by Mike Farrell
Driving back down to Bobby and Eugenie’s for the night, I check in with Shelley, who is doing wonderfully. Though sore from the physical therapy, she’s very happy with the progress she’s making, as is the therapist. And once again I get to tell her that the very first question asked this evening was, “Where’s Shelley?’’ It was from a man who wanted to thank her. He said he had played “Johnny Angel” over and over for the guys in his unit when he was in Vietnam in the late 1960s and he wanted to tell her how much it meant to all of them.
I thanked him on her behalf and said I’d make sure she got the message that very night.
DAY SEVEN
Friday, May 16, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: SANTA FE, NM
CITY OF DESTINATION: SONORA, TX
MILES TRAVELED: 619
TRAVEL DAY
Up early again. Have to cover a lot of distance today and there’s a telephone interview to do first, this with a woman at the Iowa Press-Citizen, in anticipation of my arrival there (weeks from now, I assume).
The next gig is in Austin, Texas, almost 800 miles away, so I won’t plan to get there tonight, but want to take a good bite out of it in order to get into the city relatively early tomorrow. I’ve not been to Austin and am looking forward to it. I keep hearing that it’s the “Berkeley of Texas,” a bastion of liberalism in an otherwise conservative state.
With thanks to Bobby and Eugenie for their gracious hospitality I head back into Santa Fe, through the narrow lanes of that lovely town, and finally to U.S. Highway 285, which runs a pretty straight shot southeast to West Texas.
It’s beautiful heading down out of the highlands under a bright blue sky pebbled with cottony white clouds. Driving up from El Paso on Tuesday, the climb from Las Cruces to Santa Fe was so gradual as to not be obvious, but a climb it was. Like El Paso, Las Cruces is less than 4,000 feet above sea level (actually higher than I had thought), while Santa Fe is nearly 7,500, so Mule had work to do—and did it without complaint. It was a “beepless” day, thank heaven, without great panicky moments.
I filled up the tank in Taos last night despite the fact that I still had two squares showing on the gas gauge and could probably have easily made the sixty-five miles back down to Santa Fe, but since it was very dark and there wasn’t a lot of civilization until we got close to Bobby and Eugenie’s, I decided not to test Mule. And again this morning the gauge says it’s still full.
As we race southward the mesas become less prominent and the land flattens out. It’s interesting to watch the outside temperature rise (the one thing I can understand on the dash screen so full of complex diagrams and information) as our altitude falls. From the time we left Los Angeles and hit the desert, the outside temperature has been in the high nineties, only dropping into the high eighties in El Paso. Once we pushed up to Santa Fe it got into the sixties and fifties, dropping one morning into the forties, so having the connection between altitude and temperature spelled out before me is interesting. Taking full advantage of the downward slope and a lack of traffic, I push Mule along at a good clip. I figure I’ve now broken the speed laws in every state we’ve touched so far.
I’m still pissed at President Stupid. Actually, that’s too easy. I’ve never been convinced he’s the moron so many think he is. He seems to me to be quite clever in many ways, only one of them having manipulated himself into the spot he now occupies. Senator John Kerry once told me that he didn’t think W. was at all stupid, but that he seemed to lack any intellectual curiosity. Once he determined that something was what he believed it to be, there was no questioning, no analysis and no willingness to budge. It’s the position of a frightened child—or an utter narcissist. (How’s this. I looked up Narcissistic Personality Disorder: A pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and a lack of empathy.)
As governor of Texas he presided over 152 executions and went so far as to mock the plea of one of them, Karla Faye Tucker, to a reporter. In Iraq, he’s been responsible for over 4,000 U.S. military deaths, tens of thousands of injuries among our military personnel and perhaps hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilian deaths. Has there been any sign of empathy?
That smirk makes me nuts.
