Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  “Moreover, your honor, by operating a motor vehicle with the intent to evade a peace officer, the defendant is guilty of violating Section 2800.1. By causing a death during flight from a pursuing peace officer, the defendant should be sentenced under Section 2800.3. Additionally, when police arrived at the scene of the accident, the defendant was observed attempting to throw what was later identified as a bag of cocaine away from the defendant’s overturned car. The exact quantity of cocaine was unascertainable because as the defendant threw the bag, the bag ruptured and caused cocaine to vaporize into the air and disperse onto the defendant and the ground around the scene of the accident. However, there was enough cocaine observed on the defendant and collected from the scene to charge the defendant with transporting a designated controlled substance for sale in violation of Section 11352. The defendant was also charged with possession of a designated schedule II controlled substance in violation of California Code Section 11350. More cocaine was found at the defendant’s Spanish Hills home in a subsequent FBI search.

  “In conclusion, your honor, the defendant has been convicted of reckless endangerment, reckless driving, two counts of operating a vehicle while under the influence of intoxicating substances, three counts of evading a police officer, two counts of possession of a schedule II controlled substance, transportation of a controlled substance for the purpose of sale, and gross vehicular manslaughter. As these egregious facts are substantially similar to those in People v. Boldter and People v. Thompson, the prosecution and people of the State of California recommend the court impose a sentence of twenty-five years imprisonment and a fine of $200,000.”

  “Thank you counsel,” Judge Peters said. Then, turning to the table where my attorney and I sat, said, “Counsel for the defense, you may proceed.”

  My attorney, Charlotte H. Dent (Gabby wouldn’t take my call), walked to the lectern and laid out my defense. There were a number of “mitigating factors” that Ms. Dent needed to explain to the court. This part of the trial was what is referred to as the “sentencing phase.” Ms. Dent assured me that she had the main trial under control, but the jury convicted me without more than an hour’s deliberation. Ms. Dent did her best to convince the jury that I was acting out of character as a result of a sudden onset of immense anxiety associated with the last few years of my life. She emphasized my loss of money and relationships, and stressed my clean record. “First time offender,” she said.

  The jury wasn’t having it. The prosecution was allowed to show them pictures of the scene of the accident. Ms. Dent objected to the evidence, saying that it was irrelevant and inadmissible under California Evidence Code Sections 350 and 351, that it was unduly prejudicial, and that the court should exercise its discretion and exclude it under Section 352. The judge disagreed, and the prosecution showed the jury photographs of Jackie laying in the road, twisted, road rashed, and dead. Jackie was thrown from the car while it was rolling and died from blunt force trauma. The jury also saw pictures of me completely covered in cocaine and blood, as well as the destroyed Porsche tangled in a heap of fence, bushes, and road signs.

  As Ms. Dent earned my money trying to convince Judge Peters why a no-jail-time sentence was the most equitable outcome, I heard the last few years of my life recited in painful detail. Then I realized, when my Porsche came to rest on top of that fence, I hadn’t been fucked by the law (and I certainly wouldn’t be fucked by Jackie (rest in peace)), I had been fucked by bad luck. No other way of putting it. As if the universe were tipping the scales. Although I had to work hard to win, my lottery win also took a fair amount of good luck. These last few years were the universe’s way of restoring balance. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.

  I heard Ms. Dent conclude, “That is why, your honor, the defense urges this court to sentence Caish to nothing more than time served and a fine of $50,000. Caish is not a criminal, and should not be punished as such. Thank you, your honor.”

  “And I understand the defendant would like to make a statement before I enter the sentencing order, is that correct?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Ms. Dent said, turning toward me and inviting me to the lectern with an extended hand. “Remember,” Ms. Dent whispered into my ear. She had counseled me before every hearing to, “show remorse, take responsibility, and stick to what we prepared.” I nodded, then adjusted the microphone.

