surprised she was
To find Willingham
Grateful for her time,
Respectful even kind.
She listened,
Began to believe.
 
She asked, and he said yes,
Renowned expert,
Nation’s leading arsonist,
Would take no fee,
“Fire sleuth a disgrace,
No puddles, and no defense,”
Read his report.
 
Gilbert searched the details,
Saved to last
And read the trial,
“Injustice at its best,
Space heater, not Willingham,
Caused the blast.”
 
The Board refused!
Even to read.
Death by injection
It was to be.
 
Gilbert so touched
His life,
He asked,
Please to attend,
She would, she said.
  
With little joy,
The final meal,
The state provided,
On a tray,
With beverage
And a napkin,
Served with a priest,
Paid for by the state,
That would take the tray,
The barbecued ribs,
And his life,
The meat and cream pie,
Still inside him,
As the poison
Filled his veins.
 
When the warden
Gave the sign,
He lay on the floor,
He would not walk,
To assist the state,
To take his life.
 
Brown leather mitts,
Trundled Willingham,
Cold corridors of cement,
No windows, not a hint
Of what awaited him.
 
As the priest leaned in,
My son, one prayer or two,
If the state is paying,
Willingham told him, make it two.
 
In the room,
Leather cuffs and straps,
A last goodbye,
“I am innocent,”
His parents heard him say.
The mother of those babies,
Standing helplessly by,
Plexiglass between them,
 
“Where is Gilbert?”
His voice broke!
The crowd –
Relatives,
His wife,
No one knew.
The officers
Pulled his body,
Tough leather straps,
Legs cuffed wide.
 
Once more, searching,
His head turned.
The babies’ mother,
The one he sometimes hit,
Standing, hands wide
Against the glass.
 
This last time,
His eye,
Her eye,
Touched.
Resigned, calmed,
The microphone
Lifted his words:
Belief in God.
His family heard,
Goodness, kindness,
And belief
In himself,
Then a last farewell,
As the tears fell,
Not yet broken,
Bitter, or burnt.
 
In a white room,
Down the road,
Gilbert was pleading:
Call the warden,
Tell Willingham,
Before they induced
Coma, surgery;
But no one,
No one, was
Allowed to call.
Willingham died knowing
He was innocent,
Not knowing,
What became
Of Gilbert.
 
Gilbert’s turn
To be in a cage.
Stranger’s car
Smashed a hole,
Melted the frame,
Crumpled her spine,
Paralyzed from the
Neck down.
Twelve years,
His courage,
Gave her courage,
She said.
 
To Gilbert
Willingham had confessed,
His most
Tender thoughts,
Poetry he wrote,
A breviary of grief
And strength,
 
Like many martyrs,
His letters,
Words, insights, influence,
There is no end
To the adjectives,
To describe…
 
There is more…
 
Witness to confession
Fellow traveler in time,
Said Willingham told all,
Reported to police,
Testified at trial,
For a treat.

Convict serving time,
Now released,
But recanted,
Threatened with crime,
Of perjury
He recanted
His recanting.
 
In the great
State of Texas
A man was
Put to death,
Perhaps the first
To be
Legally and factually,
Completely innocent.
 
When Willingham
Closed his eyes,
Prepared to take,
His very
Last breath,
The wife,
He sometimes hit,
Was there,
Not to mock, but
To ease his suffering.
 
While Gilbert was absent,
And the wife felt helpless,
And the snitch did too,
The gifts they gave Willingham
Were like the heat of the flame, like
Gilbert’s rage for truth,
That gift was there,
Though she was not,
And her devotion too,
Both,
As surely there,
As though they had been
Seared,
And branded
On his heart.
 
Four lives entwined in crime,
The Samaritan,
The convict,
The martyr,
And the wife;
Scorched by time, and
Burned by hell,
 
Yet, as the experts,
And the artists,
The philosophers,
And the thugs,
Sift the cinder, and
The ash, the tinder
And the mess,
They can still discern
Through the door frame,
And brown stains,
The puddles
And the regret,
The tenacious heart of Willingham,
Big and tough and hot,
Like the great state of Texas
That tried to snuff it out,
Beating strong
Through clemency,
Beating long
Through constancy,
The very loving
Accelerants
Gilbert poured
Into his heart.
 
 

Copyright © 2019 Susie Spiegel                                                                                                    All rights reserved, August 12, 2019