Golden Orange

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Winnie sat down on a crewman’s bunk. The anchored yacht bobbed gently. The creaking and groaning in the belly of the luxurious vessel was somehow soothing. Circe too had maladies, her groaning seemed to say.

  The next thing he knew Tess stood over him saying, “Come on, old son! Wake up! Come on!”

  A stranger was standing behind her. The man said something and laughed. Then there was a woman’s laugh from somewhere. And suddenly all those misty balloon-faces with mangled grins hovered over him, their teeth popping like water puffs on the channel. Popcorn teeth! Winnie let himself be partially lifted by Tess Binder and the stranger. Then he was up in the main salon and other people were laughing at him too. Nothing was in focus.

  Tess said to the skipper, “Don’t bother calling for the shore boat; he’s busy over at Cherry Cove. I’m afraid my pal can’t wait. We’d better get him to bed as fast as possible. Can we use your launch?”

  “It’s being repaired, but I’ll take you to the dinghy dock in our inflatable,” the skipper said.

  “No, no, it’s not necessary,” Tess said. “Stay here and entertain your guests.” Then she turned to Warner Stillwell and said, “Warner, can you still pilot a dinghy?”

  “Of course, Tessie,” he said.

  “How about a lift?”

  “Love to,” he said.

  The skipper of the Circe looked doubtful. “Maybe we should wait for the shore boat. It’s dark out there.”

  “There’s nearly a hundred boats moored in front of us,” Tess said. “We’re not alone in this cove.”

  “Yes, but everyone’s at the party, or in Two Harbors having dinner,” the skipper said. “Maybe we should wait for …”

  Tess turned to Warner Stillwell and said, “My boy out there is smashed! I’ve got to get him to bed immediately.”

  “Of course.” Warner Stillwell chuckled. Then to the skipper, “I assure you I’m not too old and feeble to pilot a dinghy eight hundred yards to the dock and back.”

  “Okay, Mister Stillwell,” the skipper said apologetically, “but be sure to use the flashlight and watch for mooring lines. There’s a lot of boats in the cove tonight.”

  The black rubber dinghy was large enough to accommodate eight people. It was tied aft, and the skipper climbed down into it to test the five-horsepower Yamaha. The engine fired immediately and the skipper helped Winnie down into the bow. Then he held his hand out for Tess, then for Warner Stillwell, who crawled aft and took the engine control. Then the skipper climbed back on board the yacht while Tess made ready to cast off.

  Warner Stillwell said to Tess, “Remember all the times we used to go to the club for lunch in one of these, Tessie? Your dad and you and me? They were good days, weren’t they?”

  “Are you ready, Warner? Are you ready?” she cried, and her voice sounded very shrill to Winnie.

  “Of course, dear,” said Warner Stillwell. “You can cast off.”

  While the skipper was waving to them, Tess suddenly yelled, “Wait a minute!” Then she turned to Warner Stillwell and said, “I forgot my purse!”

  While Tess scrambled out of the dinghy and climbed back up the ladder onto the main deck, Warner Stillwell yelled, “Comfortable, Mister Farlowe? Everything okay?”

  “Sure,” Winnie mumbled. But his head kept falling forward. He felt a sharp pain and realized he’d bitten his tongue when his chin struck his chest. Winnie tasted blood in his mouth.

  Then Tess Binder appeared again at the rail on the main deck, but the skipper was no longer with her. She shouted to them, “I can’t find the damn thing! Can you manage to get him into the dock by yourself, Warner?”

  “No problem!” Warner Stillwell yelled over the engine noise. “I’ll take good care of your Mister Farlowe!”

  Winnie could barely understand what they were hollering at each other. He was drifting far away. Out to sea where it was peaceful.

  Warner Stillwell took the dinghy around the Circe, on the port side of the big yacht. The dinghy was facing Blue Cavern Point, where, during the Thanksgiving holidays in 1981, actress Natalie Wood fell from a yacht at night while trying to secure a rubber dinghy like this one, down into the dark water she’d reportedly feared all her life. Her body was found near a place they call Perdition Caves.

