Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

"What do you mean?" Claire asked.

  "I mean Ron should take the deal but not honor it," David said. "I think he should join the Navy, complete his training in Chicago, and then go to Los Angeles with the rest of us when he gets a leave in July."

  "Won't that look suspicious?"

  "It won't if he is assigned to a base in California. Most new sailors go to the West Coast because there is still a war in the Pacific. If Ron is sent to San Diego or San Francisco, he will look just like thousands of other sailors traveling with their families to their first assignments. He won't have to tell anyone we're heading to Los Angeles."

  "What about the adoption?" Claire asked.

  "That's an easy one. Hannah's adoption will be final July 10," David said. "Unless Ron is booted from boot camp, he will be a legal guardian by the time he gets out."

  "OK."

  "There's one more consideration. If Ron enlists in the Navy, he will almost certainly be able to travel to California this summer. If he stands trial for assault, he won't be able to travel anywhere. He will be required by law to remain in Hamilton County."

  "Does this plan have a downside?" Claire asked.

  "It does," David said. "Even if Ron is assigned to California and gets a leave in July, we won't be able to access the time tunnel without our crystal. That's why I think he should enlist now. It will give us several weeks to find the rock and think things through."

  "What if we don’t find the crystal?" Claire asked. "What if, despite our best efforts, we don't find it by, say, the end of June? Then what?"

  "Then we go with Plan B," David said. "We contact Geoffrey and Jeanette and ask for their help. We ask them to return early, if necessary."

  "Have we heard from them?" Ron asked.

  David shook his head.

  "That itself is a problem," Claire said. "If we don't hear from them, we can't contact them. If we can't contact them, there is no Plan B."

  "You're right," David said. "If we can't find the crystal or contact the Bells by the end of June, we will have only one option left. I call it Plan C."

  "What's that?"

  "We run to Mexico."

  "Are you serious?" Claire asked.

  David nodded.

  "I'm very serious. With the money in our savings account, we could live comfortably in Baja California until the end of September. Then we could rejoin Geoffrey and Jeanette in Los Angeles and go home as a group, like we had planned."

  "What about the police? They would look for deserters."

  "They might in cities close to the border, like Tijuana or Mexicali, but probably not in other places," David said. "Look, Claire, I'm not saying these plans are risk-free. I am saying they beat taking our chances in a southern courtroom. I would never forgive myself if I didn't do everything in my power to get us home, with Hannah, as soon as possible."

  Claire smiled at her brother.

  "I know."

  "So are you on board?"

  "I don't know. I'm still nervous about the war. What if Ron didn't get a leave? What if the Navy assigned him to a ship?"

  "We'd still be OK," David said. "Even if both things happened, Ron wouldn't ship out before the middle of July — weeks after the last big battle. We might not see him for a few months, but we would see him again. We would just hang out in a Navy town, spend time with Geoffrey and Jeanette, and wait for Ron's ship to return."

  Claire took a breath.

  "It seems you've thought of everything."

  "I've thought of a few things," David said. "I want us to have some options in case our circumstances change again. If we stay in Chattanooga and roll the dice on a trial, Ron could go to prison. If we go to California, we at least retain some control over the situation."

  "I agree."

  "Does that mean I can take the deal?" Ron asked.

  Claire offered a nervous smile.

  "It means you can take the deal."

  "Thanks."

  "Just don't find yourself on a sinking ship."

  CHAPTER 24: RON

  Friday, April 27, 1945

  The courtroom was modest, plain, and small, much like one forty miles up the road that Ron had seen as a tourist in 2012. Like the one in Dayton, Tennessee, which had hosted the Scopes Monkey Trial of 1925, this chamber was user-friendly.

  No media circus flocked to this courtroom, however. No hoards of witnesses fought their way in. When Ron prepared to enter a plea of guilty to the charge of first-degree assault, he did so in a mostly empty room.

