Chapter 3: The Politics of Freedom

Gil and I spoke for over 2 hours. He told me of the comings and goings of the partiers who frequented the hot springs. “Makes no never mind to me none,” he drawled, “so long as they stay up thar and leave me ‘lone. Once in a while, they wander onto my claim and I has to chase em off.” It was Travis who reminded me that lunch was overdue. I invited the old hermit to my camp for a meal but he declined.

“I’ve gold to get!” He declared simply and turned away to fetch his tools.

I chuckled at his dismissal and followed my starving mutt back up the trail. It took just over 20 minutes to reach the trail branch that led to the hot springs, and another 45 to reach my campsite. I served Travis a huge bowl of kibble and went to my truck to rummage through the cooler for something for myself. I decided on a nearly thawed frozen pizza.

Upon my release from prison, I knew several certainties in my future. I knew where I wanted to live and I had a solid idea of how I was going to achieve it. I also knew exactly what vehicle I was going to get as soon as the chance came. And here she was—my 2019 solid black Ford F350 King Ranch Custom. This model included an exterior generator that I used to power my microwave and toaster ovens. My pizza was piping hot and ready to scald the roof of my mouth in less than 10 minutes.

REFLECTIONS

I remember with grim satisfaction, the day I walked into that Ford dealership with the magazine picture of my dream truck, folded into the pocket of my poorly fitting, prison-issued dungarees. Without a thought, I held the door for Travis who trotted in beside me. The receptionist at the desk looked up with her bright smile and asked me if she could help me. Her eyes involuntarily drifted down as she saw an enormous sweeping tail waving to and from below the counter. I was still quite fresh from the big house so my social interactions (much less those with the fairer sex) were rather strained.

“Uh yeah, um, er yes ma’am,” I faltered, “um I am here to, uh ... I’d like to buy an um, a truck.”

She smiled patiently at me as I stuttered my way through that agonizing sentence. “Well now, you are in the right place then,” she replied brightly, “let me just set you up with one of our outstanding sales team.”

It was poor old Monty who drew the short straw. He was a very fat middle-aged man who reminded me of Chris Farley as he hiked up his breeches during his energetic approach. His blonde hair was thinning, his moustache was lopsided and his puffy cheeks seemed to fold down his face giving him the droopy eyes that called to mind a cross between Tommy Lee Jones and a Saint Bernard. His smile was genuine at first but I could tell by his pained expression and posture that he had already reached his negative conclusion about me before he had offered me a firm, sweaty handshake. He gave a startled gasp (like a dying asthmatic) when Travis rose and came over to be greeted as well. Only I could tell how put out he was at being ignored.

“Well, hello there sir ... young man,” he greeted me with a jovial wheeze, “welcome to our fine dealership. How can we help you?”

“I am here to buy a truck,” I replied evenly.

“I see,” he grunted as he hiked up his britches again. His belt looked as if it were cutting him in half. The strain it was under should have been a felony all its own. “Well let’s just go on back to my little cubicle and see what we can do for ya.” We followed him back into the showroom where he intentionally weaved between several shiny and expensive showpiece exhibits. Finally, he walked behind a desk and squeezed himself into the chair behind it.

“Please have a seat.” He gestured at the vinyl swivel chair in front. I sat and Travis plopped. We both stared at Monty as he struggled to regain his composure. “I assume you would like to see what’s in our Used inventory?” He turned to his computer and began pecking away at the keyboard.

“No, I want to buy New,” I replied and reached into my pocket for my magazine cut-out.

The clicking fell quiet as his finger froze over the keyboard. “I see,” he stammered, “what is your price range if I may ask?” Beads of sweat began forming above his eyebrows.

I shrugged and placed the magazine page on the desk before him. “I dunno,” I said absently, “whatever this will cost.”

His eyes bulged a little as he picked up the page and stared at the Black F350 King Ranch Custom. “I see,” was his programmed response as he struggled for words, “F350 eh? We only have this year’s models in stock and they are all dualies. You okay with a dualy?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I want this one. Single axle.”

I could see the veins in Monty’s neck as he pinched his face in uncertainty. “Son, this is a $98,000 truck. Are you sure you can afford the payments?”

I nodded confidently and assured him that it wouldn’t be a problem.

He sighed unconvinced but grudgingly produced a yellow legal pad from his drawer and placed it atop the desk. “Well, we should get started with your demographics and work history then,” he held up a pen and looked at me expectantly, “current address and how long have you stayed there?”

I told him. He frowned that I had only lived there for less than two weeks.

“And before that?” he held his pen ready.

“Ogden State Correctional Facility,” I replied, “3 years.”

He blinked several times and reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “You were in ... prison,” he stuttered, “for the last three years...”

“Seventeen years,” I corrected, “before that, I spent 13 ½ years in Westville. Before that, I was in Harris County for six months of pretrial confinement.”

His cheeks became redder by the minute as he processed this and jotted little meaningless lines onto his tablet. With a sigh, he set his pen down and folded his fat fingers together on the desk before him. “Son, you have no credit history...” he left it hanging in the air dubiously.

