“Good grief, you are a piece of work.” She turned and grabbed a plastic tabbed key, circa 1960 and handed it to Charlie. “That’ll be one hundred and twenty-nine dollars, and before you ask, that’s double our price for our premium customers.”
Pulling a cigarette out of a fancy, yet beat-up, case, she put the cancer stick between her dry, cracked lips. But before she could light it, flip-click-flame, Charlie’s lighter was glowing and accommodating the business end of her cigarette.
“You’re a doll,” she rasped after she took her initial drag.
With smoke encircling her right eyelid, she said, “You’re full of shit, Elvis,” and turned to answer the ringing phone on the wall.
Charlie strolled to the van, nodded at Elwood and opened the van door.
“That woman loves me,” he said as he handed the key to Denice.
“Let’s get inside, it’s a hundred degrees out here.”
Once everyone was settled in, Woody offered, “I’ll run out to the checkpoint, see what the status is.”
“Good idea,” replied Charlie. “I’ll grab some food and meet ya back here.”
On the way to Alberto’s Mexican Food, Charlie’s mind drifted back to his encounter with Officer Rodriguez, and wondered if it was a good idea to have Woody driving the Toyota. Pulling into the line for the drive-thru window, the song Smooth Operator by Sade came on the radio and immediately sent him back to the time when he and Woody stole the pool furniture. They had the balls to bolt that furniture down in the back of a rented moving van, and then use that outfitted rig to transport innocent people comfortably, safely, and free of drama.
Now, ten-thousand-dollars-a-job later, the adventure of risking everything, and coming out a winner every time, Charlie had to ask himself, How cool is that? I have a great job. I’m doing good, right?
But years of running that gauntlet left him with an ever-deepening sense of conflict in his soul. Never lacking confidence in himself, it was more of a moral dilemma of What is truly right, what’s considered wrong, and who’s gauge are we using? God’s, the government’s, our own personal heartstrings, my grandkids’?
This feeling of apprehension was new, growing, and becoming harder and harder to shake off. It left Charlie contemplative, which he didn’t necessarily appreciate. Dig deep and you won’t always like what you find. Waiting in line at the Alberto’s drive-thru window, Charlie moved the rearview mirror to glance at his reflection. Who IS that old guy lookin’ back at me? He thought. I don’t feel a day over nineteen. This casing still contains a teenager.
But the passing of time was evident at the corners of his eyes, the laugh lines around a smile he used so often to get himself out of a jam. Strands of determined gray hair mirrored the frequent foreboding he couldn’t seem to shake.
Back in the day I wouldn’t think twice about something going wrong. I was fearless, invincible! Does gray hair bring fear with it? As time goes on you accumulate more to lose; family, friends. And what about broken promises?
This much I do know: When I was a kid, I sure as hell didn’t talk to my reflection. Dammit.
When you bare your soul, know what you get? The naked truth. But can you see the truth between the lines of need to do and want to do? Hopefully, as you age you learn to distinguish the difference.
Charlie pondered. This path I’m on, is it the one I was destined to take? Or have I taken the proverbial wrong off ramp? What about when I’m gone? Will I have left something of myself behind? Who will miss me? Has what I’m looking for been here the whole time? What if a smile and a kiss are what it’s all about? Something as simple as love.
Charlie rolled down his window to let in the hot desert air filled with the smell of fresh soil and car exhaust, though the scent of his confusion still lingered.
The sound of music from somewhere outside rushed in the open window and Charlie glanced in his side view mirror. It was a tune he did not recognize coming from the kid’s car behind him. They were passing around a joint, smiling, laughing, bouncing in the their seats, doing what young people do. Charlie had the impulse to go up to their window and ask, “Hey, can I hit that?”
But you don’t find what you’re looking for by going backwards. At his age the correct road lies ahead.
He put the vehicle in drive and pulled forward to the pick-up window. “That’ll be fifteen-seventy-five, sir,” said the young, Hispanic cashier with a pleasant smile.