  Ron pondered that fortunate circumstance as he faced Hamilton County Circuit Court Judge Franklin P. Jones. As a man attempting to demonstrate his worthiness as a father, he was happy to see a courtroom free of reporters, busybodies, and child-welfare types.

  Jones, a large, brooding man who reminded Ron of the actor Fred Gwynne, motioned for the bailiff to close a side door and then turned his attention to Carter Galloway, who stood next to Ron at a table near the front of the courtroom. He looked at the defense attorney with the indifference of a man who had judged others for far too long.

  "Good morning, Mr. Galloway."

  The lawyer smiled nervously.

  "Good morning, Your Honor."

  Jones rubbed his hands.

  "Mr. Pearson informs me that your client wishes to change his plea."

  "That is correct," Galloway said.

  "Have you explained the significance of this action?" Jones asked. "Have you informed your client that he is waiving his right to a trial?"

  "I have."

  "Then I see no reason why we cannot proceed."

  "Thank you, Your Honor."

  Jones glanced at Richard Pearson, the prosecutor, and then at the defendant, who stood before him in a pressed gray suit. He paused for a few seconds and then commenced a conversation that Ron had both anticipated and dreaded.

  "Mr. Rasmussen, you are charged with two counts of assault in the first degree. Each of these charges carries a possible sentence of up to five years in the state penitentiary."

  Ron took a deep breath.

  "I'm aware of that, Your Honor."

  "Are you also aware that I am not bound to accept any recommendations made to me by the prosecuting attorney or the defense counsel?"

  "I am."

  "Then I believe we can conclude this matter," Jones said.

  When the judge looked away for a moment, Ron did the same. He wanted to gauge the faces around him before making the biggest decision of his life.

  Ron turned around and looked at the people who made up his cheering section. He focused first and foremost on his wife of twelve years, who stood two rows back with Hannah in her arms. He looked for signs of fear or doubt but saw only a supportive smile. He felt better knowing that Claire had his back at a critical time.

  Then Ron looked at his brother-in-law, who stood next to Claire. He looked for doubt on his face, too, but he found only resolve. He felt more confident taking this leap knowing that David, the mastermind of this plan, seemed fully convinced it would work.

  Finally, Ron Rasmussen, convict-to-be, glanced at Noah Jamison, who stood with five other African-Americans in the last row. Jamison, a fifty-six-year-old cobbler from Gamble Town, a black enclave in the otherwise lily white St. Elmo district, had apparently come to the courtroom to show his support for a man who had saved him from a beating.

  Jamison frowned at Ron when the accused looked his way. Then he shook his head. He indicated his disgust for this outcome and the judicial system in general even as he demonstrated solidarity with the defendant and his family.

  Ron thought of his supporters, his coming plea, and a very uncertain future. He thought of all this and more until a firm voice brought him back to the here and now.

  "Mr. Rasmussen, will you please turn to face the court?"

  Ron turned around.

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  Judge Jones leaned forward.

  "How do you plea in the case of the State of Tennessee vs. Ronald A. Rasmussen?"


  "I plead guilty, Your Honor."

  Jones addressed the court reporter.

  "Let it be noted that Mr. Rasmussen has entered a plea of guilty."

  The judge gave the clerk a moment and then returned to the defense attorney. He looked at Galloway with eyes that reflected fatigue, relief, and satisfaction.

  "Would you like to proceed to sentencing, Mr. Galloway? Or would you prefer to defer the matter until next week?"

  Galloway looked at Ron and then the judge.

  "We would like to proceed, Your Honor."

  "Very well," Jones said. He turned to Ron. "Ronald Rasmussen, you have pled guilty to the crime of assault in the first degree. I sentence you to one year in the Tennessee State Prison in Nashville. I am suspending that sentence until which time you have honorably completed at least a two-year enlistment in the armed forces of the United States. Do you understand the terms of this sentence and your obligations to this court?"