  “Thank you, your honor,” always good to stroke their pride, “I appreciate the opportunity to be in your court and address you directly. I acted poorly on the night of the horrific accident where Jackie died. I acted irrationally. I acted stupidly. But I did not act criminally. Your honor, I am not a criminal, and my actions that night do not represent who I am as a person. Sentencing me to prison would not rehabilitate me any more than the guilt I live with daily already does. Retribution is best served here with a fine and probation, not by adding me into California’s crowded prison system. Your honor, God works in mysterious ways. And these trials, both the literal and the figurative, are God’s way of humbling me, and teaching me the value of life, both mine and others. I take full responsibility for my actions, and I am deeply sorry to the Marquez family for the pain I have caused. I ask your honor for mercy and forgiveness. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for your comments,” Judge Peters said without betraying any emotion, “but it is not within this court’s purview to forgive you. I am ready to enter my sentence, do the parties have any other statements?” Judge Peters looked from the defense to the prosecution attorneys, both of whom stood and said, “No, your honor.” “In that case,” the judge continued, “I will proceed. I will note that I have received letters from Caish Calloway’s ecclesiastical leaders, and a few friends discussing what an upstanding citizen Caish usually is. I have also received letters from the Marquez family telling me about the suffering caused by the loss of Jackie. Based on the crimes Caish has been convicted of and the equities in this case, I am going to impose a suspended prison sentence of five years with a mandatory fine of $175,000, payable with interest in a payment schedule to be determined at a later date. I am ordering probation for five years, and requiring regular random drug testing. Ms. Dent, will you draft a memorandum order reflecting this sentencing and circulate it to the prosecution before the end of the week?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Thank you, counsel. Is there anything else?”

  “No, your honor,” Ms. Dent said.

  “No, your honor,” the prosecutor said.

  And then the bailiff said, “All rise,” and Judge Peters walked through a back door without so much of a glance over her shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Caish!” Ms. Dent said, extending her hand for a handshake.

  “For what? Five years in prison? The fine of $175,000? Or the five years of drug testing?”

  “Oh, Caish, no that’s not your sentence. You received a suspended prison sentence of five years. Which means you don’t have to go to prison. That’s why the bailiff hasn’t cuffed you and hauled you away. You’re on probation for five years, and if you blow it, the judge will revoke the suspension and send you to prison, but if not, you’re just on probation.”

  Oh praise God.

  “Oh praise God Ms. Dent. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, I can’t go to prison.” The courtroom was emptying out. I looked around and caught a glance from the Marquez family that was intended to cut me to my soul. They still haven’t been able to accept that it was Jackie’s decision to go for a ride with me, and it was Jackie’s decision not to buckle up. I’m not responsible for Jackie’s actions.

  “That’s right, no prison time. Just fly right for five years and you’re free as a bird. Easy, right?” Ms. Dent was smiling at me and putting files into her briefcase.

  “Well, doesn’t sound like that $175,000 fine is suspended though.”

  “No... it’s not. Oh, and something else,” Ms. Dent stopped what she was doing. “This was the criminal trial. The Marquez’s will almost certainl
y bring a civil case against you for allegedly causing the wrongful death of Jackie.”

  “What? What about double jeopardy or whatever?”

  “Double jeopardy means, generally speaking, that the state can’t prosecute you for crimes that you’ve already been prosecuted for. It applies to criminal trials. This will be in the civil court.”

  “So what does that mean?” I ask. Leave it to an attorney to speak in confusing jargon.

  “It means that the $175,000 isn’t the last of it,” Ms. Dent said, “The Marquez family will sue you and you will either need to pay an attorney to defend you, then pay a judgment—which you most certainly will have to because you have been convicted of the crime—or you will pay out a settlement, which could be a substantial amount of money.”

  And it was. After a year and a half of litigation and a two-month trial, the jury awarded the Marquez family three million dollars, all told. Not like they needed it. Mr. Marquez was a successful commercial property owner. Among his properties: Hyde. I appealed the judgment and Ms. Dent got the award down to $500,000 using some legal maneuvering and honing in on some obscure detail that the Marquez family attorney missed. All their money bought them a defective lawyer. Now they’re bringing a malpractice suit against their attorney for the other $2,500,000. Fine by me.

