by Jay Begler
“Bigamy, my dear, is the least of our crimes. It’s not the formality of the relationship, but the sincerity of our vows. Except for that little official seal, we would for all intents and purposes be husband and wife. To be honest, Isabella was the one who suggested it. She wanted to make it a double ceremony, but Louisa said she wasn’t interested in getting married.”
“Well then Hector, I accept your proposal.”
At the hacienda, two months later, just before dusk, Rebecca dressed in a short couturier wedding dress, and Morales, wearing a white dinner jacket, stood beneath a flowered wedding canopy used in Jewish marriage ceremonies and called a “huppa.” They exchanged heartfelt vows before one member of the Cartel who was an Officiant. The Officiant pronounced them husband and wife. The twenty guests took the usual battery of photographs and raised their champagne glasses as the newlyweds embraced. Morales, to satisfy an old Jewish tradition, stamped on a glass. Then he offered a toast, “To addiction.” No one except Morales and Rebecca understood how he intended those words.
That night in his cramped and foul-smelling cell, an inmate attempted to smother Daniel so another inmate could get his bed and stop sleeping on the floor.
PART SIX
—
The Road to
The
Alcatraz Option
Thirty
•
Dr. Kirkland’s Epiphany
Within the halls of San Francisco’s California Pacific Medical Center, Doctor Andrea Kirkland and her team were called “the last chance committee.” Her small group administered highly experimental and largely unproven cancer drugs, also colloquially known as “last chance drugs.” The drugs were only administered to those patients in extremis who, absent some new drug therapy, would die within a few days. The latest chemo drug in their arsenal was “Atrax” because the developers of the drug derived its most active ingredient from the deadly venom of an Australian spider known as “Atrax Robustus.” In animal testing, Atrax, according to its manufacturer, showed great promise. Its efficacy and side effects in humans was unknown. Kirkland, in charge of the first tests on humans, was skeptical. She had prior experiences where a new drug, successful in animal trials, killed human patients or failed Given its experimental nature, the patients in this case needed to be, in the words of one of her colleagues, “more than halfway through death’s door.”
The subjects they selected for the drug came to them entirely by chance. At a dinner party, Kirkland met a friend who worked at a hospice that recently admitted a lovely young couple named Sally and Mike Nestor. Remarkably, they developed late-stage liver and lung cancer simultaneously, though neither drank nor smoked. Before the onset of their cancers the Nestors were typical of the vibrant thirty something slim, well- toned, well exercised, vegetarian, gluten-free types who in better times might be in a Starbucks or Peet’s drinking coffee while using their laptops or iPhones. Now, they had all the symptoms of the final stages of cancer. They could no longer walk, ingest food, and at times, speak coherently. Their bodies were shutting down. Kirkland’s friend felt that they had less than a week to live.
If the new drug did not stem the progress of their cancers, they would die within 48 to 72 hours. Beyond pain and sadness, their faces reflected fear. This was to be their last chance. It was evening. Kirkland entered the room that they shared.
“How are you feeling?”
Sally whispered “the same.” Mike said nothing.
“OK. We are going to give you each a dose of a new drug called Atrax. I should advise you you’re the first to get the drug and while we are optimistic, we really can’t predict what will happen.”
Mike spoke quietly, “We’re aware of all of that, and signed all the release forms. And what do we have to lose? If the drug doesn’t work, we’ll probably be dead within a week.”
“We’re going to give you a sedative so you can sleep after we give you the drug. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
They nodded their heads as the team attached catheters to each of their arms and a liquid from an overhead IV bag entered their bodies. As the process of administering the drug began, Kirkland wondered if the Nestors would be alive in the morning.
