Injustice For The Sake Of Justice
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
Page One
2003 / Revised 2022
Authored By: Bradley Chapline
Page One
2003 / Revised 2022
I was raised in a nice middle-class neighborhood named Perry Hall. It was a suburb of Baltimore City. My childhood years became riddled with trouble when at a young age I lost the true love of my life. I knew during these years I lacked proper educational skills. It appeared I was consistent in taking a bad situation and making it worse. There was no love lost between my mother and me. And, there was absolute hatred between my brother David and myself. I had always loved my father but he wasn’t around very much. Who could have blamed him? As I grew into my troublesome teen years my dad’s health began to decline. There wasn’t much he could do for me.
I somehow managed to graduate Marine boot camp in September of 1972. Both my dad and my mom came to my graduation ceremony at Parris Island, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, South Carolina. The drill instructor had told my parents that I was as tough as nails, but that he envisioned a long road of trouble for me and the Marine Corps. I didn’t wait long to prove the drill instructor right. As soon as my parents and I arrived back in Baltimore I disappeared with my hoodlum friends for a significant period of time. I also figured since my parents had two cars, I would steal one of them. I was quickly back to my old ways…smoking, drinking, chasing girls, and other negative activities. After three weeks I finally returned home because I was broke. My parents told me to leave and not come back until I straightened up.
I stayed the rest of my leave period with my hoodlum friends. But during my last week of leave I actually met a very nice girl named Vickie Clarke. She was slightly on the heavy side, but had a beautiful face. She had a great set of standards and morals built within her. I found this odd simply because Vickie was from the “white slums”. Prior to my departing Baltimore for my first Marine duty station, Vickie gave me her address and asked if I would keep in touch with her. I stated that I would, but I had no intention to do so. I didn’t want a woman who wasn’t going to put out.
I was quickly becoming adapted to the typical way of life for a Marine grunt. Jacksonville, North Carolina was a normal military town. The locals hated us, but they sure loved to have their town packed with pawn shops, bars, liquor stores, and cheap-looking, ugly women who were expensive. I got taken to the hoop moneywise just like most other young Marines did. The Jacksonville police were just as corrupt and dirty as the cheap bar girls we frequented. One night I was drunk at one of their bars. The bar fly I was with offered to take me home with her for $40.00. Did I ever make a mistake when I accepted her offer! ! ! She lived on what we called the wrong side of the tracks. This area was off-limits to all military personnel. We, as Marines, were well briefed on this. I grabbed a taxi and proceeded with this girl to her place. Even though I was intoxicated, I knew once the taxi had crossed the tracks I was messing up big time.
Several minutes later the taxi pulls up to an old, broken down, single-wide trailer that was nestled in a deep wooded area. I begin to get concerned as my instincts were right. We are now walking towards fthe front door of this crappy-looking swamp house. I had been told of many robberies committed on young Marines in this area. Some were even severely beaten and left to die out in the marsh and swamp areas. I walked through the front door of her trailer and saw a large man, 6’5” and a good 300 lbs. His words to me were, “You think you’re comin’ in here, boy, to screw my old lady?” “No, sir,” I said. “Then you better get your punk, city-slicking ass out of here, boy.”
As I left out the front door I heard the girl and this tremendous sized man yelling and screaming at each other. I was just standing a short distance up the dirt road from their trailer. I didn’t have a clue how to get out of this area. I was scared to remain where I was and I was scared to walk anywhere in this location. I then saw the Jacksonville police come to their trailer. I figured I had a better chance of surviving with the police than any other way. I began to walk back to the trailer. Both officers from the squad car were now inside the trailer. I walked up to the front door and lightly knocked on it. One of the officers walked over to the door and asked me, “What’s you doing here, boy? You get outta here right now, boy!” I started to say to the officer, “But, sir…” The door flew open and hit me, knocking me to the ground. The officer then came and stood over me. He then sprayed me in the face with mace three times. I was blinded. My face was burning. My nose and eyes were running liquids profusely. I still attempted to stand up. I couldn’t see at all as someone hit me in the side of my head with considerable impact, knocking me to the ground again. I raised myself to my hands and knees. I heard this country twang speak again. It sounded like the police officer. “You ready to leave yet, boy?” I responded, “Up yours, you pig!”