  "I do, Your Honor," Ron said.

  "That's good," Jones said. "Please be advised that you have until May 4, one week from today, to furnish the court with written proof of your enlistment. If you fail to provide all necessary documents, a warrant for your arrest will be issued and the original terms of your sentence will be imposed. Do you understand?"

  "I do."

  "Then I believe we are finished. I release you to your family."

  "Thank you, Your Honor."

  "There is one more thing," Jones said.

  "What's that?" Ron asked.

  "Don't disappoint me, Mr. Rasmussen. Don't even think about it."

  CHAPTER 25: CLAIRE

  Monday, April 30, 1945

  Claire lifted the white porcelain cup to her mouth, took a sip, and frowned. No matter how hard she tried to warm up to the coffee of the 1940s, she couldn't do it. Even enhanced with a cube of sugar, it was weak, bitter, and as tasty as turpentine.

  "This stuff is awful," Claire said.

  David smiled.

  "Would you prefer a salted caramel mocha latte with two pumps of vanilla?"

  Claire giggled.

  "I would prefer something I could consume."

  David laughed. He had laughed a lot since Claire had dragged him out of his room at eight o'clock and taken him to breakfast at Dalton's Diner on West Fortieth Street.

  Claire had done so to visit, vent, and get out of the house. She wanted to speak privately with her brother, give Ron some time with his daughter and his thoughts, and perhaps sort out a few things that still confused and troubled her.

  "You're in a good mood," David said.

  "I'm in a better mood," Claire said. She looked around the diner for eavesdroppers and then returned to her sibling, who sat across from her in a padded booth. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't still a little nervous about this scheme of yours."

  David sighed.

  "I understand. I'm nervous too. I worry about something going wrong."

  "What do you worry about most?" Claire asked.

  "I worry about simply getting home. I know we have our rendezvous with the Bells as a backup plan, but it occurred to me last night that even that could go wrong. What if something happens to them in Latin America? What if they are never able to return to Los Angeles with their crystal? We might be stuck here. We might be stuck here forever."

  "I thought the same thing last night."

  "We need to find that crystal," David said. "We can't depend on Geoffrey and Jeanette to bail us out. We need to find our rock and get out of here as fast as we can."

  "If we found the crystal today, would you want to leave today?" Claire asked. She sipped her coffee. "Would you want to take the chance of getting arrested? I'm not sure I would."

  "Are you still worried about Ron's sentence?"

  "I am. I'm worried about the adoption too. I don't know what I would do if someone took Hannah away from me. She's a part of me now. She's a part of us."

  "I know," David said. "I wish I could promise you that nothing could go south, but I can't. There are a lot of things that could go badly, including the adoption. We just have to think positively and do our best to make this work. We have to have faith in ourselves."

  "You're right. It's just hard."

  "How does Ron feel about the Navy part of this? I asked him yesterday if he was ready for boot camp, but he didn't give me a clear answer. I'm getting the impression he is nervous about actually joining the military."

  "He is," Claire said. She looked again around the diner and lowered her voice. "He's not worried about facing combat. He knows how this war will end. He knows what we will do to Japan. But he's nervous about a long separation. So am I."

  David frowned.

  "I won't kid you. A long separation is possible. Once the Navy gets its mitts on Ron, it will be able to restrict his movements. It could put him on a ship before we could leave, but I don't think it will. We'll have at least a few days to get to Los Angeles or Mexico."

  Claire took a deep breath.

  "I hope it doesn't come down to Mexico. As much as I like margaritas and beaches, I don't like the idea of living as a fugitive."

  "I don't think we'll have to cross the border," David said. "If we do, we'll just spend the money the Bells left us and wait. That money wasn't just a gift, Claire. It was insurance. It was insurance to cover contingencies like this. As long as we manage our resources wisely, we'll be fine. We'll make it through this one way or another."

  "I hope you're right."