But forget him for the moment. Here we are in southeastern New Mexico, zipping along under the now-less-cloudy blue sky. The flat, scrub-covered land stretches as far as one can see on each side, and when I look to the left I note the entrance to a vast, fenced piece of property with a sign over the gate that reads, Victor Perez Ranch. When I say vast, I mean that the road under the gate runs straight away from the highway and disappears over the horizon without a single structure in sight. Somewhere off in the far distance beyond the edge of the earth I envision a huge, elaborate ranch house and attendant structures looking like something out of the movie Giant.
Considering this as we roll along gets me thinking about the whole idea of owning property. As a city boy from a working-class background, I know the satisfaction that comes from owning a home and a piece of property, but thinking of Victor Perez and his rancho, or people like the characters in Giant, or so many others with huge landholdings—the kind of acreage that makes one understand the use of the word “spread”— gives me pause. It brings to mind the Native American concept of living in harmony with the land, perhaps as a visitor, or as one who is granted a kind of stewardship over it because it cannot be owned, as such; one lives in partnership with it.
Closing in on the Texas border we pass through the New Mexican town of Encino. Unlike the wealthy San Fernando Valley community of the same name, this Encino (meaning evergreen or a kind of oak tree) is a shambles. A virtual ghost town, to say it has fallen on hard times is to understate it by miles. Shuttered stores, overgrown yards, huge weeds covering the front of what was once a filling station mark some kind of tragedy in the lives of the people who once resided here—and the few who perhaps still do. Very sad to see this; shocking, in a way. And, not to make Victor Perez out to be a villain, because he’s probably a nice man who worked hard for what he has, the disparity between some lives and others in this country is writ large for me in these two sets of circumstances.
Crossing into Texas the clouds have come together and turned gray. Soon there is a steady sprinkle on us that continues down to and through the town of Pecos, Home of the World’s First Rodeo, per the signs. And as we cross the Pecos River I note that Mule and I are no longer “west of the Pecos.”
Rattling on down, I see that we again have two squares left on the gas gauge. Fort Stockton, where we’ll hook up again with Interstate 10E, is about fifty-five miles away, so instead of stopping to fill up I figure we’ll just sniff haughtily at the gas stations and keep right on going.
And we do.
Less than an hour later, as my attention is diverted to making the correct turn to get onto the interstate, Mule hesitates and seems to lose power. Suddenly I’m hearing all kinds of beeps!
“What the hell … ?”
“Mule can’t run with no oats.”
“What? But we had two full squares!”
“Look again, smart guy. There’s only one now and it’s blinkin’. And that red triangle with the exclamation point in it? That’s not a good thing.”
Shit, the one remaining square is blinking its head off, there are red lights flashing on the dash and the damned car is beeping and slowing down.
“Damnit, Mule, you can’t do this! Don’t quit on me now! Not here, we’re in the middle of the goddamned highway!”
“Not up to me. You’re the hero who wants to see how far you can go. Take a good look; this is it.”
“No, come on! You’re electric, what about that? Can’t you run on the battery?”
“Whaddya think I been doin’? See that thing in the middle of the screen, the one says Battery? It’s s’posed to have four or five of them little blue lines across it; see how many it’s got?”
There were two—and one was fading fast. We’re putting along, ever more slowly, but at least ther
e aren’t any cars racing up behind us.
“Can’t I charge it? Doesn’t it charge when I put on the brakes?”
“You sure you want to do that, Sherlock?”
“No, no! Of course not! But if I take my foot off the gas?”
“You’re the boss, boss.”
We’re literally creeping along. When I take my foot off the accelerator the remaining blue line seems to brighten a bit, but it also makes us go slower—and if we go any slower …
“Jesus, Mule, there’s a turnoff up ahead. Don’t quit on me now.”
“I’m losing my voice here …”
All kinds of scenarios are playing out in my head: pull off and hitch a ride to get some gas; push the damned car off the interstate; flag someone down and explain … that I thought … well, see, these things don’t use much gas … Uh-huh, yes. Evidently they do need some once in a while.
But we roll forward and just make it to the turnoff. We’re down under ten miles an hour and I see, off on the other side of the interstate, a sign for a gas station.
