Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

I was staring at the Piggly Wiggly murderer when I heard Porter call me. I could make that phone call now.

“Patience?” I said.

“Are you okay?”

I was blinking fast, trying to hold on. “Patience. I want you to know that if you decide to divorce me, I really do understand. I mean, they said I might get twenty-five years.”

“Then I’ll wait twenty-five years,” Patience said. Her voice had the fire in it I’d come to respect when we ran our business together in Brooklyn. She’d been kind of shy when we first got to Brooklyn, but by the time we left she could take care of herself and keep fifty employees jumping, too. New York will do that to a person. “I’ll get you out,” she said. “I’ll find out who to call.” I nodded and croaked out “I love you” and said good-bye.

I walked along with Porter, feeling broken, back to the federal wing. I’d had it. Too much bad stuff for too long. How would we ever get through this? When Porter led me through the door, he noticed tears in my eyes. “My, my,” Porter said. “Your woman musta been real mad, eh?”

I didn’t answer. I walked into my cell and lay down on my shelf and pulled the ragged blanket up around my head. It is one thing to jeopardize yourself by taking risks, another to hurt other people in the process. I’d gone too far. I’d hurt Patience and Jack, my family, my friends. This pain was more than I’d felt in my life. Under the shroud of my blanket, I cried.

Two hours later, about seven that night, Porter told us our attorney had come.

John and I followed Porter along the hallway. Walking past an intersecting hallway, we saw Ireland, doubled up in pain, lying on the bare concrete floor. “Wait a minute, Porter,” John said.

“C’mon,” Porter said. “Keep moving.”

“That’s Ireland, our codefendant, Porter. He’s supposed to be in the infirmary, not lying on your stinking floor,” John said.

“The infirmary’s too crowded right now,” Porter said. “They’ll take care of him.”

John looked grief-stricken. As captain, his mission had failed, and now the enemy was mistreating one of his men. It was a heavy blow. Porter opened a door and told us to go inside.

The small room was filled with a table and four chairs. It was, however, a clean oasis in a filthy prison. There was a carpet on the floor and the walls were painted white. A man got up from the table, smiled at us, and said, “Dan Bowling. I’m your attorney.”

Bowling looked the part. He wore a tweed jacket over a sweater, a silk tie, tan wool slacks, and brown loafers. He told us he had graduated from Harvard Law School five years before, and his specialty had become drug cases. “I guess it’s because I’m the young attorney in the Charleston gang. Anyway, I get most of the referrals when we have a bust around here.”

Bowling told us our friends, meaning the team, had hired him, through another attorney, that afternoon, and he knew most of the details of the case by talking to the DEA. “You guys were caught with your pants down, that’s a fact,” Bowling said, laughing. “But you were caught by Customs agents, and that may be illegal search and seizure.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because only the Coast Guard can stop people in U.S. waters without just cause. They can stop you to inspect your boat for safety items and stuff. If the Customs people had seen you coming in from beyond the three-mile limit, then they could have stopped you. But they didn’t spot you until you were in the channel.”

“You think that can get us off?” John said.

“Naw. It just means we have a point to argue. We’ll make a motion that the marijuana, the evidence, was illegally obtained. If that works, they could still try you for the crime of smuggling and possession, but they wouldn’t be able to use the pot as evidence.” Bowling laughed. He clearly enjoyed his work. “Makes it tough for the prosecutors. Of course, the judge’ll never rule in our favor, but the threat might help. Might be able to negotiate something with it.”

“What about the missing five hundred pounds of pot?” I said.

“What?” Bowling said.

“Well, we had thirty-five hundred pounds on board. They claim we had three thousand.”

Bowling shrugged. “Well, two things: can you prove you had that much and do you want to increase the severity of your crime by doing so?”

“The count was an estimate,” John said. “We can’t prove how much we had.”

“Nor would you want to,” Bowling said. “Let it be, gents.”

We talked for about a half hour. John told Bowling about Ireland, wanted to know if he could get him taken care of. Bowling said he’d look into it. John said, “Great. And can you lend us ten bucks?”

Bowling smiled, got a bill out of his pocket, and handed it to John. “What’re you going to buy here?”

“Cigarettes, candy, coffee,” John said. “This place is the pits. They serve actual swill for meals. And look what they give us to wear.”

“Hey, boys,” Bowling said, “you guys are in jail in Charleston County, South Carolina. What do you expect?”

“How long?” John said.

“I’ll have you out in four, five days. No problem.”