  "I'm right. We just have to roll with the punches."

  Claire smiled.

  "Thanks."

  "Thanks for what?" David asked.

  "Thanks for calming the nerves of your paranoid sister," Claire said. "I may need you to do it some more as we approach the summer."

  David chuckled.

  "I'll do what I can."

  "Are you done with your coffee?" Claire asked.

  David smiled.

  "I was done when the waitress brought it."

  "Then let's get out of here," Claire said. "I miss Hannah already."

  "I do too. Let's go."

  Claire grabbed her purse, slid out of her seat, and joined David in the aisle that ran the length of the diner. Then she opened her purse, pulled out a ten, and left it on the table.

  She didn't think the coffee or the pancakes were worth ten cents, much less ten dollars, but she thought the waitress, a friendly college girl of nineteen, deserved a big tip. The time traveler and new mother appreciated the server's smile and attentiveness.

  When David motioned to Claire to lead the way, she stepped away from their booth, the second to last from the door, and moved toward the exit. As she did, she saw an elderly woman drink coffee, a businessman read a newspaper, and a middle-aged couple enjoy a breakfast of eggs and grits. She saw the waitress smile as she approached the door.

  Claire passed every person in the public area of the diner except for a well-dressed man who sat in the farthest booth, the one behind hers. She had not seen him coming in and did not see him going out. She did not know he even existed. As a result, she did not know that he had followed much of her conversation with David.

  She did not know that the Nashville man was passing through Chattanooga on his way to Atlanta. She did not know he was a cautious man and an attentive man. She did not know he was an off-duty field agent for J. Edgar Hoover's Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  CHAPTER 26: DAVID

  Wednesday, May 2, 1945

  Waiting in the wings of a chamber that looked more like a Smithsonian exhibit than a contemporary high school classroom, David surveyed his surroundings and took note of several things. Each was as interesting as a three-dollar bill.

  On the wall to his left, he saw maps of continents with colonies and countries with funny names. The USSR had fifteen socialist republics. America had forty-eight states.

  In the middle of the room, David saw twenty desks, twenty seniors, and a variety of expressions. Boys in white shirts, c
uffed slacks, and Oxford shoes smirked and stared. Girls in sweaters, knee-length skirts, and bobby socks smiled and gazed.

  To his right, he found the reason for the season, or at least the reason he was standing in a classroom full of kids. Margaret Doyle stood in front of her desk in a corner of the room and waited for the murmurs to subside before introducing her special guest. At five after two, she smiled at David, turned to face her students, and started speaking.

  "Students, today I have the privilege of introducing a new friend, a peer, and a man who comes from a place most of us have never been. Like me, he is a high school social studies teacher. Unlike me, he is a frequent traveler who has visited several countries and more than forty states. He will speak to us about one of those states this afternoon. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. David Baker of Long Beach, California."

  David smiled as he stepped to the front of the class and acknowledged tepid applause. He wondered if his predecessor, the Navy commander, had received a warmer welcome and concluded he probably had. Fighting men were rock stars in a time of war.

  David waited for the clapping to stop and then turned to face the teacher, who had returned to her desk. He could see from her smile that she knew what he was thinking.

  "Thank you, Miss Doyle. Thank you for that gracious introduction."

  David returned to the students.

  "How are y'all today?"

  David winced when not a single student responded. He made a mental note to ditch the southern slang at his next comedy engagement. He took a breath.

  "As Miss Doyle said, my name is Mr. Baker. I'm a social studies teacher from California who is presently visiting your fair town. I came to Chattanooga a few weeks ago, with my sister and her husband, to investigate the schools and the business community. If we like what we see by the middle of the summer, we will give serious thought to moving here."

  A boy raised his hand.

  "Yes?" David asked.

  "Why would you do that? There's nothing here."

  Several students laughed.

  "I disagree," David said. "I think there's a lot here, including great food, charming people, and some of the best scenery in the country."