  Warner Stillwell turned the dinghy and they were heading toward shore, away from the red-lighted buoy. And just as the skipper had said, all the boats at mooring seemed deserted except for an occasional dog that ran out on deck to bark at them.

  Winnie opened his eyes and looked up. The moon had disappeared behind scudding clouds, the silver light was gone from the sapphire water, and the pier seemed to be getting closer. He thought he saw a bright light under the water, close to starboard.

  And then the dinghy strikes! They ram something! Or something hits them!

  And the aft portion dipped and Winnie toppled backward! Then the dinghy took a nose dive, and he tumbled forward, his head cracking into one of the emergency oars.

  The water roiled. The dinghy drifted sideways. Winnie heard thrashing water and then a long haunting liquid scream out there in the darkness. Then silence. As the dinghy drifted and turned in the current.

  Then Winnie heard his own voice screaming: “MISTER STILLWELL! MISTER STILLWELL!”

  Winnie crawled aft toward the engine. He found it. He turned the inflatable to port. The wrong way! He was heading out to sea in the darkness, totally disoriented. He managed to come about and bumped into a mooring. The dinghy bounced off a mooring can and turned ninety degrees, a blind man at the controls.

  It took a full minute to get his bearings and steer back toward the approximate place where Warner Stillwell vanished. The dinghy was making figure eights as Winnie screamed, “MISTER STILLWEEEEELLLLL!”

  Then Winnie, hopelessly drunk, was hopelessly sobbing: “WHERE ARE YOUUUUU?” Crying like a child under a moon not quite aligned with the earth, now reflecting pale light off dark water.

  20

  In Irons

  Two Harbors, at the isthmus of Santa Catalina Island, has the only one-room schoolhouse left in Los Angeles County. Seventeen children of Two Harbors are taught there by a schoolmarm. And Two Harbors also has the last resident deputy sheriff in Los Angeles County, this one a square-shouldered young guy who didn’t get island fever or mind living in a mobile home he shared with a K-9 partner.

  The deputy was slouched in a chair, watching TV, when the call came in from the Bay Watch, the county lifeguards and paramedics who serve Two Harbors. The deputy quickly got dressed in his green jumpsuit and met the Bay Watch at the pier in Isthmus Cove, and was ferried out to the anchorage of the Circe. The Bay Watch, the Harbor Patrol, and the shore boat then began a search among the rocks and caves along Fisherman’s Cove, near the University of Southern California’s Marine Science Center. The story they had received from the drunk in the dinghy led them all to think that the body of the missing yachtsman would probably turn up near that facility.

  All of the guests were gone when the deputy climbed aboard the big motor yacht. The owner, Giles Bledsoe, was aboard, as was the skipper, both crew members and Tess Binder.

  The deputy found Winnie Farlowe in the main salon. He was sitting on the settee he’d shared earlier with the missing man. Everyone had been pouring coffee down Winnie’s throat, which did nothing more than insert another drug into an already drugged human being. Winnie had been crying intermittently, and he was still very drunk. The deputy interviewed the skipper as well as the owner. Then he took Tess Binder out onto the sun deck.

  When they were alone he asked questions and made notes. Tess had a jacket thrown over her shoulders and seemed to be sobbing. Every once in a while she reached up under her glasses to wipe her eyes.

  She said, “We were going to take Mister Farlowe to the lodge to put him to bed. I forgot my purse and Warner insisted on going without me. He said he could manage alone. Oh, I never should’ve permitted it!”

  The deputy was ten years younger tha
n Tess, who, for the first time, looked every bit her age. He said, “Ma’am, where was Mister Farlowe seated in the dinghy?”

  “In front,” she said. “In the bow.”

  “When he came back what did he say?”

  “That Warner had fallen overboard into the water! That he’d looked for him and couldn’t find him!”

  “Did he say how he fell overboard?”

  “He couldn’t say. He was … well, you see how he is.”

  “Did he mention they’d traded places in the dinghy? Maybe switched seats?”

  “No. He just said the dinghy hit something and Warner tumbled overboard. When he looked around Warner was gone!” Then Tess covered her eyes, and her shoulders shook.

