I’ll start with the second incident first, since in some ways it’s the most clear-cut. As I understand it, other than your friend, none of you were directly involved in the altercation with the police. This removes any immediate consequences for the rest of you. Could there be some elements of conspiracy if, say, anyone encouraged him to take these actions? In theory, yes, but that would be difficult to prove. In previous cases where Defendant A did something criminal after being wound up by Associate B, prosecutors have found it almost impossible to prevail against Associate B in court, especially if the others with you can testify that Defendant A acted on his own. Absent any clear-cut evidence of conspiracy, I suspect that a judge or grand jury would be reluctant to pursue the case, so unless an overzealous DA sticks his nose into this, you may be okay on that count.
When it comes to the first incident, things are unfortunately a lot more complicated. The couple who were traveling with you were witnesses to the incident but not directly involved, which saves them from criminal liability. This removes the defense of “they’re only pointing the finger at us in return for immunity.” It also gives them a measure of credibility that’s hard to beat in court if your chosen defense is he-said/she-said.
In the state of Nebraska, assisted suicide is a Class IV felony, which carries a maximum penalty of two years imprisonment, a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and another year of probation. In the case of first offenders, the penalty can be adjusted downward to probation without prison time and a moderate fine. However, given the Justice Department’s latest “throw the book at them” sentencing guidelines, I wouldn’t count on the reduction.
Complicating matters further, your boss is correct that once you add in conspiracy to assist with suicide, fleeing the scene of a crime, inappropriate disposal of a body (which confirms knowledge of guilt), and interstate flight, things can get really nasty, really fast. Depending on prosecutorial guidance, anyone convicted of those charges would be subject to five to fifteen years in prison.
The good news, at least for the moment, is that you are now in Colorado, which is one of a handful of states where assisted suicide is not considered a crime. This raises a number of sidebar issues that are beyond my area of expertise, so I emailed one of my associates who was formerly a state prosecutor to get his thoughts, strictly as a theoretical matter. His reply follows:
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If the underlying Nebraska “crime” isn’t considered a Colorado “crime,” then that also mitigates against the related charges, i.e., if assisted suicide is legal, then a group of people consenting to work together in that cause would not be considered conspiracy because what they’re doing is not illegal. There is no underlying crime.
If I were sitting in the AG’s office in Denver and this warrant came across my desk, the politically smart thing would be to keep my head down and not get involved, especially since those involved are just passing through. From his perspective, the sooner they get out of his jurisdiction, the better. However, if they commit any acts considered illegal in Colorado that lead to them being arrested, all bets are off. Not only would they be facing charges in Colorado, but once in custody it becomes politically easier to extradite them to face charges in Nebraska. So as long as they keep moving and don’t break any local laws, they should be reasonably safe for a while.
But all that changes the moment they leave Colorado. There’s still a Nebraska warrant out for them, so they risk being arrested if they travel to a state where assisted suicide is against the law, which is basically every state surrounding Colorado. They’re caught in a ring of fire, fair game for any red-state AG or DA with something to prove or a point to make.>>
You remember that phrase Sergeant Abrams used to describe you-know-who? “Like a monkey with his fist around a nut in a jar, he can’t pull it out and he won’t let go”? That’s where your friends are right now. As a group, they can’t stay in Colorado indefinitely (though I suppose they could try) and they can’t drive into any of the neighboring states because they’ll face immediate arrest. If, as you suggest, the woman who tipped off the Nebraska PD didn’t interact much with the other passengers and thus may not have a lot of personal information that could be used to identify them, the safest solution for everyone would be to abandon the road trip, split up, and grab the first planes back to their home states. While they remain together, they’re at risk, but individually they might be able to slip away, after which they may be too much trouble to identify and track down on an interstate basis.
This is particularly true in your case. The form signed by your employer confirms that you are only driving the bus, and that none of this is taking place under your authority. As long as you did not directly participate in the assisted suicide, you should be able to get away clean, especially if the others will confirm the points above should this ever end up in a courtroom.
If they do choose to keep moving forward, my biggest worry would be the Utah State Attorney General. He made his reputation as a hardass on everything from abortion rights to assisted suicide, and this is just the kind of red-meat, heavy-press situation that he loves to dig into. To get a better sense of what he might or might not do, I reached out to a colleague of mine who works in the Assistant District Attorney’s office in Provo on a strictly unofficial basis in case he has any insight. If I hear anything back, I’ll let you know ASAP.
Once again, I am not advising you as your attorney. I am speaking only as your friend, and as such, my advice would be this: Get the fuck off that bus right now and grab the first plane home before anything else goes wrong.
Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Jamie Delarossa
* * *
VaughnR
Every time I closed my eyes last night, all I could see were Tyler’s final moments. Ever since the concert, he was beating himself up for not being strong enough, or fast enough, or brave enough, or whatever enough. But what he did last night was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. I hope he knows how bright he shined there at the end, and that it lets him pass over with pride.
