Kincade opened his brief case and shuffled through some papers. Finding what he was looking for, he looked Charlie in the eye. “What you need to be concerned about are people like Larry, who have informed on you, and anyone else who could throw you under the bus to shorten their own prison time. Conceivably, it’s possible they have a huge amount of information on you, anything from personal statements to phone records. Just so you know what we’re up against here.”
Overwhelmed by his lack of knowledge, Charlie asked, “What’s the next step?”
“I dig around, ask some questions, try to get a feeling for what the prosecutor knows, what he’s thinking.”
“When will we talk again?”
“I’ll see you at the end of the week.”
The two stood and shook hands. Kinkade gave Charlie a business card, waved his hand in front of the camera, then banged on the door. Before it opened he said over his shoulder, “I’ll put a few hundred dollars on your books on the way out. Call your wife. She’s worried. But say nothing on the phone, and keep quiet around other inmates.”
Out the door he went into the big, free world, leaving Charlie with his pants around his ankles (metaphorically speaking). Not good in a prison setting. However, he felt a little better having not ironed his orange jump suit like the dork at the next table over.
Since formal charges and indictments were sworn out for Charlie, they moved him from the holding floor to a pretrial cell on the eleventh floor, overlooking the San Diego skyline. That is, what you could see of it through a four-inch window.
The new cell was institutional yellow and smelled of unwashed feet. The top bunk was unoccupied and the lower bunk was straining to support another inmate, whom Charlie thought looked like the Wookie, Chewbacca, from Star Wars. He was out cold, snoring like a farm animal.
Charlie was never so happy to see a pillow in all his life, with a pillowcase, no less.
The C.O. slammed the door shut and ran the locking mechanism home, a sound like no other, the sound of incarceration. Charlie stood there in the center of his ten-by-twelve listening to the other cells being locked down for the count, followed by the reverberations of incarceration; the echo of the locks, angry voices, a quick laugh. Charlie could feel the tears well up behind his eyes again. He thought to himself, Genghis Khan. Winston Churchill. George Patton. Stone face. Can’t let my guard down, not in here. Stone. Cold. Killer. That’s me.
He paced the cell, back and forth. Shit, I’m no killer. I’m a grandpa, for chrissake.
He added his voice to the other animals in their cages and screamed, “This fucking sucks!”
Nights in prison for Charlie were full of ghosts, thoughts and memories of faces, people inside his circle: Denice and family, of course. Still shots flash on the back of his eyelids of people and places the last three-year journey had taken him.
It’s easy for a person to attribute noble motives to his actions to try and validate his crimes. Not so easy to weigh the consequences to the innocent, like baby Brandt; his friendships, like Ron and Lilly. They were all on the right side of the law according to the values of the status quo. Charlie felt the same respect for the people in his life that are considered criminals. It further justified his resolve to roll with the punches. Maybe he’d lost his center, maybe it was time to “straighten up and fly right,” as Charlie’s father had told him on so many occasions. When sleep finally found Charlie, it was thin and fractured.
Next morning it was up the elevator to the roof, twenty-two stories above Front Street and the rooftop cages that constituted a recreation area. The chain-link and guy wires were to keep the John-Gotti types from making a mad dash via helicopter.
Stepping off the elevator after coming back from the roof was like the descent into the first circle of hell. All the upper and lower level cell doors were open for the indoor part of “recreation.” Convicts of every description competed for televisions, card tables, and any available oxygen left in the room. Charlie had the immediate sensation of breathing everyone’s exhale. Making his way through the sea of orange jumpsuits, he headed straight for his cell.
His “celly” was not actually a Sasquatch, but an investment banker. Charlie overheard him tell his story to another inmate, whining about his 18- to 24-month sentence for bilking millions from retirement funds under his supervision. Then and there, Charlie categorized him as a thief and a piece-of-shit, knowing how many foreclosed mortgages and ruined retirements this man’s greed caused. How many folks will have to eat cat food four or five times a week because of you? Charlie thought. Surely I’m not that kind of criminal? Who sets the bar? The government? Society? God? My God or your God? Charlie jumped on his bunk, buried his face in his only possession (a flat pillow) and tried to figure out if he was more angry, emotionally exhausted, or just plain disgusted.
-- -- --
In the underground basement of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, the opening of a tunnel runs a quarter mile under downtown to the Federal Court Building, where the prosecutor waited with detectives to meet with Charlie and his lawyer.
Shackled to fifteen other inmates, it was a slow procession through the stark white halls of the narrow tunnel. The industrial government linoleum was freshly waxed but you could still see the thousands of scuffmarks made by prisoners’ chained feet as they shuffle back and forth daily.
The walls closed in a little tighter as the elevator doors of the court building came into view.
The elevator opened up inside a massive and plush office area. A bailiff unchained Charlie and gave him over to his attorney, who led him to a conference room. Kinkade introduced everyone around the table to Charlie, as if they were all simply meeting for tea. The prosecutor opened the pre-sentence festivities with, “Welcome to the jungle, Mr. DeVille.”