  The deputy gave her a chance to gain some composure, then asked, “How much did Mister Farlowe have to drink tonight?”

  “A lot,” Tess said. “I asked him to stop. I think he’ll remember I asked him to please stop. He had a lot.”

  “Those inflatables are very stable,” the deputy said. “Do you have any idea how Mister Stillwell could’ve fallen overboard?”

  “Well,” she said, wiping her cheeks, her face in deep shadow, “I imagine Warner stood up in the stern for some reason, maybe to see better. I imagine he struck one of the mooring cans and fell off. Don’t you think that’s what happened?”

  “Maybe,” the deputy said. “Or maybe Mister Farlowe took the tiller. Maybe he suddenly wanted to drive. People that drunk do impulsive things.”

  “Deputy,” Tess Binder said evenly. “Mister Farlowe was too drunk to get up from his seat without someone assisting him. I would swear that he couldn’t have piloted that boat.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Not long. Just a few weeks, actually.”

  “After he realized Mister Stillwell had fallen overboard, what did he do?”

  “You can ask him.”

  “I will. But what did he say he did?”

  “He said he was confused and wasn’t sure where he’d lost Warner.”

  “Where he’d lost Warner?”

  “No. I mean, where Warner got lost. Where he fell overboard.”

  “But he said he tried to find him?”

  “He tried! Do you know that Win Farlowe’s a retired policeman? God, he tried! But … well, he was smashed!”

  Tess wasn’t given much of a chance to talk to Winnie except to say she’d get a ride back to Avalon, where he was to be driven by the deputy. She told Winnie which hotel she’d be using that night, and that he should meet her there when they released him. Her eyes looked gray as ashes.

  Once more, Winnie Farlowe found himself riding in a car over the mountains of Santa Catalina Island, only this time he wasn’t remembering the good times with his dad. He was in the deputy’s Chevy Blazer, desperately trying to fill in gaps. He remembered dancing with Tess. He didn’t remember going on the shore boat to the Circe! He remembered talking to Warner Stillwell in the main salon. He didn’t remember being led down to the dinghy. He remembered the dinghy striking something! He remembered a scream! He remembered motoring in circles! He didn’t remember returning to the big motor yacht.

  On the way to Avalon the deputy said, “I want to advise you that you have the right to remain silent …”

  Winnie listened quietly, the second time in four months that a policeman had read him his rights. The second time he’d been involved in a bizarre and inexplicable boating incident. The second time he could not remember half of what happened. He’d been lucky last time, but not this time.

  He thought of that smiling man in the yellow flowered shirt. He’d smiled kindly when he helped Winnie to board the yacht. Winnie tasted salt in his mouth and realized he was crying again.

  The deputies at the Avalon substation gave him a Breathalyzer test. He remembered from last time that the coordination test for boating-under-the-influence is different from driving-under-the-influence. Certain “stressers” common to yachtsmen may not be alcohol related. Bloodshot eyes could happen as a result of ocean glare. An inability to stand on one foot, or remain stable with one’s head thrown back, could happen as a result of experiencing pitch and roll on a boat.

  They asked him to count backwards from twenty to zero, but they didn’t waste much time with it. Two and a half hours had elapsed since Warner Stillwell was lost, and Winnie Farlowe still blew a .28 on the Breathalyzer. The witness Tess Binder was right. He must have been absolutely smashed when the accident occurred.

  Winnie’s signed statement was anything but self-serving. He said, “I don’t know what happened. I was passed out, I think. We rammed something or something rammed us. I fell backwards. I was too drunk to respond effectively. If I hadn’t been so drunk, that man would still be alive. I would’ve saved him if I hadn’t been blind helpless stinking drunk. If there isn’t a crime you can charge me with, there should be.”

  There was. Winnie Farlowe was booked for a violation of Section 647(b) of the California penal code, for being drunk in public. After they’d made calls to an assistant district attorney on the mainland, it was decided he couldn’t be booked for anything more serious. Winnie had been put into the dinghy by sober people. He hadn’t operated the dinghy except when the pilot of the boat fell overboard, and in California there is no penal code violation for failing to act in the rescue of another, even in life-threatening circumstances. Hence, Winston Farlowe was only guilty of being drunk in public.