As the sun started to come up, Shanelle slid into the bucket seat next to me. “You should at least try to get some sleep,” she said.
“You didn’t,” I said.
“Difference is, I’m young. I can get by without sleep. You’re really old, and you need it.”
I frowned at her. She smiled back. I glowered. She smiled even bigger.
“You’re not very good at looking like a serial killer,” she said. “Now come on, turn your back to me.”
“Why?”
“So I can help you sleep.”
I didn’t want to argue, so I did as she asked and leaned my head against the window.
“There you go,” she said, and began rubbing my neck and shoulders. “My dad had insomnia for years. My mama used to do this to help him sleep, and showed me how to do it too.”
“It’s not going to work,” I said.
“Not if you keep yammering.”
I hmmphed and closed my eyes.
Then suddenly it was three hours later and Dylan was standing at the front of the bus saying he’d gotten a reply from his attorney friend.
I turned and blinked at Shanelle, who had this great big cat-who-ate-the-canary look on her face. “Told you,” she said, then Dylan started reading the email.
When he was done, everybody got real quiet. It was a lot to digest. Stay together or break up? Keep going or call it a night?
“Either way,” Mark said, “the important thing is that it looks like we’re safe for a while now that we’re in Colorado, so I think we should check into a motel, take some time to recover from everything that happened, then meet for breakfast to decide our next move.”
I raised my hand and suggested we find someplace a little more comfortable than the usual cheap places we’d been staying in so far. I’d seen a billboard for a Sheraton down the road a ways and that sounded just about right by me. Some of the others were concerned because they were running low on funds, so I volunteered to make up the difference. If we were going to decide whether to keep going, turn back, or split up, we should make that decision clear-eyed and rested.
Not that I actually needed that time to decide; I’d made up my mind in the time it took for Dylan to read the email. But my bones are cold and I want a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed with a proper shower and proper room service because goddammit those things matter when you’re sixty-five years old.
That’s the thing about getting old: it reshapes your perspective and you start seeing the world differently than you did before. I’m not talking about feeling on the inside like you’re still a man of thirty and then you see your reflection and you’re not sure who that old guy is or how the hell he snuck into your mirror, or the part where your body starts to betray you. That’s obvious. The real stuff, the important stuff, is more subtle and it sneaks up on you slowly.
When people turn fifty, they’re pretty confident they’ll be around to hit sixty. When you’re sixty, seventy is still pretty reachable, but it’s not as much of a given as sixty because more things can go wrong. And if you reach seventy, every day after that is a crapshoot.
Nobody on either side of my family made it past their early seventies, so when someone from NASA talks on the news about having colonies on Mars in fifteen or twenty years, a part of my brain adds up the numbers and says, You know you won’t be here to see that, right? It’s not like a big sad moment or anything, it’s just the math, and after a while you get used to it. Man, it’d be great to watch folks walking around on Mars, but by then I’ll be in the ground, so let’s see what’s on TV tonight.
I chose to help Zeke cross over early because I believe we should be able to end our lives when we see fit instead of dragging things out. In return, society wants to punish me with a prison sentence longer than I have to live.
And that’s not an acceptable option.
So I think we should keep going. If the others decide to shut this down and go their separate ways, well, that’ll be hard because I’ve come to like them more than I expected when we started this, but I’m not going back. I’ll probably head over to Denver, eat and drink my way through the last of the Carolyn Death Fund, and when that’s done, order in my favorite breakfast, steak and eggs with hash browns cooked crisp, then take a nosedive off the tallest building in the city.
So I guess we’ll see what tomorrow brings.
* * *
LIsa
After spending all night on the bus, I thought about taking a nap once I got to my room but instead dropped off my bag and went for a walk to try to shake off the last couple of days.
It feels weird to say it that way, “to shake off the last couple of days,” like I lost my laundry or had to spend time at the DMV or something. Zeke’s gone. Tyler’s gone. The normal reaction, the expected reaction, is to be broken by the loss, and yes, I’m going to miss them, especially Tyler. We started this together, got on the bus together, he was fun and gentle and I liked him and I’m going to miss him a lot.
But dying is what we came here to do. So as much as a part of me misses those guys, another part of me is like, You made it! You said you were going to walk off the Earth and you did it! My turn next! Hold a seat for me, I’ll be there as fast as I can! Nobody in a World War Two kamikaze squad waved to the guys leaving on a suicide mission and thought, Gee, I hope they make it back okay!
Dying is the point, you know?
So there’s a big difference between what we’re doing and, say, Dylan getting hit and killed by a car. That would be an utter, complete fucking tragedy, something to weep over, to feel awful about and mourn, because Dylan wants to be here. The rest of us don’t. Dylan wants in. We want out.