I got kicked hard in my rib area which now laid me on the ground. I then got to my hands and knees once again. I was now crawling, hoping it was in the direction of the dirt road and not the trailer. I crawled approximately 50 yards when I hear this car pull up alongside of me. I hear the same country twang voice. I know it is that lousy cop. I then hear him speaking to his partner, saying, “Should we leave this city-slicking jarhead here, or should we take him back to town?” His partner replies, “Load the boy in the back.”
I was beginning to be able to slightly see again. I was picked up and thrown into the back seat of the squad car. My head hit the metal mesh that separated the front and back. I just laid motionless in the back of the squad car. I listened as the two officers talked trash to me. They threatened to arrest me and take me to jail. I raised up a little and could now see about 50%. I noticed there were no plastic or plexi-glass windows bonded to the open mesh. I then spit through the open mesh on the police officer who was driving the squad car. We had already crossed back into town from the wrong side of the tracks. The officer swiftly turns down an alleyway located next to one of Jacksonville’s strip bars. The officers dragged me out from the back of the squad car onto the pavement. They repeatedly beat me with their nightsticks and left me lying there. I heard them take off. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see. I knew I was bleeding from several different areas in my face and head regions. I also knew my right arm and my left leg were broken.
It took me several months to fully recover. It was now time for me to deploy with my unit to the Middle East. I became very lonely and homesick. I wasn’t welcome home with my parents, and I hadn’t heard anything from my so-called friends with whom I had grown up. I then decided I would write to Vickie. This very conservative young lady and I corresponded for a couple of months. But, the end result was, Vickie was not what I was looking for. I remembered in one of Vickie’s letters that she spoke of a girl who lived next door to her. She said that this girl’s name was Deborah Anne Peery. Vickie said that Debbie was a blonde who was sexually provocative and was a tough, street-oriented girl. This seemed like more like my type. I stopped writing Vickie and started writing Debbie. Vickie was hurt, but Debbie was the girl I had wished for. Debbie and I corresponded for the remainder of my deployment. Our letters were akin to phone sex.
Debbie’s mother, Juanita Peery, had become aware of the contents of our letters. Juanita had written several letters to me expressing that she did not appreciate the language that we were utilizing. But our letters continued in the same vein. Near the end of this deployment I received a letter from Debbie that stated that she was pregnant. She admitted in this correspondence that she wasn’t sure of the identity of the father. I had told Debbie that this was no problem, that when I returned stateside I still wanted to meet and be with her. I returned from overseas in May of 1974. My dad had recently died and this left me, as far as I was concerned, with no family. I now wanted badly to have a family and live happily ever after. I welcomed the idea that Debbie was pregnant, with the baby being due in August.
In June of 1974 I took three weeks of leave and went to Baltimore to meet Debbie. I remember getting off the Baltimore City bus at Potomac street and walking with my clothing bags strung over my shoulder towards her row house. I noticed during this walk that there were very few of these city row houses that looked presentable, at least from the outside. As I reached the top of the hill I saw, a short distance away, a young pregnant blonde standing on the street corner. We introduced ourselves and proceeded to her mother’s residence. Debbie was 19 years old. She lived with her mom, dad and brother at this small residence. She was a high school dropout. Debbie also did not read or write very well. During my deployment, we best understood the portions of our letters that used vulgarity. I got a very cold greeting from her mom. She appeared to look like a wicked old witch with the personality of one. The father was Walcott Peery. He was a big-sized man who didn’t seem to care either which way on anything unless it directly affected him. He loved his booze, his cigarettes, and his wild women off to the side.The evening of my arrival at the South Potomac Street home, Juanita pulled me aside when Debbie was not in the immediate area. Juanita was a woman who pulled no punches. She absolutely spoke exactly what was on her mind. She stated to me, “I well know the filthy language that you two exchanged in your letters. You will not have sex or use any of that type language while you are here in this house.” Juanita also made clear that if I did try anything, she would throw me out. There was no doubt that I knew exactly where Juanita stood. I walked out the front door of the row house and sat on the front steps to enjoy the evening air. Vickie came out front. She said, “Bradley, I would have been good to you, but I take it you want Debbie over me. I can only tell you she will make your life miserable. You will find that out for yourself.” Vickie walked away from me and out of my life. We never even spoke again.