Kirkland had always been an early riser. Thus, at five-thirty in the morning, she was in a Starbucks a short distance from the hospital. Ten minutes later, she put on her hospital coat with her ID attached to its pocket, and made her way to room 2341 to look in on her patients. Her first reaction was confusion. She assumed that she must have entered the wrong room. Kirkland went outside to look at the number and reentered the room. An ancient-looking man and woman, deep in sleep, lay in the beds which the young couple had occupied. He was wrinkled beyond description and bald. The woman was no less wrinkled and, it seemed to Kirkland, that her skin almost sagged off her face. Sally’s thin grey hair was so meager that Kirkland could see her mottled skull.
“Who are these people?” Kirkland wondered. “And what happened to the Nestors? And why do the charts say Mike and Sally Nestor?” She gently lifted the arm of Sally and saw that the wrist band bore her name. Still convinced that something was amiss, Kirkland went to the nurse on the floor who confirmed that they moved no patients during the night. The patients in 2341 were the Nestors. Kirkland returned to the room as Mike Nestor stirred out of sleep. “Mr. Nestor” Kirkland said gently. There was no response. “Mr. Nestor” she said somewhat louder and gently touched his arm. He opened his eyes. They were the watery eyes of an old man.
“Doctor” he paused. “I can’t remember your last name, sorry. Jesus, I feel worse than before the treatment.” It wasn’t that his cancer had reasserted itself; it was that he appeared to have aged about fifty years. He felt as he should as a sick octogenarian. Sally woke, and said looking at the patient in the next bed, “Dr. Kirkland. Where is Mike?”
The next three hours were the most intense and the worst professional experience of her life. Chronologically, the Nestors were in their mid-thirties, but now both physically and mentally they were in their mid- eighties. Not only were they hysterical, but so too was the entire research staff and administrators of the hospital. Routine examinations revealed that virtually all the cancer cells disappeared. Liver and lung functions were improving, but the readings of the Nestor’s vital signs were consistent with those who were octogenarians.
Sally was weeping and said, “Please don’t let our parents see us like this. It would be too much for them to bear. Oh my God, what will our friends think? We’re freaks.”
A week later, after giving strict instructions that no one could visit them, the Nestors were cancer free but not of the cancer that was old age. They discharged themselves in the middle of the night. Kirkland tried to contact them several weeks later, but they had disappeared. In view of the drug’s odd side effect, testing stopped until, a year later, the drug company discovered an antidote to the aging side effect. A desperate search for the Nestors, with the hope of applying the antidote revealed that six months earlier they were living in Florida in an assisted living facility and had died of “old age” just days apart.
Several months later, Kirkland stepped off of a police launch onto Alcatraz Island. Her mission was to oversee the administration of Atrax to inmates suffering from cancer. The “cocktail” she would administer also contained a chemical that prevented aging. Before it closed in 1963, Alcatraz had a prison population of 1557 inmates. Now, its inmate population topped 10,000, all of them housed in the Alcatraz Penitentiary. The original Alcatraz stood in front of the massive structure and was dwarfed by it.
In its prime, the prison housed a who’s who of criminals including: Al Capone, Robert Franklin Stroud (the “Birdman of Alcatraz”), George “Machine Gun” Kelly, and Whitey Bulger. The prison, however, was no longer just for hard-core criminals. Rather, its population was a mix of the hard cores and mostly the hapless souls who found themselves incarcerated as a consequence of taking Clarity.
When Kirkland entered warden Ste
phen Lewis’ office, he was looking out of his window and shaking his head negatively.
“Look out there; two boatloads of new inmates. We don’t have any room for them. You saw all of the tents before you entered. There’s a damn waiting list to go from the tents into the prison itself. And, when I complain about the inhuman overcrowding, to members of the Federal Prison Board, they say with resignation, ‘Do the best you can. We’re sorry.’ I reply, ‘don’t apologize to me; apologize to the inmates and their families.’”
As she looked at various monitors showing parts of the prison, Kirkland could understand what Lewis meant. He continued. “We used to complain when the beds were triple deckers; now it’s five deckers. I won’t bore you with the horrible details. News of prison conditions is reported morning, noon and night. Yesterday, we witnessed a flotilla of protesters.