If it would’ve been me stepping out in front of the police to buy the others time to get away and do what they came here to do, I wouldn’t want tears. I’d want a complete fucking balls-to-the-walls celebration because I finally made it out. And Tyler would feel the same way about it. No more coughing, no more fainting, no more pink froth on his lips when he thought nobody noticed. He’s finally free, and he went out doing something impossibly brave and beautiful.
Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard to watch, because it was.
Doesn’t mean I didn’t care, because I did.
Doesn’t mean I won’t miss both of them terribly, because I already do.
But it also means that we’re doing what we came here to do, and if all of us aren’t good with that idea, then we shouldn’t be here.
So yeah: I wanted to go for a walk and shake off the last few days because it was hard on every level and I needed space to heal up. I was heading toward some woods behind the hotel that I thought might have some good walking trails when I saw Dylan sitting on a bench all by his lonesome.
“Hey!” I called.
He shaded his eyes from the sun and I got the usual eye-roll when he saw it was me, but I’m used to it by now. “Thought you’d be sleeping,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.” I plopped down next to him and noticed a small plastic bag. “Did some shopping?”
“Went to a weed dispensary down the street. Need to put my brain into neutral for a while.”
“Love of my life!” I said. By now I’d gone through most of the weed in my bag of wonders, and the rest was getting dry. “What’d you get?” I asked, digging through the bag. “Gummies? Fruity snacks? Brownies?”
“Pre-rolls.”
“Wow, going old-school.”
“It’s all we had when I was in the army, so I got used to it. Don’t trust edibles unless I make ’em myself so I know how much is there.”
The bag had three pre-rolls each of Blue Dream, Bubba Kush, Trainwreck, and Lemon Haze. “Lightweight,” I said. “I’m surprised they didn’t give you some training wheels and a booster seat to go with these.”
“Can’t go hardcore if I’m gonna drive the bus tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well, the way things are going, that’s a pretty big if.” I grabbed one of the blunts and lit up.
“You could’ve asked,” he said.
I exhaled smoke. “Can I have one?”
“Sure.”
“So what’s the point of asking?”
He sighed, pulled out a Blue Dream, and lit up.
As we sat and smoked, it occurred to me that while I know where I stand on all of us dying, I had no idea what Dylan felt.
“So what do you think of all this?” I asked, because why not?
He shrugged. “It’s not my decision. Whether you keep going or break up the band, that’s your call. I’m just the driver.”
“Not that… I mean the reason we’re on the bus in the first place?”
I could see him stiffen a little. “You mean the suicide thing?”
“Yeah, that.”
He took another hit off the blunt. “Not my place. Like I said, I’m just the driver. My job is to get you from Point A to Point B, not to make judgments about who’s doing what, why, and whether or not you’re right to do it. That’s all down to you.”
“So you don’t have an opinion about death?”
“Wasn’t in the job description.”
“Bullshit. You saying you never had anyone close to you die?”
His face darkened a little. “I was deployed to a free-fire zone in Afghanistan. Of course
people died. Any time we were deployed to the field we knew there was a chance of being killed by the enemy, and some of us were, but when the order comes you go anyway, because that’s the job, and what happens next, happens next.”
“Not really the point,” I said, “so let’s try this: If you’re on patrol, and the enemy throws a grenade at you, and one of your guys jumps on the grenade to save his unit, everybody says he’s a hero, right?”
“Well, sure.”
“But if he knew he’d never survive jumping on a grenade, then technically, he committed suicide, right?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“So why is one suicide right and the other wrong? Why does one guy get a medal while somebody else gets posthumously shamed? How is what that soldier did any different from what Tyler did to save us?”
He struggled with the question for a bit, then shook his head. “Questions like that are way above my pay grade, Lisa. Things happen in combat that are just different. You can’t equate the two.”
“Okay, so did you know anybody in the army who committed suicide outside of following orders or being in combat?”
“A few, yeah.”
“Like?”
He didn’t want to talk about it, but one of the benefits of weed is that even when you think you don’t want to do something, there’s a part of you that really does. So as long as you don’t get couch-locked behind a bag of Fritos, it peeks out whether you like it or not.
“An Air Cav pilot at our base was flying recon one day when he spotted a pickup carrying shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles driving through a village that had been evacuated the week before, so the pilot got a quick go-order to engage. He fired at the pickup, but they squirted out before the missile hit. Pilot pursued the squirters and blew the shit out of a building where they’d taken cover. When the dust settled, he went in with a recon team to assess the situation. Turns out there were a bunch of families and kids living in the building he’d just shot to shit, refugees from another village who moved in when they heard everybody else was gone. Probably thought it was safer than living in tents.
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