Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

John’s father humbled himself before the judge and told him his son was a veteran of Vietnam, and he was sure this was an isolated mistake. Couldn’t he give him a break?

My mother-in-law and my father did the same thing. And then Patience stood before Blatt and said, her voice trembling, “Your Honor. My husband didn’t want to do this. He thought he had to do it to provide for his family. I know him to be an honorable man who has made this one mistake.” Her voice cracked. I looked over. Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, “He’s sorry, Your Honor.”

Blatt wanted to know what I had to say. My head buzzed. I had a lot to say. I wanted to go through this whole thing more carefully. I wanted people to know my motives, my troubled thoughts, I wanted people that were deciding my fate to know me. I stared at Sol Blatt, Jr. His face showed he was unhappy, too. I saw also that he was braced to deliver justice, even if it was painful to him, too. I said, simply, hopelessly, “I’m sorry I made the trip, Your Honor.”

When we finished, my father and my mother-in-law excused themselves because they both had to catch flights back home. We went back to our seats.

Blatt then made a short speech about how he hated to see the effects of the drug culture on people like us. He said that he, too, was a combat veteran, World War II, and he felt a strong empathy toward John and me. He added that, from the facts of the case, it was obvious that we were rank amateurs.

I felt my pulse racing in my temples. I was afraid I’d pass out, I was so excited. This was one of those long preambles that leads to the big word: But. Finally Blatt said that despite all this, we had indeed done the deed. And he was not going to let people smuggle drugs into South Carolina and get away with it.

He read the sentences. John Tillerman, the captain of the boat—seven years in a minimum-security federal prison. Robert Ireland, the only defendant convicted of smuggling—six years at a minimum-security federal prison. Robert Mason, agreed to be a minor figure in the crime, Blatt’s most lenient sentence—five years in the minimum-security prison closest to my home.

Five years.

I knew of murderers who’d gotten less. I knew of rapists who’d gotten less. In Miami and New York, they give people suspended sentences for similar crimes. First offense? Five years?

Bowling immediately stood up and said we were going to appeal the case on the grounds that the government illegally stopped and searched us. Blatt said fine, good luck. Bowling asked that we be allowed to remain free on our bonds. Blatt agreed. Bowling asked if Patience and I could travel to Maine to vacation and work.

“What kind of work?” Blatt asked.

“Your Honor, Mr. Mason has sold a book he’s writing about his experiences in Vietnam.”

“Really? I’d like to read that.” Blatt looked at me. “When does it come out?” The man had just sentenced me to prison and now we were making small talk?

“Ah, I don’t know, Your Honor. I haven’t finished it.”

“Fine. I’m sure I’ll hear about it. Yes, you have my permission to go to Maine. Good luck, Mr. Mason.”

In the hallway outside the courtroom, we asked Bowling what these sentences meant. How long would we actually stay in jail?

“Normally,” Bowling said, “you can figure serving about a third of the sentence. Two, two and a half years, I’d guess.”

“What about the appeal? How long will that take?”

“Months. Maybe a year.”

“What do we do while we’re waiting?”

“Anything you want—as long as you don’t violate your bail.”

Bowling said he had something for me at his office. Patience and I stopped there on the way out of town. He led me into his office and pulled my camera out of his desk drawer. “Just showed up,” he said. “Imagine that.” I thanked him. Some cops might be crooks, too, but at least they respected a man’s talismans. Besides, it was an old camera. My notebook, however, was gone for good.

By three in the afternoon, Patience and I were on the highway headed for New York City.

I was giddy with happiness, chattering away like a hyperactive kid while Patience drove. Jack had stayed home, busy with his job and his girlfriend, Wallie. I guess I was in shock. We stopped at a motel after dark. I called my mother and told her the verdict. She became hysterical, shrieking things about Patience being the cause of it all. She was in the midst of saying a lot of nasty things I knew she really didn’t mean when I hung up. I was a mother’s innocent son. I told Patience: “It’s great practice in realizing that words are only sound waves.”

The next morning I was no longer chattering and happy; I was quiet and morose. We picked up a Charleston paper and saw a small writeup about our conviction. We wondered if the Florida papers would mention it.

We spent one more night on the road so we’d get to the city in the morning. I’d called Knox and told him we were coming.

We drove through Brooklyn, took a ride around the old mirror factory. It was just a warehouse again. Mirage was closed.