They toured the entire facility and met with its beleaguered medical staff populated in part by volunteers from various hospitals. She was so saddened and overwhelmed by what she saw and was told, that she wept.
On a book tour for her memoir several years later, Kirkland described the prelude to what she would call her epiphany. “We were walking back to Warden Lewis’ office when we crossed paths with four inmates, all in their late twenties, early thirties. They waived to Lewis who waived back and said, ‘These are lifers, but good inmates.’ I asked, ‘Can I speak to them for a second?’ He replied ‘sure.’ After some brief introductions I asked, ‘If I gave you a choice of staying in here for the rest of your life or being released from prison tomorrow under certain conditions, would you take it? You would get out, but be aged by about 40 to 50 years. In every sense of the word, you would be eighty years or older, both physically and mentally. You would each leave prison as an old man.’
“The youngest in the group looked at me for a moment or two and asked, ‘Are you offering this to us or is it a hypothetical question?’”
“‘Purely hypothetical,’ I answered. Another inmate said, ‘It doesn’t matter if your question was a hypothetical or an offer. I’d say yes in a heartbeat. And so would almost everyone else. Conditions here are so horrible, no criticism to you Warden, that death is an attractive and viable option. I’ve tried sixteen escapes in the last year, not really believing I’d escape, but hoping maybe I’d be killed. So, getting a Get Out of Jail Free card even at eighty seems like a great alternative.’ The others shook their heads in agreement.
“Neither of us spoke until we returned to Lewis’ office. He took out two glasses and a bottle of William Lawson Scotch from a locked steel cabinet and said, ‘I’ve been saving this to celebrate the end of our horrible conditions. And I think your idea, giving the option to prisoners to leave prison, but as old men or women, might just be the beginning of the end of our prison crisis. We just administer Atrax but give no antidote.’”
Two years later, after overcoming political, constitutional and religious objections, the idea to which Kirkland and Lewis toasted became a reality.
California, and soon after, and every state in the country and the Federal Government made ready to offer an option to prisoners who qualified after meeting very strict criteria. Thus, the option would not be granted to pedophiles or inmates convicted of certain heinous crimes or those showing a propensity for violence. There was no strict policy about those convicted of murder. An Option Board interviewed all who opted for the option. One condition for being accepted into the option program was an acknowledgment by the inmate that should he or she commit a crime, the prisoner would return to prison, but the prisoner’s age would not be reversed.
It was only fitting that the inauguration of the Option was to be at Alcatraz Prison. Following a well- designed protocol, John Stevens, the first inmate selected for the Option, and his family received three weeks of counseling regarding his transition him from a 28-year-old to a man roughly 81 years old. He and his family received a digitally altered photograph of Stevens that revealed how he would look once the prison completed the treatment. A tall, handsome fellow, of immense strength, the man that Stevens saw in the altered photograph bore no resemblance to himself. His only word at that moment was a soft “impossible.”
He said to Kirkland, “You must be kidding. That’s not me.” The timber of his voice was that of a person who received the worst kind of news imaginable, and who refused to believe what he was being told but knew what he heard was true.
“I’m afraid” it’s true, John. It’s sad, I know, but that’s what happens when you get old. When you are young, you can’t really imagine what being old is really like. But this is different. It’s instant old age.”
He was near tears. “But what will Sophie say?”
“We had family counseling for Sophie and she knows what to expect. To be honest, I don’t really know how she will react when she sees you. If you want to change your mind, you can. There’s still time. The procedure is not until tomorrow. But, John, once you have it, there’s no going back.”
“But I heard you could reverse it.”
“We can, but not for inmates who change their mind, only for those whose convictions are overturned. It was there in the papers you signed,”
“Yeah, I know; in big capital letters. Suppose I was innocent, and you found out.”
“Then you’d no longer be an inmate and we would reverse the aging. We don’t expect that will happen with you.”
That night, John called his wife Sophie and told her of his misgivings. She replied, tears in her voice, “I don’t care. I don’t care. I need you at home. The girls need a father. Please, John.”