I somehow managed to graduate Marine boot camp in September of 1972. Both my dad and my mom came to my graduation ceremony at Parris Island, Marine Corps Recruit Depot, South Carolina. The drill instructor had told my parents that I was as tough as nails, but that he envisioned a long road of trouble for me and the Marine Corps. I didn’t wait long to prove the drill instructor right. As soon as my parents and I arrived back in Baltimore I disappeared with my hoodlum friends for a significant period of time. I also figured since my parents had two cars, I would steal one of them. I was quickly back to my old ways…smoking, drinking, chasing girls, and other negative activities. After three weeks I finally returned home because I was broke. My parents told me to leave and not come back until I straightened up.
I stayed the rest of my leave period with my hoodlum friends. But during my last week of leave I actually met a very nice girl named Vickie Clarke. She was slightly on the heavy side, but had a beautiful face. She had a great set of standards and morals built within her. I found this odd simply because Vickie was from the “white slums”. Prior to my departing Baltimore for my first Marine duty station, Vickie gave me her address and asked if I would keep in touch with her. I stated that I would, but I had no intention to do so. I didn’t want a woman who wasn’t going to put out.
I was quickly becoming adapted to the typical way of life for a Marine grunt. Jacksonville, North Carolina was a normal military town. The locals hated us, but they sure loved to have their town packed with pawn shops, bars, liquor stores, and cheap-looking, ugly women who were expensive. I got taken to the hoop moneywise just like most other young Marines did. The Jacksonville police were just as corrupt and dirty as the cheap bar girls we frequented. One night I was drunk at one of their bars. The bar fly I was with offered to take me home with her for $40.00. Did I ever make a mistake when I accepted her offer! ! ! She lived on what we called the wrong side of the tracks. This area was off-limits to all military personnel. We, as Marines, were well briefed on this. I grabbed a taxi and proceeded with this girl to her place. Even though I was intoxicated, I knew once the taxi had crossed the tracks I was messing up big time.
Several minutes later the taxi pulls up to an old, broken down, single-wide trailer that was nestled in a deep wooded area. I begin to get concerned as my instincts were right. We are now walking towards fthe front door of this crappy-looking swamp house. I had been told of many robberies committed on young Marines in this area. Some were even severely beaten and left to die out in the marsh and swamp areas. I walked through the front door of her trailer and saw a large man, 6’5” and a good 300 lbs. His words to me were, “You think you’re comin’ in here, boy, to screw my old lady?” “No, sir,” I said. “Then you better get your punk, city-slicking ass out of here, boy.”
As I left out the front door I heard the girl and this tremendous sized man yelling and screaming at each other. I was just standing a short distance up the dirt road from their trailer. I didn’t have a clue how to get out of this area. I was scared to remain where I was and I was scared to walk anywhere in this location. I then saw the Jacksonville police come to their trailer. I figured I had a better chance of surviving with the police than any other way. I began to walk back to the trailer. Both officers from the squad car were now inside the trailer. I walked up to the front door and lightly knocked on it. One of the officers walked over to the door and asked me, “What’s you doing here, boy? You get outta here right now, boy!” I started to say to the officer, “But, sir…” The door flew open and hit me, knocking me to the ground. The officer then came and stood over me. He then sprayed me in the face with mace three times. I was blinded. My face was burning. My nose and eyes were running liquids profusely. I still attempted to stand up. I couldn’t see at all as someone hit me in the side of my head with considerable impact, knocking me to the ground again. I raised myself to my hands and knees. I heard this country twang speak again. It sounded like the police officer. “You ready to leave yet, boy?” I responded, “Up yours, you pig!”