Charlie’s eyes flashed around the table.
“Seems more like a zoo to me,” Charlie said in a bit of a daze.
“Call it what you will, Mr. DeVille. All the same you’re in a world of hurt.”
Silence.
“My client understands his position completely,” said Mr. Kinkade.
“Good. Then, Mr. DeVille, I assume then you’ll save yourself a ton of grief and tell us who you’re working for.”
Mr. Kinkade added, “At this point my client would like to make a statement.”
Charlie drew in a deep breath and spoke. “My wife and I were on our way to Palm Springs. I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Lopez walking on the side of the road in the heat of the desert. They told me they were illegals. I made the decision to help them. I’m guilty of transporting. End of story.”
“Jesus Christ! Do you know who you’re fucking with, Mr. DeVille?” barked the prosecutor.
Silence.
The detective at the table, playing good cop bad cop, said in his best nice-guy voice, “You want to walk out that door right now? Cooperate and you could be home with your family for dinner tonight.”
Charlie remained quiet for a moment, and then said, “I can’t help you. I can’t do anything for you. That’s it. End of story.”
“You’re going to regret this, Mr. DeVille,” hissed the detective, obviously pissed that Charlie could not be intimidated into helping.
Mr. Kinkade stood, all six-foot-two of him, turned to the detective, and asked, “Is that a threat, detective?”
“That’s a fucking prom–”
“That’s enough, John,” the prosecutor loudly interrupted. “You heard Mr. DeVille. He wants to go to prison.”
Charlie thought to himself, What I want is to get this shit over with! What I want is to punch Detective John Smooth in the face. What I’m going to get is most likely three-to-five years of mystery meat, communal showers, and facial tattoos.
But what I really want...is to go home.
-- -- --
After six months of complete boredom sitting in a cell, Charlie took his last stroll through the tunnel of shame, so he could stand in front of the honorable Judge Tourino and receive sentencing. Six months they dicked around deciding what to do with him. Now that Charlie had a taste of prison, he was anxious to start his official sentence so he could look forward to when he was getting out.
Over that six months, Charlie was reminded daily that sadness is everywhere in prison. It feeds on any joy that’s left over after being locked in a cage. That joy is a double-edged knife; memories haunt you, but dreams can be your salvation. Hope is your tether to the free world.
Each night that sadness engulfed Charlie in despair. He was both disgusted and disappointed in himself. Those joyful moments he held on to marched through his mind and stopped only long enough to play out. Click, click, click, another goes by and brings Brandt’s cute little face into view. Charlie crumbled like a castle before a siege. Oh Jesus. Ah, God. Brandt...my little man.
Charlie envisioned little hands reaching for him from the floor, Up, Papa. Up?
Charlie’s heart seized upon a hundred questions. They rushed from his empathetic mind and through his tormented soul:
Who will sit with him in the mud and fill his little dump truck with dirt?
Who’s going to fix his bike?
Who will take my grandson to Cub Scout meetings?
Who will show my grandson how to be happy?
While these questions may sound silly coming from a convict, they’re a matter of great importance to Brandt and his grandpa. Four simple, easy questions, and Charlie can’t answer any of them, not a one.
The guilt was so all consuming that Charlie couldn’t comfort himself. The excuses he used before now fell on his own deaf ears.
So, not knowing what else to do, Charlie did something he’d never done. He gave himself permission to cry.
Having come unstitched, with every nerve exposed, the tears came like a typhoon. Pouring out through his eyes until his insides were parched. Shattering every window to his soul. Laying waste to every dwelling. Flattening every blade of grass in his field of dreams, which was now scattered with emotional debris. It will take years to clean up the mess left in its path.
For now, as the tears dry up and the gasping for air subsides, Charlie realizes that over the last six months, not knowing how long this will go on, he has emotionally bled out. Right there on his bunk. Which has left him dead with his eyes wide open.
But now the waiting was finally over. Having signed a guilty plea in exchange for 24-to-36 months, he knew there was an end in sight. This hearing was just a formality. And Charlie was ready to get it over with so he could get on with his formal sentence and start counting the days to when he could get back to his life.
Still handcuffed and in his best orange jumpsuit, Charlie faced the bench and assured the Judge that he understood he had zero rights and he was at the mercy of his court.
Charlie replied in the affirmative and after five solid minutes of legal speak, he heard this, “I hereby sentence you to forty-two months in the custody of the Bureau of Prisons and three years of supervised probation. Does Mr. DeVille have anything he’d like to say?”
Charlie was stunned, confused, and pissed. This was not the plan he agreed to! “Yes sir, I do.”
“At your convenience, Mr. DeVille.”
Charlie looked at his lawyer, but saw no sign of intelligent thought. At that point he knew he was on his own, adrift at sea with no life raft. “Your honor, I signed an agreement with the prosecutor for 24 to 36 months...” He let the statement hang in the air, like maybe it carried some judicial weight. It didn’t.
The judge smirked like he was addressing a child. “Mr. DeVille, I am not bound by any deal you and your attorney made with the prosecution. According to your presentence report you were less than cooperative. Would you like another forty two?”