-- -- --
When Woody returned, it was bad news. “Checkpoint’s still open.”
“Dammit!” exclaimed Charlie. “We have no choice. We have to go the back way.” He tried to hide the fact that he didn’t have a good feeling about this plan, but it didn’t matter. They were on a deadline. Ramona had come to depend on him, and he wasn’t about to let her down now.
They pulled out of the Desert Inn at 6:00 a.m. the next day, still hoping for rain and a closed checkpoint. Neither happened. The group headed out towards the dunes of the southern California desert and the small border patrol checkpoint twenty miles from nowhere.
Woody was a half-mile behind the van watching as it crested each dip in the pavement.
Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, lying in the back behind the third row seats covered in a blanket, were not visible from the driver-side window.
Charlie and Denice wore their warmest smiles as they pulled up to one of the Border Patrol’s tiny booths. The officer in the booth greeted them with his standard, “Good morning.”
Brandishing her best smile, Denice cheerfully replied from the passenger side, “Good morning to you, officer.”
Her goodwill was not returned. “What’s your destination?” gruffed the officer.
Charlie answered, “Palm Springs.”
“Any fruit to declare?”
Charlie thought to himself, Cool, we’re good to go, “No, sir, no fruit,” he said without a hint of stress in his voice.
What happened next was anything but cool, and completely startling. Just as he put the car into gear, expecting to be waved through the officer suddenly said, “Pull over into secondary, please.”
Charlie and Denice looked at each other and knew instantly that the ride was over. Charlie’s first thought was Run for it! But he didn’t. Instead he did was he was told, even though his mind took off racing.
Elwood saw the van slowly pulling over to the side and without hesitation slammed the pedal to the metal, shot over into the oncoming lane and ran through the wrong side of the checkpoint at seventy miles per hour.
Charlie muttered under his breath, “Shit, shit, shit.”
Denice, not sure of what would happen next, turned around facing the back and urgently commanded, “Sit up, guys, put on your seatbelts, now!” just in case a wild ride ensued.
But it didn’t.
Charlie rolled to a stop in secondary. Another officer tried the back doors of the van and found them locked.
Elwood looked into his rearview waiting, praying to see red and blue lights. However, nothing but retreating desert asphalt followed him.
Charlie saw Woody out of the corner of his eye run the checkpoint as the second officer glanced over his shoulder, but paid no attention to the diversion. He kept walking towards Charlie and the open driver-side window.
“Keys, please, sir,” said the officer in a voice that sent a shiver down Charlie’s spine.
Charlie solemnly turned off the ignition and handed him the keys, which he then threw to his partner. Denice’s phone rang, showing Elwood’s number. She quickly pushed answer. Not lifting the phone to her ear, she said loudly, “We’re done. Do not come back,” and hung up.
Mr. and Mrs. Lopez sheepishly exited the van through the rear doors and were led into one of two trailers in the secondary parking area. The officer, who was now at the passenger window, asked for Denice�
�s phone as she got out. The other officer holding the door open for Charlie had his hand on his 9-mm service revolver as he ordered, “Please exit the vehicle and put your hands behind your back, sir.”
Charlie complied, but over his shoulder asked, “What gave me away?”
The officer smiled and said, “See those new yellow poles? Those are sonar heartbeat detectors; two bodies, four heartbeats. Technology kicked your ass, sir.”
Both Charlie and Denice were handcuffed, escorted to the second trailer and put into a holding cell. Next they were fingerprinted and photographed. Then yet another officer led just Charlie to a small room with a desk, two chairs, no windows, and a very surly bigwig. “So, Mr. DeVille,” said Officer Bigwig, “How long have you two been smuggling illegal immigrants?”
“Leave my wife out of this,” replied Charlie quietly.
“Well, she was in the vehicle with you. I’d say that involves her pretty deeply.”
“She’s got nothing to do with any of it, let her go.”
