Then I feed her back Gilmore’s line. “Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”
“You’re a writer?” She appears astounded.
“That’s right.” Why not? I’m thinking. Writers make shit up. And it is true. I have been published. A long, two-part interview I did with Mailer in Rolling Stone. Short stories in literary journals. I was a writing fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is how I came to meet Mailer in the first place. I used to tell people I smuggled pot to support my writing habit. In time, however, the outlaw life took over.
“You’re writing a book about drug smuggling?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Fiction?”
“Fiction … a novel, but based entirely on fact, and on my research. All this—including the trial—will become part of my book.”
“What’s the title of your book?”
I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Drug War.”
This revelation has the desired effect. It’s front-page news the next day along with a photo of me in my cell at my typewriter. Now I am both championed and pilloried in the press. Time magazine, Newsweek, the New York Times, the Washington Post all pick up the story because of the Mailer connection. Reporters come to visit, and I present them with my defense. Some like it and paint a sympathetic portrait of the jailed writer. Others see it for what it is: a fiction with little foundation in fact. But if the Coptics can claim freedom of religion and the Vietnam vets can say they were forced to become dope smugglers as a result of their service in the military, what’s so outlandish about saying it was all research for a book? This book! The book I am writing now. Why not? It makes perfect sense to me. Anyway, it is my defense and I’m sticking with it all the way to trial.
Chief Judge Edward T. Gignoux is not persuaded by my defense, and he’s upset by all the media coverage of the case. He’s a prickly old Huguenot. Tall, lean, and aristocratic. Clearly, he doesn’t like me and thinks less of my trial-by-media offensive. The New York lawyer who has been sent by my friends to represent me loves the defense and the media spotlight it has cast upon the case and him. His name is Sheldon Berlinger. I call him Irving Berlin. He immediately latches on to the energy of the case, though he does next to nothing to prepare. It would appear his only concern is damage control and basking in the media spotlight. When I announce my list of witnesses—to the press and not to the prosecution—US Attorney Cohen is irate. He calls for a hearing before Gignoux and makes a motion for a gag order. Gignoux is flustered. He knows that if he imposes a gag order upon me, he will be generating an even bigger media feeding frenzy. I can see the headlines now: JAILED SELF-PROCLAIMED WRITER GAGGED!
No, they don’t want that. Mailer’s name is dragged into the fray. And Channing Godfried. And Channing’s wife. Who else? My friend and fellow Rolling Stone contributor, the inimitable Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. To call Hunter to the stand would be courtroom theater-of-the-absurd at its most outrageous. My list of potential witnesses continues to grow.
AS THE DAYS before trial fade into time served, I grow wired and tense with anticipation. I pore over the case materials. I read case law on drug conspiracy. I fashion pretrial motions and run them by Stern and Berlin. I read and consider the “discovery,” as the evidence that will be used against me is termed. The government opposes my motions. I apply to the court for oral argument. I come to appreciate the unique beauty to this language of the law. Suppression. Severance. Continuance. All denied. My motions are all denied. No doubt with prejudice. On and on. More words and phrases. Recusal. A judge or juror can be recused from a case by reason of prejudice or conflict of interest. I want to recuse Judge Gignoux for his apparent bias against me and my defense. That will never fly. Still, I love this verbal jousting. Legal tomes are piled high in my cramped cell. I work on my novel when not writing briefs or answering motions put forth by the prosecution. I am rediscovering the discipline of writing. Pages are accumulating in my manuscript. Photographers come to take more pictures of me behind bars. I relish the attention. It feeds my vanity. It is all a great adventure.