Charlie glanced at the prosecution table, smiles all around. Obviously, there was no deal. This was a huge win for the prosecutor and he wasn’t about to give it up. Charlie turned his confused gaze to Mr. Kinkade, who shrugged indifferently, as if to say, Hey, you win a few, you lose a few.
Charlie looked over his shoulder at Denice, who was trying to be stoic, but her tears betrayed her.
Finally he faced the honorable Judge Torino, took a deep breath and straightened his spine. “Forty two is good, sir,” he said respectfully. “Forty two is fine.”
EPILOGUE
Twenty-four Months In, Twelve to Go
At mail call Charlie hears his name. It’s a letter from Elwood and Esperanza. Inside are a note, a picture, and a copy of Esperanza’s high school GED. Charlie studies the photo; it’s a picture of success. Woody and Esperanza stand on the Santa Monica pier, Woody’s arm proudly wrapped around his wife’s thin waist. He glows with a lopsided, hillbilly grin, as he points to a pink puff of cotton candy in Esperanza’s hand. Charlie reads the accompanying note, which says, “Thank you, Big Daddy DeVille.” A huge smile completely takes Charlie’s face hostage.
He lies back on his shabby jailhouse rack and brings out his old-school photo album in which he lovingly saves such treasures.
Charlie opens his album to add this new picture, but immediately gets captivated by a picture of Denice and him embracing Miss Isabelle. It was the day they reunited her with her son, Carlos, and the rest of her family. The old woman’s glorious Cabbage Patch doll smile says it all. Charlie thinks, “If I died tomorrow, standing at the gates of heaven, I would be proud of this.”
Turning his gaze to the opposite page, Charlie studies a photo of Denice in a summer dress leaning on the fender of her ‘71 Camaro. Bright red Revlon lips frame a sultry smile thrown in the direction of her husband behind the camera. Is this the same girl, head on a swivel looking for Border Patrol? He hears her voice in his head: “All clear, handsome.” His heart responds sincerely: We got a million miles on our life’s odometer baby, you and me till the wheels fall off.
Charlie carefully turns a page and sees Wiley in his linemen boots, shoulder holster rig with the grip of his 9-mm peeking out from under his right arm. His same hand holds his hat in front of his face, while his left hand gives Charlie the finger. No one has a picture of Wiley’s face. No one. This man, Charlie’s friend and brother, represents to Charlie the get-em-there-safe struggle. Charlie’s friendship will always be there for Wiley. Always.
Turning a page, Charlie’s heart warms when he sees teeny little Denice Pena’s beautiful brown face peering out from her white satin christening gown. The DeVilles are her godparents and considered part of the family. The infant’s tiny arms reach out to Charlie from the photograph, fully embracing his heart.
Charlie knows he’ll never transport another undocumented person, but the issue of immigration in his mind is far from over.
And finally he comes to a picture Renea took of Brandt riding piggyback on Lily, laughing uncontrollably, his hands digging into her hair as Ron chases them around an oak tree. Renea makes sure Daddy has pictures of everyone on every holiday. It’s what keeps Charlie’s heart full, leaving less room for sadness.
Although these photos provide comfort, the paradox for Charlie only deepens each time he meanders through his cherished memories. What’s important to him now is family. Being locked away from his girls and grandchildren brings a deeper understanding of what is essential in this life. It’s called caritas, a Latin word meaning love and charity towards family. His. Yours. The family of man.
Experiencing these images never fails to make Charlie misty-eyed. He gathers a tear on the end of his finger and flicks it to the floor. Justification never seems to end in prison and sometimes it can be your savior. It’s what’s inside you… when it’s just you.
Charlie reflects: The skin on my hands is scarred. The ink on my tattoo is faded. My hair has more gr
ey than ever. My eyes need glasses to read. After all this, and prison too, would I do it over again?
Charlie looks down at his goddaughter’s angelic face and the Santinos’ proud smile. “Hell yes, I’d do it again,” he whispers to an empty cell. Because in his heart he knows, when you engage in the world, when you take a stand, when you make a conscious decision to pray for rain...sometimes you gotta deal with a little mud.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Charlton Taylor has tumbled through life like a pair of nine-sided dice. He’s been a husband, a father, a grandfather, a lover of nature, and an outlaw. Currently, he’s serving a 10-year sentence in federal prison for the latter.
In David’s own words, he says this about himself:
I have a muse. Her name is Angelica. She came to me here in prison four years ago. She showed me how to kill the cannibal in my head that was eating me alive. She filled that empty dead space with words and story. She makes me laugh and cry at the same time, as I put my hand to pen and paper. She once quoted Nietzsche in my ear: Dave, he who has a ‘why’ to live for, can bear with almost any ‘how.’
I have a sneaking suspicion my mom sent my muse to me. I love you, Mom.
Life’s journey often starts out in the opposite direction of our creative destiny. And I’m happy to say, I’m so far from done I can’t even see the finish line.
Oh yeah, and Angelica says, “Smile every chance you get.”
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