Officer Bigwig suddenly changed his tune, and became a bit friendlier...which was even scarier. “We might be able to work that out, depending.”
“You do that,” replied Charlie. “I take full responsibility.”
“Okay...let’s talk about that,” mused Officer Bigwig.
“When I see her drive away in that rental van, then we’ll talk.”
Officer Bigwig motioned for the subordinate patrolman in the room to come to him. They whispered in hushed tones until the junior officer said to Charlie, “Okay, let’s go.”
Charlie stood up and the patrolman led him back into the holding cell, where he found Denice crying huge gushing tears running down her lovely cheeks. “Send in the clowns,” she said. “Christ, what a major cluster fuck, look at me.”
Charlie put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to look in her eyes. “We knew this was coming.”
“Charlie, I’m scared…”
“I’m riding the beef on this one. I’m almost positive they’ll let you go. If they ask you any questions, you know nothing. It’s my deal. You’ll want to get an attorney right away. I was driving, I’m responsible, you understand?”
Denice nodded and tried to put on a strong game face through the tears.
-- -- --
Denice drove the rental back towards Jacumba. The first of many phone calls she made was to Woody. She asked him to meet her back at Nea’s. The second call was the hardest. It was to Ramona. This was the call she hoped she’d never have to make. Denice agonized for long moments while dialing. Once she’d entered Ramona’s number into her phone, she stared at it for a second before she finally hit send. On the third ring Ramona answered. “Hey girl, you in L.A.?”
Denice gulped and held back tears before she spoke. “No, we lost this one. Charlie’s on his way to Metro Correctional Center and Mr. and Mrs. Lopez are on a bus back to Mexico.”
“What? AH! No! Dammit!” Then silence.
“Ramona?”
“I just need a moment to digest this. Thinking about other things impacted...”
“Being VIP I knew there was a lot riding on success,” Denice quickly interrupted. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m stunned they arrested Charlie and are prosecuting,” reasoned Ramona with a hint of panic in her voice. “Usually they book you and let you go.”
“Charlie’s not talking. He’s holding his mud no matter what. His words not mine.”
“Okay, good.” Ramona immediately went into warrior mode. “Got some calls to make, one of which is to an outstanding Federal lawyer. And the ACLU. Plus, some others I can’t tell you about yet. Keep me posted. You should hear from him within 48 hours, that’s how long it takes to get a PIN number. Let me know when he contacts you. I need to go.” The line went dead.
Denice hung up feeling alone, overwhelmed, and scared to death.
-- -- --
Charlie was booked into M.C.C., the Metro Correctional Center, and medically cleared for general population. They issued him an orange jump suit (too tight in the crotch, too long in the legs) and a shower kit. Then a guard led him to a long row of cell doors and unceremoniously pushed him into a stark white cell that contained the custom stainless steel toilet found only in prisons.
He sat on the edge of his four-inch mattress with its grey horsehair blanket, stared out the four-inch window and wondered where Denice was and how she was holding up. Charlie was physically and emotionally exhausted. He collapsed onto his cot. As he fell to sleep, his hands instinctively searched for a pillow that wasn’t there.
A little while later Charlie awoke with a start to the sound of a food tray being slid into the four-inch hole of the cell door.
“Chow,” some trustee yelled as he pushed it through the opening.
Dog chow went through Charlie’s mind. But what he actually received was fried baloney and watery oatmeal. Must be breakfast. Had he really slept that long?
Charlie completely lost track of time, but the next sound he eventually heard was keys hitting home in the lock mechanism of his cell door. The bored monotone voice of the corrections officer, a.k.a the C.O., said, “Lawyer visit, Mr. DeVille. Turn around, I’ve got to cuff you.”
“For a visit?”
“For escort in the elevator. I’ll remove them in the visiting room.”
-- -- --
“Mr. DeVille, my name is Chad Kinkade,” said the man in the fancy suit waiting for him in the visiting room.
Charlie shook his hand. “Charlie DeVille.”
