Kingpin

by Richard Stratton

  “So I heard.”

  “Can he hurt you?”

  I nod. “Yes, definitely.”

  Stern tells me that Judy, my now ex-girlfriend Val’s longtime partner, has been arrested on the West Coast and is on her way to this very jail. The lawyer has a whole list of people who have been arrested and adjudicated. “Many got probation.” He shows me the list. “Do you know any of these people?”

  The only name I recognize is Barnswallow’s. “I never met any of them. I only know this guy, Fred … and Judy.”

  “The government has identified you as the ringleader. This judge, by the way, Edward Gignoux, is a jurist of some repute. He was at one time on the shortlist for consideration to be appointed to the Supreme Court. He’s a fair judge. I don’t think he has ever given out more than five years on a plea in a pot case. If you should choose to plead guilty and save the government the time and money of a trial, we might be able to make that deal, or something close to it anyway. Of course, there is the fact that you … failed to appear. That’s also a consideration. Anyway, a plea is always an option, something to consider. If we take it to trial and lose, I would expect Gignoux to give you more time—much more time. But I haven’t had those discussions with Cohen’s office as yet.”

  Indeed, a plea is something to think about. But it is never as simple as trying to decide between the lesser of two evils: a guilty plea or a conviction at trial. Because there is always the slim chance of a win, and for a gambler, a risk-taker, the possibility of an acquittal is like taking a shot at hitting the jackpot. The case against me is remarkably weak. Only Fearless Fred can tie me to the series of arrests that took place in the state after the crash landing of the DC-6 on the airstrip near my home, and the successful off-load of thirty-odd tons of Colombian pot from a mother ship offshore. The government apparently has only limited information about these successful smuggles. The weed—or most of it—was shipped out of state. DEA would like to know much more about these successful smuggles: Whose plane was that? And whose freighter? What are the names of all the people involved in these trips? Where did all the pot go? How much was there? Who else was involved in the distribution and sale of the weed? And, most important, where is all the money? Fred Barnswallow cannot answer most of those questions. But I can answer them all.

  Several bales of weed from both trips were seized from stash houses that were raided days after the loads were landed and mostly distributed in other parts of the country. At the Barnswallow residence, DEA agents recovered some high-altitude California homegrown pot, cocaine, weapons, financial records, even a few scrawny pot plants Fred was growing in his attic—a trove of damning evidence. And all that evidence will be used against me, Stern explains, as Fearsome Fred is prepared to tell the jury that he was working for me, I was his boss, so, in essence, whatever he did, I am guilty of since he will testify that I put him up to it. Painfully true. Even the cocaine. Yes, it’s true, though I am loath to admit it even to myself. Had Fred not met Maria, my Colombian ex-girlfriend, over Halloween in Aspen when we were attempting to clean him up, he wouldn’t have had all that blow in the first place. I never approved of him dealing with Maria; I never knew they were working together until it was over. But still, in the eyes of the law, I am guilty; and I’m guilty as sin in my own eyes, for I broke my own fundamental tenet: never do business with anyone who is involved with coke. Maria and her whole family are in the cocaine business as well as trafficking in marijuana. I knew that. For this alone I deserve to be punished. I should just give up now and throw myself on the mercy of Judge Gignoux’s court. But I can’t…. I just can’t do it. I must have the drama of a trial.

  “If you choose to go to trial, much will depend on this guy’s credibility as a witness,” the lawyer confides. “And from what I have been able to determine, he has a few large skeletons rattling around in his closet—including the fact that he fell asleep at the wheel of his pickup truck and had a head-on collision with another vehicle. Both occupants of the car he hit were killed.”

  I shudder recalling this event.

  Stern continues, “Apparently, this guy was being followed by local cops and DEA agents when the accident occurred. They had to have known he was driving impaired, under the influence of drugs and alcohol. The whole incident was swept aside and covered up … to protect him as a witness, because they hoped he would lead them to you.”

  “Really? Shit.”

  “Yes. Shit. Their shit. If we can get that in front of a jury … you never know.” Stern shrugs. “They may decide to discredit his entire testimony.” He lets this sink in. “Now what about this so-called corrupt cop, Arnold?”

  “I don’t really know the guy. Fred told me about him. I met him once briefly at a surprise birthday party Fred threw for me. But I never talked business with him and never discussed anything illegal with him around. If he says I did, he’s lying.”

  Stern nods and considers. “You know he wasn’t corrupt at all. It was a setup.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “He will testify. And again, whatever he says he did with Fred, that will also be used against you.” He pauses, refers to his notes on a yellow legal pad. “What about Judy?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she a problem? Can she hurt you?”

  This I don’t know. I suspect she will hold up. But she could seriously hurt me if she decides to cooperate and testify. She could talk about years of illegal activity. She could implicate Val. She could bring in Sammy and the New York people, the West Coast people, any number of other people in Alaska, Middle America, my close friend I call Rosie and the Canadian operation. And she could provide the government with more evidence on the importation of the seven-and-a-half tons of Lebanese hashish in New York.

  “She can hurt me, yes. But I don’t think she will,” I say and pray it is true.

  “Can you talk to her?”