“I know,” I replied evenly.

He placed his pudgy hands flat on his desk and spread his pudgy fingers. Another long asthmatic wheeze escaped his lips as he blew out expressively. “Well,” he seemed at a loss for words, “it’s just that there is no way you will qualify for financing for something that ... exorbitant.” He turned back to his computer and began banging on the keyboards once more. “Perhaps we can find something more in line with your financial...”

“I will be paying cash.” I interrupted and smiled inwardly as the keyboard fell silent once more. Monty looked over at me with utter disbelief written across his face. “Er ... pardon?”

“I have cash,” I repeated, “I assume you can order the vehicle from Ford and have it delivered here?”

“Umm, well yes,” he offered as his mind tried to accept my words, “we do many custom orders this way...”

“What would I need to put down now to get the process started?” On the floor beside me, Travis began making a spectacle of himself by rolling onto his back and moving himself like a fish. An occasional grunt revealed his silliness.

“Well, um ... usually 5% is what we take to order the vehicle for you,” he muttered, “but in this case, I would have to talk to the General Manager and see what he says.” He almost sounded relieved at the idea of turfing me to someone else.

“I can wait,” I replied comfortably and sat back in the vinyl chair.

PRESENT

The nearest town was 75 miles away. To get there I had to drive up a rugged, barely suitable road for 6 miles before climbing out of the canyon and onto the country road that led to the Highway 22 miles south. On a typical summer day, it took me about 2 hours to make the trip. Getting a late start, I knew I’d be back well after dark, which was not ideal for the load I planned to bring back.

Despite having a huge crew cab all to himself Travis insisted on being my co-pilot. Though he barely fit in the seat he always appeared nonchalant about it, so long as he could put his barrel-sized head out the window. When that became uninteresting, said noggin rested easily enough on the center console.

The purpose of this trip was manyfold—I tried to accomplish as much as possible during my time in civilization, to avoid having to come back as much. I was going to pick up my new Yanmar excavator and the heavy-duty trailer I was hauling it home on. I had ordered both from the same dealership a week prior. I also had to meet with my friend and attorney Kevin Sinclair, who was instrumental in negotiating my early release and the conditions thereof.

I’d met Kevin shortly after my first year in Ogden. He was younger than me by 5 years but still an accomplished defense attorney and a strong advocate for the amnesty group he represented (on a pro bono basis no less). He was married to a lovely Vietnamese-American woman named Rachel Nguyen (though she took his last name without hyphenating her own.) who was not only an attorney herself, but also a seasoned journalist and publicist. She was determined to write my story and had already interviewed me many times, both in and out of prison.

Once I had climbed out of the canyon and onto the unpaved County Road, I removed my flip phone from the glove box and turned it on. I knew the mile marker where the signal would kick in and as soon as I passed it, I heard the distinctive and persistent chirp and buzz as several pending voicemails announced themselves. Once the Bluetooth kicked in, I was able to play them all hands-free. Several messages were from the amnesty group that worked to get me released. I deleted them promptly. Anything important would go through Kevin. His voice was next urging me to contact him as soon as possible and maybe even get a satellite phone so that he could reach me at any hour no matter where I was ... as if. He knew where I lived—well, sort of.

Next was the attractive female voice from the heavy equipment dealership reminding me that my order was ready for pick up and their daily hours of operation. I had the business card in my visor and planned to call them once I reached the highway.

The last message was cryptic and brought me sharply back to the present. It was a robotic voice from the “Westville Correctional Facility with a collect call from Inmate 14839 ... will you accept the charges?” And then it cut off. What the hell? Since when did the supermax allow phone calls? And 14839 was none other than my old cell daddy Hondo ... I saved the message and drove on as I tried to determine the significance of it. The only time I had ever heard of an inmate being able to call out from level 5 was when old Carson was found to be terminal with cancer and unable to leave his bed in the Infirmary. A chill went down my spine at the thought.

REFLECTIONS

“What did the Marines have to offer a bright young man like you?” Asked Dez(mond) one day as we performed calisthenics together in the commons.

“I wanted to be a Combat Engineer MOS 1371,” I replied panting.

“What do they do?”

“Pretty much anything you need them to. They build things, break things, repair stuff, and blow shit up,” getting to my feet to catch my breath, “I really wanted to blow shit up.”

It was Mikey who chirped in about building explosives and how to make TNT from scratch (it’s not hard if you know how to do it) and thus began my education in the manufacture and use of explosives and corrosives. Over the course of many weeks and months, he told me in great detail how to obtain certain ingredients (like distilling toluene from paint thinner) and then combine them using flow chemistry to create products certain to land you right back in the slammer if you were caught. I learned about shaped charges and demolitions and how to make and deploy rudimentary claymores and other anti-personnel devices. No notes were taken and nothing was ever written down (drawn in the dirt and quickly erased maybe) but I remembered everything.