“Mr. DeVille, I’m a Federal attorney, possibly your attorney of record. My services are being provided by the woman you know as Ramona. That being said, do you agree to have me as your attorney?”
“What’s my other option?”
“The Federal Defender, which might be your only option after this consideration is concluded.”
“Why’s that?”
“My job is to represent you and Ramona’s best interest. If your decision involves being a confidential informant, it would constitute a conflict of interest for myself and my firm.”
“Mr. Kinkade, I have absolutely no desire to include anyone in my, shall we say, dilemma.”
“Okay, Mr. DeVille, we’re on the same page. Let’s talk about where we are in the big picture. First, the detectives are going to offer you a deal to work with them.”
“Not gonna happen,” replied Charlie.
“If we take it to trial, you’re looking at eight to ten years if found guilty. The feds have a 98% conviction rate, Mom, apple pie, and America versus the illegal alien smuggler.”
“I was caught red-handed,” confessed Charlie. “I’m not going to waste everyone’s time.”
Mr. Kinkade got down to brass tacks, “Then it’s a plea deal we’re looking for. That all depends on how the prosecutor sees your crime, and what he knows about you and your dealings in Jacumba.”
“My dealings in Jacumba? What the hell does that mean?”
“That means we have to go to the investigator’s meeting, hear them out, see what they know, what info Homeland Security has. Believe me when I say, they probably have an extensive file on everyone in and around Jacumba.”
Charlie sat back against his chair to digest Kinkade’s last remark. His head was swimming. The last few weeks had been an emotional hell. Charlie was reaching critical mass. Not unlike the time he got lost at the zoo as a child. The terror was immediate and increased in intensity with each moment that he could not find his mom and dad.
Charlie’s heart pounded much the same way right now as he thought about the correlation between his dealings in Jacumba and prison.
Charlie had heard it said that going to prison is like dying with your eyes open. Your life unfurls before you moment by moment. Not in a blinding
flash, but slowly, over time, each night before you fall sleep. Tiny time capsules you pull from memory flash in your brain like still pictures – a lifetime of single moments. The unraveling comes stitch by stitch until you’re inside out.
One of the gauges of sanity is the ability to tell how much time has passed. One hour? Three hours? The atomic clock of incarceration has no hands and no numerals, only moments, each unto itself. “Doing time” is analyzing those moments, either with regret or savoring the joy found within each one. Every night is a new adventure in trying to find the sleep those moments allow by way of dreams.
Sitting in that visitation room, snippets of Charlie’s life played out in the theater of his skull: Dancing like a gypsy with frosting from the wedding cake still in her hair. His new bride looks up at him with trusting and vulnerable, big brown eyes. Charlie recoils at the thought. He is not worthy of that trust. He’d failed; failed to keep his family safe and grounded. He pictured himself sitting on his cot, in his cell, and whispering into the darkness, “I vowed to protect her and I failed.”
Loneliness suddenly floods in and brings with it little clips of time: Driving home, Charlie’s little pig-tailed princess asks, “Papa, does God have a wife?”
“I don’t think so, baby girl.”
“Then where did Jesus come from?”
At the time, the innocence of that moment makes Charlie smile with fatherly pride. But the threat of prison fades that beautiful memory to black. It breaks his heart knowing he’ll be locked away from making any more of those kinds of moments. Time only flows in one direction. When you try to stop it, or dam its flow, it overwhelms its banks, muddying the water, drowning everything left behind.
At this point all Charlie can do is try to find center and hold on tight, hold fast, like his sanity depends on it, which in a way it does. Engulfed in despair and helpless, Charlie tries to keep a grip. For a man like him vulnerability is a small death...with eyes open.
Charlie snapped back to the present and found Kinkade staring at him, expecting him to speak. After careful consideration, Charlie finally said, “In the past, I’ve been stopped by California Highway Patrol for suspicion of trafficking, briefly held at the Salton Sea checkpoint for questioning, and then released. That’s it.”
Jacumba Connection Page 25