I got kicked hard in my rib area which now laid me on the ground. I then got to my hands and knees once again. I was now crawling, hoping it was in the direction of the dirt road and not the trailer. I crawled approximately 50 yards when I hear this car pull up alongside of me. I hear the same country twang voice. I know it is that lousy cop. I then hear him speaking to his partner, saying, “Should we leave this city-slicking jarhead here, or should we take him back to town?” His partner replies, “Load the boy in the back.”
I was beginning to be able to slightly see again. I was picked up and thrown into the back seat of the squad car. My head hit the metal mesh that separated the front and back. I just laid motionless in the back of the squad car. I listened as the two officers talked trash to me. They threatened to arrest me and take me to jail. I raised up a little and could now see about 50%. I noticed there were no plastic or plexi-glass windows bonded to the open mesh. I then spit through the open mesh on the police officer who was driving the squad car. We had already crossed back into town from the wrong side of the tracks. The officer swiftly turns down an alleyway located next to one of Jacksonville’s strip bars. The officers dragged me out from the back of the squad car onto the pavement. They repeatedly beat me with their nightsticks and left me lying there. I heard them take off. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see. I knew I was bleeding from several different areas in my face and head regions. I also knew my right arm and my left leg were broken.
It took me several months to fully recover. It was now time for me to deploy with my unit to the Middle East. I became very lonely and homesick. I wasn’t welcome home with my parents, and I hadn’t heard anything from my so-called friends with whom I had grown up. I then decided I would write to Vickie. This very conservative young lady and I corresponded for a couple of months. But, the end result was, Vickie was not what I was looking for. I remembered in one of Vickie’s letters that she spoke of a girl who lived next door to her. She said that this girl’s name was Deborah Anne Peery. Vickie said that Debbie was a blonde who was sexually provocative and was a tough, street-oriented girl. This seemed like more like my type. I stopped writing Vickie and started writing Debbie. Vickie was hurt, but Debbie was the girl I had wished for. Debbie and I corresponded for the remainder of my deployment. Our letters were akin to phone sex.
Debbie’s mother, Juanita Peery, had become aware of the contents of our letters. Juanita had written several letters to me expressing that she did not appreciate the language that we were utilizing. But our letters continued in the same vein. Near the end of this deployment I received a letter from Debbie that stated that she was pregnant. She admitted in this correspondence that she wasn’t sure of the identity of the father. I had told Debbie that this was no problem, that when I returned stateside I still wanted to meet and be with her. I returned from overseas in May of 1974. My dad had recently died and this left me, as far as I was concerned, with no family. I now wanted badly to have a family and live happily ever after. I welcomed the idea that Debbie was pregnant, with the baby being due in August.
In June of 1974 I took three weeks of leave and went to Baltimore to meet Debbie. I remember getting off the Baltimore City bus at Potomac street and walking with my clothing bags strung over my shoulder towards her row house. I noticed during this walk that there were very few of these city row houses that looked presentable, at least from the outside. As I reached the top of the hill I saw, a short distance away, a young pregnant blonde standing on the street corner. We introduced ourselves and proceeded to her mother’s residence. Debbie was 19 years old. She lived with her mom, dad and brother at this small residence. She was a high school dropout. Debbie also did not read or write very well. During my deployment, we best understood the portions of our letters that used vulgarity. I got a very cold greeting from her mom. She appeared to look like a wicked old witch with the personality of one. The father was Walcott Peery. He was a big-sized man who didn’t seem to care either which way on anything unless it directly affected him. He loved his booze, his cigarettes, and his wild women off to the side.The evening of my arrival at the South Potomac Street home, Juanita pulled me aside when Debbie was not in the immediate area. Juanita was a woman who pulled no punches. She absolutely spoke exactly what was on her mind. She stated to me, “I well know the filthy language that you two exchanged in your letters. You will not have sex or use any of that type language while you are here in this house.” Juanita also made clear that if I did try anything, she would throw me out. There was no doubt that I knew exactly where Juanita stood. I walked out the front door of the row house and sat on the front steps to enjoy the evening air. Vickie came out front. She said, “Bradley, I would have been good to you, but I take it you want Debbie over me. I can only tell you she will make your life miserable. You will find that out for yourself.” Vickie walked away from me and out of my life. We never even spoke again.