“Mule, look! Over there! Come on, pal, we can make it!”
“Don’t call me pal,” he wheezes.
Amazingly, we creep into the station and up to the pump. Just as I hit the brake, everything goes dead. Sweating and shaking with relief, I get out of the car and grab the pump. As the gas pours into the empty tank I think I hear a faint whisper—“Asshole!”
Gassed up and all paid for—and just to get back on her good side I wash the windshield—I’m not sure what to expect, but cross my fingers, put my foot on the brake and push the Power button. God bless her, she starts up—no bells, no whistles, no mumbled imprecations. Maybe, I think, all is forgiven.
Back on the 10E things look pretty good. Texas is greener down here than I remembered and the etched walls and mesas to the north are very pretty. One has been eaten away to the degree that it looks like a pyramid— with a little pillbox hat on top. The speed limit on the interstate down here in West Texas is eighty mph, a number I don’t remember seeing anywhere else.
Mule doesn’t seem to mind it, so we press on. But I do need to check in somewhere with a TV so I can watch the Lakers/Jazz game. They’re playing in Utah, which can be tough, but the Lakers really need to put these guys away. Sonora, Texas looks good. It’s a ways down the line yet, but if I can get there and grab a bite to eat before the game I should be okay. That’ll leave us about a three-hour trip to make it to Austin tomorrow.
Right, Mule?
Mule?
DAY EIGHT
Saturday, May 17, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: SONORA, TX
CITY OF DESTINATION: AUSTIN, TX
MILES TRAVELED: 195
VENUE: BOOKPEOPLE
EVENT COSPONSOR
Texas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty
The first thing I do this morning is look out the peephole in the door to see if Mule is still there. She is, thank God. Hasn’t spoken to me since that … slight mishap … and I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t steal off in the night. I didn’t get a lot of sleep worrying about her. I apologized all over the place and promised that I’d never let the gas gauge get down below two squares again, but she still wouldn’t talk. I’m hoping the fact that she’s still out there means we’re okay again.
Anyway, we made it to Sonora for the Lakers/Jazz game last night. We’re on Central time now, so it didn’t start until 9:30 here and I think it was after midnight before it was over. I’ll bet Utah wishes it had lasted even later as they were on a scary roll in the last few seconds, but time ran out and the Lakers won. Next it’s the Spurs or the Hornets.
Mule starts up without a snort and we head out into the rain again, but the rolling hills are green and pretty and she perks right along, so I’m feeling pretty good. Rather than going down to San Antonio and then north, we cut off 10E onto Highway 290 and make a beeline for Austin through the Texas Hill Country. I have to say I’m impressed. I’ve been through it a number of times and I always expect Texas to be hot and dry and flat and brown. And it is, in parts, but this area is beautiful. The rain stops and it stays fairly cool as we cruise along between great groves of gorgeous, thick green trees separated by the occasional goat or horse ranch. I haven’t seen any cattle for quite awhile.
Crossing the Pedernales River (which Texans seem to want to pronounce PER-din-AH-less) I begin to suspect we’re in LBJ country. And we are, it becomes clear, as we pass through Fredericksburg, which boasts the Lady Bird Johnson Park, and then Johnson City, where LBJ was born. Fredericksburg is a beautiful city, clean and well-kept, with street signs and store names indicating a German influence. Lots of tourists. Johnson City, on the other hand, boasts of the former president at every opportunity, but looks a bit the worse for wear.
Austin is a big place, bigger somehow than I had expected. Checking into the hotel, I just have time for a quick change and then head out to a reception arranged by the Texas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty at a lovely private home not too far from the University of Texas. A warm and friendly group is gathered, some of whom I met when I spoke at the TCADP conference in Houston in January. This is a courageous bunch, taking on the death penalty in the most kill-happy state in the union, but they’re dedicated, hard at work and making progress.