  My legal defense in the civil trial cost me $168,000, and my criminal defense cost me $215,000. Medical bills weren’t as bad. I was insured and only had to pay $19,000 out of pocket. I had a broken radius and ulna, dislocated shoulder, fractured femur, bruised my saphenous nerve, and two sprained ankles.

  Math isn’t my strong suit, but the Pismo Beach trip cost me just over a million dollars and saddled me with five years of probation. All because Jackie wanted to try and outrun the police. Not to mention my Porsche 930 was totaled. It was a ball of mangled metal that they towed directly to the junkyard—which gave me three hundred dollars for the crumpled carcass. Although I was starting to get bored with the Porsche, nobody likes to see a car go like that. Insurance wouldn’t replace it because I didn’t have insurance. I withdrew my $50,000 insurance surety bond with the state to pay for some of this mess, but now I have to buy insurance for each car I own. Well, for the Lotus.

  My seven-figure judgment debts were all payable in payments, so I didn’t have any immediate cash-flow issues. I still had enough in the bank to live comfortably for many years.

  But, just to be on the safe side, I sold my Spanish Hills house and moved back to Missoula, Montana. I made a good profit on the sale of that house. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but I needed a lower cost of living for a while. The Department of Corrections gave me permission to transfer my probation to Montana; Ms. Dent hammered out the details with the Montana criminal justice system. On the whole, things were looking up.

  Checking out of California was incredibly difficult. Watching the moving service box up my belongings and load them into a truck bound for Montana moved me to tears. I broke down right there in my garage. Rubber knees, shaking hands, difficulty breathing. The whole scene. It’s a cruel irony that at the time you most need a cigarette it’s nearly impossible to light one. I collapsed into one of my dining room chairs that was about to be loaded into the truck and shook with sadness. Completely overcome with sorrow. Unlit cigarette hanging from my frown. Someday I would come back, but for now this would be the last time I inhaled California’s air as a bonafide resident. The last time I would have palm trees in my yard. The last time it would be seventy degrees in the middle of the night, and eighty at midday. The list of lasts was long. I would be returning to Montana. Snow-ridden, pine-filled, middle-of-nowhere Montana. Missoula, my hometown, has a smaller population than most Malibu house parties. Unless you want to be a surveyor or a logger, there aren’t any opportunities to make money in Missoula. It’s never easy leaving the center of the universe, but it’s even harder leaving it for an uninhabited corner of the cosmos.

  The movers didn’t seem to notice my break down. I sat and sobbed, and they just kept loading everything I owned into the moving truck. I sat there for at least half an hour. Maybe they saw a lot of this. Rich people breaking down into tears when their wealth has been stolen from them. The wealthy realizing that there was always going to be an end to the money. That the vacuum of poverty sucks strong and relentlessly. The movers kept moving, and eventually I collected myself. When they finished packing, I got into my Lotus and followed the moving truck out of my driveway in Spanish Hills, through the palm-tree-lined streets of Camarillo, onto the 101 and 210 through Thousand Oaks, Glendale, and Rancho Cucamonga, then merged onto I-15 northbound toward Missoula, Montana. Toward fucking Missoula, Montana.

  Hours and hours of empty land watched me leave my kingdom. The tumbleweeds stopped to stare at my convoy of despair. There were several opportunities for me to drive the Lotus off a bridge and put an end to it all, but I kept the car on the road. Suicidal thoughts kept me awake that night in the roadside motel. The next morning I lit a cigarette while I filled up at one of the gas stations in Idaho, but nobody seemed to notice, or care. Or maybe they were also hoping the place would explode. Anyway, the place didn’t explode. As if the experience could get worse, it began to snow when we crossed the Montana border.

  This was my first time back to Missoula since before I moved to Los Angeles over ten years ago. I bought the house we were driving to after finding it online and calling the real estate agent and rushing through the thousands of pointless forms. Given my recent bout of bad luck, I could only afford a small place on the east edge of town that cost $630,000. At that price, I could pay the mortgage and my other monthly bills and have enough left to live on. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and twenty-six hundred square feet. The house was built in a new development and had a three car garage for when I started rebuilding my fleet. For the time being, my Lotus had plenty of room. The back of the house opened up toward the water feature near the eighth hole of the Canyon River Golf Course. For such a low price it wasn’t so bad. But, there was no mistaking it, I had slid back down to middle-class.