Will Mailer be testifying? Everyone wants to know. So I ask him. Unfortunately for me—and for him—Mailer’s status in the world of letters and courtrooms has taken a nosedive of late, not due to anything he has written but because of another jailed would-be writer he befriended through a series of letters who then got out of prison, published a book, and stabbed to death an unarmed waiter in a Manhattan restaurant. He killed the man simply because the waiter refused to let the ex-con writer use the men’s room. Jack Abbott is the guy’s name. I recall Mailer told me about Abbott as we stood on the balcony of his home in Brooklyn Heights. Later the same evening, Wolfshein warned me about playing this high stakes game with other players who had a different agenda. Even then I sensed Abbott was no good, distorted by all the time he had done, and I warned Mailer to beware. These convict writers are not to be trusted.
My name is inevitably linked to Abbott. Mailer brings this up when he comes to the jail to visit.
“I may do you more harm than good, Rick,” he says.
It doesn’t matter. My runaway hubris knows no restraint. In Portland, Mailer is beyond reproach. Let the New York press excoriate him for consorting with criminals; here he is beloved for his many years of taking summer vacations with his considerable brood at rented homes along the Maine coast, for the books he has written, for the literary awards he has been given, and for his general status as a celebrity author and intellectual.
Yes, I announce, I will call Mailer to testify. His picture is all over the papers the next day.
Of course, there are moments, and even prolonged spells as I sit in my cell, when I must question the wisdom of taking on the US government, the Justice Department with all its assets and minions, its laws and punishments. But even when I consider the facts, and when I read of the many defendants who have gone before me and argued against laws that criminalize the use and trafficking in this plant, it becomes clear how intransigent the government is with regard to how they treat violators of the drug laws, and I am convinced that they are wrong and I (we, the many pot prisoners) are right. Fuck these people. They just don’t get it. Americans have got to stand up and tell them their laws are wrong.
BACKROOM NEGOTIATIONS CONTINUE up until the eve of the trial. In fact, there are no negotiations. They fuck with me, I fuck with them right back. I keep reminding myself: the best defense is a good offense. It’s like football or wrestling or any other competition. You can’t just throw in the towel and quit. You have got to fight and never say die.
Cohen brings down Sergeant Terrance Carter of the Metro Toronto Drug Squad and a couple of RCMP officers, who produce transcripts of wiretaps. Oh, shit, this is real evidence. My name is all over the tapes, though my voice is heard on only two recordings: one made of the conversation I had with Carter when I phoned and called him a punk for arresting my ex-wife, Anaïs. And there is another, even more damning, X-rated tape made from a bug placed in a hotel room I shared with Val—more damaging to my already fractured relationship with my ex-wife than to the case. I mount a strong argument to keep the Canadian tapes out of evidence.
Judge Gignoux rules on my list of potential witnesses. Norman Mailer will be allowed to testify. Channing Godfried will not be called, as he is protected and excluded by virtue of the attorney/client privilege. His wife, however, who is also well-known and highly regarded in the district, will be allowed to take the stand in my defense. Dr. Hunter S. Thompson is excluded, as are some other lesser-known writers and editors. Everyone seems to suspect that my defense is bogus. I don’t let this bother me. I have the good counsel of Brother Luv, who advises that this is political theater; therefore the defenses we mount are no more absurd than the laws the government uses to condemn us.
The Coptics all plead out and receive concurrent sentences. Brother Luv’s parole date may be affected, but he leaves the jail and returns to, as he puts it, “a real
prison” with no regrets. And the Vietnam War vets also make out well in Gignoux’s court. The judge imposes sentences of five years after they all agree to plead guilty. As Stern gleefully points out, I am the only one crazy enough to take my defense before a jury.
Maybe I will look foolish, but that’s a chance I must take. To those who can see the hidden machinations, it is not simply a clear-cut case of grandstanding on my part. I have actually entertained the possibility of a plea if the government will agree to bring all their far-flung prosecutions in one proceeding. I’ll take the ten years and go away and do the time and keep my mouth shut. With good behavior, I could be out in five or six years. But Cohen and the faceless bureaucrats he reports to are only willing to combine all their cases and accept my plea and recommend the ten-year deal if I agree to cooperate and rat out Mailer and everyone I know. Fuck that. That is not going to happen.