  “I don’t know. Can I?”

  “How much influence do you have in this place?”

  “Well,” I say, “let’s find out.”

  “You know what this is all about, right?” Stern concludes.

  “Mailer,” I say. My relationship with the novelist whom the government would love to indict and prosecute and lock up as well.

  Stern nods. “How well do you know him?”

  “Very well. We’ve been close friends for a long time. Over ten years.”

  He gazes at me. “And?”

  “No ‘and.’ That’s it. We’re friends. He has no involvement in my business. Never has.”

  “I see. But you do own the farm in Phillips together?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Any other property? Any other business involvement?”

  “No.”

  “What about the lodge and the airstrip? Is his name anywhere on those deeds?” he asks, speaking of the airstrip where the pot-loaded DC-6 crashed, and the lodge on the adjoining property, all of which was owned in deeds held by bogus offshore companies.

  “No. Mine isn’t either.”

  The lawyer nods. “But you own them?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He chuckles. “Just so you understand,” Stern says after a few moments, “the fact that you and Mailer own property together complicates matters as far as he’s concerned. Did you ever give him any large amounts of cash?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Let me put it another way. Did anyone ever see you give him large amounts of cash? Are there witnesses who will say they saw this?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, good. Was he ever present when you were … in the middle of something illegal?”

  “Not present, no. But he knew what I was up to. Not details. But people close to me knew I made my living smuggling pot. I never tried to hide it.”

  “Apparently not,” Stern says and laughs. “So Mailer knows where your money came from?”

  I shrug.

  “Did he ever meet Fred or any of the other de
fendants in this case?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good,” Stern says. “But, keep in mind, the conspiracy laws are so broad, so vague that merely having knowledge of criminal activity and not reporting it—what the courts call ‘guilty knowledge,’ if certain other facts are attributed to the individual who possesses that knowledge, such as financial gain and committing an overt act, something as innocent as answering a phone call or going to a meeting—that can constitute an indictable offense under the conspiracy statutes.”

  “I understand,” I say, fully aware of Stern’s subtext. “But I am prepared to say that any money Mailer got from me came from my legitimate employment, and that he had no direct knowledge of my criminal activity.”

  “Can you prove you had any legitimate sources of income?” the lawyer asks.

  “That won’t be easy. I owned some legit businesses. I’m sure the government will say they were all fronts.”

  Stern nods. “That’s all I need to know.”

  “Speaking of the conspiracy laws,” I tell him, “I would like to conspire in devising my defense.”

  Stern smiles. “I see…. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I want to mount a defense. I don’t want to simply sit there like a mute. I’ll come up with something.”

  “So you’ve made up your mind. You are going to trial?”

  “I can’t say one hundred percent. I’m considering it. Seriously considering it. I hate to give in to these people. Their laws are ridiculous. Pleading guilty doesn’t sit right with me at all. Guilty of what? Importing organic vegetable matter that is in huge demand? Fuck that. They are full of shit.”

  Stern nods, smiles. “A true believer.”

  “I want to study their case, look at the evidence, and see if I can come up with a creative defense. Some way to answer the charges that makes sense. But we should act like we don’t know what we’re going to do, as if we’re open to discussing options.”

  Stern nods enthusiastically. “Okay, good,” he says and chuckles. “Very good. I like that. Keep our options open. See what the government has in mind. I’ll talk to Oteri and see how he thinks we should proceed.” He stands. “This is going to be fun.”

  As he prepares to leave, Stern says there are a number of requests for interviews from representatives of the media: the local newspaper, Boston papers, local TV.

  “Are you willing to meet with reporters?”

  “Let’s figure out what we’re doing first, so I have my story together. The main thing is, I want to see my mother.”

  Stern tells me he spoke to Mary. My mother is driving up from Massachusetts to visit me as soon as tomorrow.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “How do you get along with this sheriff?” he asks.

  “Gilmore and I are okay. I’ve always enjoyed good relations with local law enforcement.”

  More smiles and chuckles. Stern says, “So I understand. I saw the evidence report of the articles seized from your place. The sheriff’s hat …”

  He’s enjoying this; I am, too, in a perverse sort of way. A lot will depend on how I hold up mentally as I go through this ordeal. I keep telling myself that it is best to make whatever alliances present themselves, and to be creative in an effort to make the journey more bearable. Try to look at it all as valuable experience.

  “Maybe I can reach out, get someone to make a call,” I say.

  “I’m sure that would go a long way.”

  Marshall Stern goes off to conference with prosecutors in the US attorney’s office. The wheels are in motion. My request for access to the law library becomes complicated by the fact that there is no law library in the county jail. Either I must get the authorities to order that a couple of deputy marshals escort me to the law library in the US attorney’s office a few blocks from the jail—which they are not wont to do—or I must make specific, written requests for the legal tomes I wish to peruse, and they will deliver them to my cell.

  The problem is I have no idea what books I need to review. I’m a novice in this business and so at a loss where to begin my study of federal criminal law. I am like a patient on the ward who is dying but can’t determine the nature of his illness and has no clue as to the cure.