  When the movers were unloading the last of my furniture, I realized I hadn’t told my family I was moving back to town. Probably better that way. My dad and I hadn’t talked in years. My sister, two brothers, and mom all resented me for not giving them more of my earnings, so we also weren’t in the habit of communicating. I gave each of them a million (a million dollars! each!) and they hounded me for more. The nerve. They would create problems in their lives then come to me for money to solve them. “Caish, don’t be selfish,” they’d plead, “you got lucky and got more money than you’re ever gonna be able to spend, I can’t believe you ain’t gon’ just help out your own flesh and blood when we stand in need of help.” So I’d float them a few hundred thousand more, then in a year they’d manage to spend it and ask for more. After a while I stopped paying their mortgages and told them to make their own money. At that point, all but my mom stopped asking. My mother was not deterred.

  The tough thing about mothers is that they created you. Although fathers contribute an essential ingredient in the creation of life, mothers are the ones that build your body in their belly. And no matter what, for the rest of your life, you’re indebted to them for that. Born in debt. And not just any debt, a debt that no matter what you do, no matter how many millions of dollars you give your mom, you will never pay off. Even if your gestation was the easiest nine months of all-you-can-eat, relax in bed, maternity leave in their lives, mothers will still hold it over your head for the rest of your life.

  My mom was no different. When I was a kid it was always, “I gave birth to you, blah blah blah.” And I’d say something like, “And did you have a wooden spoon in your mouth, or was that with an epidural? I forget.” And then, “I had an epidural but it still wasn’t no cakewalk.” And back and forth until she would curse me with, “Someday you’ll know what it’s like to be a parent and deal with an ungrateful little shit.” This never changed. When I became an a
dult the words changed but the message was the same. No matter what I did for her, it was never enough. And no matter how much money I gave her, she would always say something like: “So that’s how you treat the woman who gave you life? The woman who brought you into this world and changed your diapers and gave you food and clothing and a roof to sleep under. This is how you treat me? By telling me you’ve given me enough? You’re too selfish to give your down-and-out mom a few bucks out of your pile of gold?” Forever indebted.

  So, five or six years ago, I blocked my mom’s number and blocked her from all my social media accounts. My dad, who left our family two weeks into my life and visited infrequently, took his million and disappeared. He has always been mercifully absent. I had never been more grateful for that than now. If he were to learn that I was down to my last million and moved back to Missoula he’d probably want to come visit. In that visit, he’s probably take subtle jabs by offering to help in whatever way he could. Reminding me that no matter how much I succeed in life, he will always be in a position to help. Always standing above me on the trail with his hand extended down.

  My siblings, Catherine, Cormac, and Caleb (yeah, we were one of those families) thought I was selfish for not splitting my winnings between them and our mom. They always wanted more. I was closest to Catherine growing up, probably because we’re closest in age. We were the perfect pair. Like a road and sidewalk. But even she had turned out to be a greedy bitch. About the same time I blocked out my mom, Catherine lost her cool at a Red Lobster and made a scene about me cutting her off. “After all I’ve helped you!” she yelled. “Everythin’ I did for you, everythin’ we been through, and you gon’ make my kids go back to public school?” The other folks at the restaurant were staring at Catherine, who had risen to her feet and was leaning across the table pointing at my face. “You know we put them in Washington Private because you promised to help us! They got braces now! How we gon’ pay for them? You fuckin’ liar!” She picked up her plate, dumped what was left of her lobster and potatoes onto my lap, then frisbeed the plate through one of Red Lobster’s windows. That last part may have been a tad more impulsive than what she had planned. She certainly looked surprised to see the window shatter. She stormed out of Red Lobster and I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. Of course, I paid for her meal, the broken plate, the broken window, her plane ticket to and from Los Angeles, her hotel room at the Beverly Hills Wilshire, and her rented Mercedes. Being rich is a thankless occupation.