The district attorney in Harris County, the most killing county in this most killing state, was recently run out of office in a scandal caused by the release, in court, of hundreds of e-mails he had sent from his office computer that exposed him as a womanizer, a cheater, and a racist. They’re good at looking the other way, but even the good ol’ boys couldn’t ignore all that. To top it off, the Houston crime lab has been mired in a scandal of its own, with the discovery of hundreds of boxes of “misplaced” evidence concerning 8,000 cases dating from over thirty years ago.
Police are investigating(!).
And in Dallas, a new district attorney is cooperating with a process of DNA testing for potential innocence in a number of old cases in that jurisdiction, which has resulted in eighteen exonerations and caused an uproar that is having statewide ramifications.
Also, the Dallas Morning News, after years of unquestioning support for state killing, published a series of editorials investigating the subject and has now called for an end to capital punishment in Texas.
So, these good, if beleaguered, folks at TCADP, who are doing everything they can to break their fellow Texans of this “cultural” bias toward the death penalty, are making strides and deserve all the support we can provide them.
From the reception, Bob, a retired military officer and one of the leaders of TCADP, leads me to the BookPeople bookstore, right near the university (and right across from the home base of Whole Foods), for tonight’s book event.
TEXAS COALITION TO ABOLISH THE DEATH PENALTY
The Texas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty (TCADP) is a grassroots, statewide organization composed of human rights activists, murder victims’ family members, death row inmates and their families, academics, attorneys, people of faith, civic and civil rights leaders, and concerned citizens. Founded in 1995 in Houston by a small group of volunteers, TCADP now has twelve local chapters, a central office in Austin, and thousands of members and supporters statewide.
While abolishing the death penalty in Texas is an uphill battle (to say the least!), TCADP’s efforts to educate Texans about the flaws and failures of the capital punishment system have gained tremendous ground in recent years. Ongoing organizational activities include a religious outreach program, an annual conference, execution vigils, and film screenings.
In 2008, TCADP launched a victims’ outreach program, in order to lift up the voices of those directly impacted by this issue, and it has been at the forefront of efforts to raise awareness of the intersection between the death penalty and severe mental illness. In addition, TCADP recently concluded a year-long concert series entitled “Music for Life,” which featured Austin-based singer/songwriter Sara Hickman. Sara p
erformed in a different Texas city each month, where her concerts provided a forum for dialogue about the death penalty and enhanced the visibility of the abolition movement.
TCADP has embarked on an ambitious five-year strategic plan aimed at achieving real legislative change in Texas. We invite all concerned citizens to become members of TCADP. Residents of Texas can participate in the activities of their local chapter or host a program on the death penalty with their faith community, civic group, or student organization.
TCADP is honored to call Mike Farrell a friend and was pleased to host him twice in 2008. His visits, and his long-standing commitment to ending the death penalty, have provided inspiration and encouragement to TCADP members throughout the state to continue working for social change.
A very nice crowd of terrific folks are there and we have a good time. Before the event, a career Army man, leader of a Green Beret team, pulled me aside and said how much M*A*S*H has meant to him and his family, who are all there to hear me. He’s still in the Army, his wife is an Army nurse and their son is serving in Iraq. His daughter, still in college, is considering breaking ranks and becoming a veterinarian. Nice folks. Then another man cornered me; he’s close to Magdaleno Rose-Avila, a good friend of mine and one of the premier voices for social justice in the country.
The presentation goes very well, with lots of questions about all the issues—and about M*A*S*H, of course—and at the end I introduce Bob, who will pass out brochures and happily answer any questions about TCADP, which is cosponsoring this evening’s talk.
People line up to have me sign books, which is the routine. When I get to the end of this line, however, a tall, good-looking young man with dark hair hands me a book. When I ask his name, he says, “It’s John. I think we’re kind of related.” “Really,” I respond, “what’s your last name?” “It’s John Flynn,” he says. “No kidding? Are you Joanne’s son?” “Yes,” he says, pointing to a lovely blond woman who has been sitting in the front row for the whole event, “she’s right here.”