Sophie, along with her two young children Mary and Anna, drove her new Ford station wagon to the parking lot for the prison ferry. Her car was a gift from the local gang for whom John worked. It was a reward for the loyalty of John taking sole responsibility for the death of three people in a holdup gone horribly wrong. He hadn’t committed the robbery, but drove the getaway car which, with police in hot pursuit, bounced off a car, flipped in the air and crashed into an outdoor café, killing three people. His sentence was fifty years to life in prison without the chance of parole.
To Sophie, his release was a miracle, though John warned her repeatedly about his transformation and social workers showed her the same altered photographs. A bevy of television reporters with cameras pointing to the prison’s exit stood by. Sophie and her two daughters waited outside of the prison gate. She wanted this reunion to be special. With flowers in hand and each of their daughters holding Mylar balloons inscribed with “Welcome Home,” she waited for John to approach. It was misting, but she and her daughter didn’t seem to mind. Several men had walked out the prison’s outer gate, but not John. She was wondering what was keeping him when she heard, “Sophie.” The voice was familiar, yet different, weaker.
“Yes, Can I help you?”
“Sophie, it’s me, John.”
Sophie did not immediately recognize the man, who walked with the aid of a cane, but was dressed in the clothing that John had worn when he entered the prison. To Sophie, the clothing looked three sizes too large. He was shorter by about three inches. As the ancient-looking man shuffled slowly towards her, she realized who it was and screamed in agony, “No, it can’t be!” The children, too shocked to speak, released their balloons and they drifted skyward. John stood in the mist as Sophie and her children ran back to the ferry. He tried to run after her, but took a geriatric tumble. Lewis and Kirkland, thirty yards behind John, watched. John turned, wanting to re-enter the prison, but Lewis held up his hand.
“What am I going to do now?” It was not so much a question, but a plea.
In a muted tone, Lewis said, “Go home, John. Try to reason with her. I’m sure she’ll take you back,” but he was far from sure this would be the case.
Thirty-One
•
The Indignities of Old Age
The press referred to those who exercised the “Optionaires.” Many returned to their former prison on the pretext of
a visit, but most returned because they felt more comfortable in prison than on the outside. One Optionaire, when asked by a reporter what he thought about his incarceration, replied, “I think of it as the good old days.” It was a sentiment shared by virtually all of the returning inmates.
This day, Aaron Moskowitz, Daniel’s best friend in prison would return for a visit. Just prior to exercising the Option, Moskowitz was tall, muscular and movie actor handsome. Now, he had none of these attributes. Wrinkled and stooped over, with just a wisp of hair, wearing hearing aids and ultra-thick glasses, he was the epitome of a geriatric. To Daniel, who sat across from him in the prison’s visitors’ section, Moskowitz’ transformation since exercising the Option seemed to be more than just physical. He had the demeanor of an old man. “Shit,” Daniel thought to himself, “he’s old.”
Judging from Moskowitz’ expression, Daniel knew that this would not be a cheerful conversation. In the hope of lifting the mood he asked, “So, Aaron, how’s it going?’
“Between you and me, it sucks beyond belief. If I had it to do all over again, there would be no way that I’d exercise the Option. In reality, you’re just trading one prison for another prison, the prison of old age. And, there’s no escaping that prison.”
As Moskowitz spoke Daniel noticed that his voice had changed, from one strong and deep to one several octaves higher and somewhat guttural. It was clear to Daniel, that Moskowitz, always upbeat in his prior life, was depressed. Periodically, Moskowitz could not think of a word and pause until Daniel filled in the blank. Daniel tried to shift gears. “So how are your kids?”
“You know the agency running the Option works hard to prepare loved ones for the change. They even send a video, a computer image of me morphing from young to old as whatever they gave to me took hold. Yet, nothing really prepares loved ones or friends when they first encounter an Optionaire. When my ex -wife first saw me, she fainted. And, no one prepares you to cope with what its really like.”