  Saturday morning he was so sick he couldn’t get off his bunk in a cell he shared with one other drunk. A decibel of sound was like a mortar round exploding. A kilowatt of light was a laser. He refused food but took water which he promptly vomited the second it hit his belly. Tess Binder did not come to the Avalon substation and did not offer to post bail. The prisoner refused to make any phone calls and said he did not want to be released on his own recognizance.

  He was hardly any better on Sunday. Since being locked up, he hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time, writhing in sickness and horror, too feverish and ill to conjure up his night visitors.

  By early Sunday evening, the eighty-two-foot U.S. Coast Guard patrol boat from Long Beach, along with two Coast Guard helicopter teams, called off their search for a floating body. And that night Winnie Farlowe had either a theta dream or an hallucination. He was with his father at Two Harbors, fishing in the kelp beds. Winnie hooked something big. He began reeling it in. His father leaned over the side with a gaff and then … His own scream brought him back to reality.

  Since the Justice Court in Avalon was only in session on Fridays, Winnie was flown to Long Beach by the Sheriff’s Aero Bureau on Monday morning where the presiding judge gave permission for him to be arraigned by the Catalina judge in the Long Beach Municipal Court.

  Winnie was almost doubled over with cramps as he stood before Judge Herman Calloway at arraignment that morning stubbornly demanding to be sentenced. The sweat was running down his temples and he was hollow-eyed and clammy, and so shaky that the judge asked if he’d like to see a physician. The defendant refused. He also refused to speak to the public defender. He insisted on pleading guilty.

  The judge looked nothing like the hanging judge, Jesse Singleton. This judge was sixty-ish and frail, with pitted cheeks and a gray thatch combed back from a diving widow’s peak. “The fact is, Mister Farlowe, Mister Stillwell might be alive today if you had not been in a stupefyingly drunken state on Friday night. Do you agree?”

  “I agree, Your Honor,” Winnie said. “And I deserve all you got.”

  “I understand that you have a prior for boating-under-the-influence?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Winnie said.

  “And when was that?”

  “Last Christmas.”

  “You were no doubt warned about being drunk on a boat or drunk in public?”

  “I was, Your Honor.”

  “I’m going to set your bail at two hundred and fifty dollars and ask for a probation report, Mister Farlowe. I’m not sure
what I want to do with you.”

  “I reject a probation report, Your Honor,” Winnie said.

  Everyone in the courtroom did a take on that one.

  The judge said, “You what?”

  “I demand immediate sentencing, Your Honor,” Winnie said. “I refuse to cooperate with a probation officer, and I reject a probation report.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I was a policeman for many years.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said the judge. “Very well. You leave me no alternative but to give you the maximum sentence for this misdemeanor.”

  “I deserve all you got,” said Winnie Farlowe. “A man is dead. I should’ve saved him. I would’ve saved him if I’d been sober.”

  The judge studied the defendant. He could see that the prisoner was suffering severe withdrawal pain. Every few seconds Winnie would grimace. The judge figured this guy had to confess and be punished. This guy was an alcoholic Saint Augustine.

  Finally the judge said, “I suppose you’ll never forgive yourself for this, nor should you. I suppose you might even consider doing something intelligent, like seeking a treatment program. I suppose you might stop being stupid. You’re only forty years old. You’re still a young man, Mister Farlowe.”

  “I don’t feel young,” Winnie said.

  “Do you want some water?” the judge asked.

  “I’d just heave it up,” Winnie said.

  The judge stared at the wreckage before him and said, “I’m not going to give you the maximum sentence, regardless of your need to salve your conscience. But a man is missing and undoubtedly dead. I’m sentencing you to ninety days in the county jail. When you come out of there you’ll be dry and sober but you won’t be into a recovery mode. Do you understand the difference between a sober alcoholic and a recovering alcoholic? Only in the A.A. program can you get yourself into the recovery mode.”