Stern and Irving Berlin warn me that I am taking a serious gamble by calling Mailer. “He is their main target,” the lawyers advise. I know this, and Mailer also is aware the government wants to take him down so they can smear him with a drug conviction. We have both determined that the best defense is to walk into the Star Chamber and confront the forces of totalitarianism. Engage your fear and meet it head-on, and it will diminish. Run and try to hide, and fear will overtake you and consume you from within.
Judge Gignoux is utterly charmed by Mailer. He requests a private audience in his chambers before trial. Mailer outlines his testimony in camera, without the jury present, so the judge can rule on its relevance. Gignoux is obviously a fan, a great reader of novels, particularly those about World War II. He treats the great writer with the deference he deserves. Mailer leaves signed copies of a few of his books to be presented to the judge after the trial. A jury is impaneled. Trial commences.
A WEEK INTO the government’s case, I sense the proceeding is going remarkably well. Even the newspapers are commenting upon the paucity of evidence against me. Fearless Fred, the prosecution’s star witness, utterly stiffs on the stand. He makes a terrible witness. Nobody likes him. Even Cohen and Groff seem to regret calling him. I feel sorry for Fred. He looks terrible, like he’s been dead for years and dug up to testify against me. He mumbles. He can’t remember anything. He admits to using large quantities of cocaine daily whenever he had the opportunity.
Early on the second day of Fred’s testimony, as I am led into the courtroom by the marshals to join my attorneys at the defense table before the judge and jury have entered, I catch Gorf holding a bag of the California homegrown buds that will be entered into evidence. The dope was seized in the raid on Fred’s pad and is from a load brought east by my friend, Goofy John. Gorf holds the bag to his nose, sniffs, and announces, “Hmmm, smells like really good weed.”
This astounds me. Gorf is a guy who obviously knows his herb.
“Wait a minute,” I say, “so what’s all the fuss? Why don’t we roll one up and all relax?”
Gorf flushes with embarrassment and changes his demeanor back to that of the loyal civil servant. The hypocrisy of these guys never ceases to amaze me.
On cross-examination, Irving Berlin rips Fred a new asshole. It’s sad, actually. His addiction to cocaine, including smoking base; the fact that I brought him to Val’s place in Aspen, Colorado, to try to dry him out; and how he met my friend, Maria, who he then did coke business with behind my back—all that is bad enough. But then Berlin brings out the accident when Fred crashed head-on into another car in which two innocent people lost their lives, one a small child. When the so-called corrupt cop, Arnold, testifies and the jury hears that two people were killed when an obviously drug-and-alcohol-impaired driver—fucked-up Fred—was allowed to operate a motor vehicle under the influence while being trailed by police and federal agents—agents who knew he was fucked-up but let him go because they believed he could lead them to me—this does not go over well for the prosecution. Jurors squirm in their seats. They turn their heads in disgust. Fearless Fred Barnswallow creeps out of the courtroom and leaves a trail of slime on the government’s case.
The DEA agents called to testify do little to resuscitate Cohen’s and Gorf’s evidence. The blue-eyed stranger DEA special agent who was stranded by the roadside is only able to assert that, yes, it was the defendant Mr. Stratton behind the wheel of the four-wheel-drive pickup truck who stopped to help him out of the ditch that snowy day in April. And, yes, Fred was with Mr. Stratton. The agent then observed me drop Fred at his home. My lawyers make an issue of the fact that DEA agents shot and killed Fred’s dog, Bear, for no reason, as he posed no threat. The jury, though hardly made up of my peers, no doubt includes more than a few dog lovers. Several jurors appear disturbed by this revelation as well.
Wolfshein comes off more like a witness for the defense than for the government. “No,” he tells the jury, “after a thorough search of the premises, no controlled substances were recovered from Mr. Stratton’s residence.” No large amounts of cash. No financial records or anything else to connect the defendant to the conspiracy. He had no drugs on him when he was arrested. He was alone in a drugstore playing a video game. He made no admissions that night on the long drive from Farmington to Portland.