  As I lie in my cell thinking of all that has happened—the many years of smuggling pot and hash from all over the world into these great United States of America, land of the free and the brave and all that, and the experience of living as an outlaw—and as the smell of the smoke of the weed of wisdom drifts over to my cell from the adjoining tier, bound-over streetside, the very scent of the herb offers a clue.

  I LEARN FROM the jailhouse grapevine maintained by a crudely tattooed, speed-freak orderly called Cosmo that the cells located on bound-over streetside, from where the secret odors emanate, back up against my cell and are occupied mostly by members of the Ethiopian Zion Coptic Church. They are white Rastafarians. Included in their number is their spiritual leader, known as Brother Luv. Using Cosmo as my courier, I send the Coptics a note. We have a number of business associates and friends in common as well as respect for good herb. The Coptics have made it their religion. They invite me to visit them in their cells so that we can “reason” together, and worship.

  After the evening count, a guard comes for me.

  “Open number four, bound-over yardside!” he calls, and the loud metallic clanking and grinding sounds that accompany my cell door sliding open echo along the tier. The guard escorts me to bound-over streetside, where I am welcomed into Brother Luv’s cell to partake of the holy sacrament—ganja—and commune with the captive church elders.

  “Three things you want to stay away from in prison,” Brother Luv advises me. “Gambling, drugs, and homosexuals.” He passes me the burning spliff. “Do your own time. Don’t get caught up in anyone else’s bullshit, and you’ll be all right…. There are a lot of us in the system.”

  Brother Luv has been down for close to five years. He and his codefendants were due to be released next year, but the government has hit all the Coptic brothers with a new indictment.

  “There’s an old saying,” another of the dreadlocked Rastas intones, “Don’t serve the time; let the time serve you. I got my master’s degree last year.”

  The Coptics are doing their various bids at different joints around the country. Just before they were to be released, they were all brought back to Portland to face new charges for a successful smuggle that took place on the coast of Maine two months short of five years ago.

  “Five years is the extent of the statute of limitations,” Brother Luv explains. “If they don’t indict you within five years of the date of the last overt act, they can’t bring the case. They’ve been holding this case back, waiting till we got short to bring this new indictment.”

  “Fuckers,” another brother says, and they chuckle.

  He’s a tall man, Brother Luv, six feet, seven inches, with shoulder-length dreadlocks and a full beard. All the Coptic brothers have full beards and dreadlocks. They tell me they do not believe in cutting their hair. They do not eat meat, nor do they believe in engaging in cunnilingus—they are proscribed from eating pussy, which would necessarily preclude me from joining the faithful. They profess ganja as their holy sacrament and have mounted as their defense a First Amendment freedom of religion right to partake of the holy herb, and to import it by the ton if necessary to distribute among the congregation.

  “And how has that defense been working for you so far?” I ask.

  “Well,” Brother Luv smiles, “here we are.”

  And we share a laugh.

  “You know, it’s not about winning or losing,” he goes on. “It’s about objecting to their laws. Civil and even criminal disobedience. This is all political, this drug war. It’s a war on the American people, on our rights as Americans. The baldheads know their laws don’t make sense. It’s about control, power, and money. There’s another group of smugglers locked up in here who are all V
ietnam vets. Helicopter pilots and Special Forces guys, Lurps. War heroes. Their defense is PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder. They claim the action they saw in Nam was so horrific it warped them psychologically, so that now only smuggling pot can satisfy their need for excitement and danger to appease their fucked-up nervous disorder. They’re in front of Judge Gignoux, too. This has been Gignoux’s year for creative pot defenses.”

  Around midnight the guard comes to return me to my cell. My brain alive with THC, imagination runs wild as I lie on my bunk and chase the runaway train of thought, seek it out, follow it down, burrow into the kernel of an idea until it bursts forth and blooms to become a beautiful conceptual orchid luxuriating in my hyperactive consciousness.

  There it is! I see it all: my defense. I behold the narrative in all its glory. Yes! And it makes perfect sense. It seizes my mind with the clarity of revelation.

  MY MOTHER, GOD bless her, dear Mary, could a man ask for a mother more devoted to her prodigal son? She brings me a portable typewriter, a dictionary, and reams of paper. Home-baked cookies for the guards. She has won them over. Fat, one might say obese, red-faced Sheriff Gilmore is in love with my mother, Mary. She has utterly charmed him and fed him cookies. Certainly she spoiled me as a child, of course she did, and she imbued me with an inflated sense of my own importance, my own value, and with the will to succeed at whatever I undertook—although it turned out to be crime. I was a tyrant as a kid, given to violent temper tantrums if I didn’t get my own way, a bad boy. My father couldn’t control me, and my mother never really tried. But she loved me unconditionally. Oh, how Mary loved me. And that made all the difference in the choices I made and am still making. I may have lived as an outlaw most of my adult life, and I may have made some stupid choices and behaved foolishly. Selfishly. But all that is behind me now. What matters is how I carry myself going forward—the man I become through this experience. I never want my mother to be ashamed of her only son.

  The old man, Emery, she tells me, is still playing golf. That is his passion. His son is secondary, a mystery to him. She hopes Emery will come up for the trial. “You are going to trial?” she asks.