I’m elated as the Wolf steps down from the stand. We may actually win this thing!
Wolfshein’s testimony wraps up the afternoon session and brings to an end the proposed list of government witnesses. The jury is excused. The judge says he wants to deal with some housekeeping issues as the trial enters its second week of testimony and we still have not got to the defense case. The Court would like to know if the defendant intends to take the stand in his own behalf. Berlin tells Gignoux that I am giving it serious consideration. Gignoux nods but refuses to look at me. He appears angry with Cohen and Gorf. It is clear he does not like the way this prosecution is being handled. My lawyers are cautiously optimistic. They believe Gignoux may actually be considering a dismissal or a directed verdict wherein he rules there is not ample evidence for the jury to convict me.
IT’S LIKE HALFTIME during the big game and my team is well ahead. I am in the holding cell in the courthouse after the days’ testimony, waiting to be removed and escorted back to the jail by the marshals, trying not to feel too good about the way the case is going for fear of jinxing it, when Agent Bernie Wolfshein stops by to pay me a visit.
“I can talk to you now,” he says, “since I testified.”
“Listen—what can I say? I mean … thanks. That was incredible,” I tell him.
He shrugs, nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. And then he fixes me with his curious, intelligent gaze. “I told the truth,” he says.
“That’s what I mean. Thank you.”
“They asked the wrong questions,” he says cryptically.
“Maybe so.”
“Rich, it’s simple. I do my job; you do your job. I understand that. You have your reasons for doing what you do, and I respect that. But I should warn you.” He looks around as if to see if anyone is within earshot. “I think you know this. It won’t come as a surprise. But this is not going to end here, in Portland, Maine, with this trial. The government has a long reach, and an even longer memory.” He pauses, smiles. “I wish you luck.”
He reaches through the bars to shake my hand.
“We didn’t get you right up here,” the Wolf contends. “But, whatever happens, take it from me: it’s not over, as they say, until the fat lady sings.” Wolfshein’s smile fades. “Or,” he adds, “as the case may be—until the fat man sings.”
The “fat man” refers to Mohammed, my heavy Lebanese connection, and the fifteen-thousand-pound load of hash we brought in at the port in Newark, New Jersey, that is now the subject of an ongoing grand jury probe in New York City.
The Wolfman knows how to unsettle me.
WHEN TRIAL RESUMES the following week, Cohen asks the Court for a brief recess while he attempts to locate a “surprise witness.”
What? Who?
> Gignoux is not pleased with the delay. Still, he grants the government until Wednesday of next week to produce their witness. We object. The judge overrules. I’m sure he’s hopeful for any opportunity to resuscitate Cohen’s faltering prosecution.
Who the fuck? Surprise witness? I am at my wits end. I have heard that agents were scouring the state looking for people who may have worked for me. Among my trusted lieutenants, Father Flaherty is in the wind and JD also left the area and is hiding out in western Massachusetts. The pilot I call Wart Hog? Maybe. That fucker is weak. Who could it be? I spend an anxious weekend wondering what to expect—if anything. Mailer will be my lead-off witness. I have done all I can do to prepare for the first day of my defense.
My friend Roland, the alcoholic prep school master who shot and killed his wife in front of their two young sons pled guilty to one count of unintentional manslaughter in the shooting death of his twenty-eight-year-old wife. At sentencing, his attorney argued there were mitigating circumstances: a history of alcoholism. When I come in from court on the afternoon of Wolfshein’s appearance, Roland is being processed out of the jail. He tells me the judge gave him five years’ probation. He has also been ordered to undergo treatment for alcoholism. But Roland says he is not relieved or even mollified by the sentence. He’s a broken man who must now face his two young sons and live with the reality that he killed their mother.
Facing fifteen years if I lose this case, and the possibility of another prosecution in New York, I would not trade places with Roland even as he walks out of the jail.
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