The more primaries he won, the heavier his plane became. It might be wise to lose a couple of states so he could jettison some of the baggage.
In the darkness of the plane, Lake sipped tomato juice and decided to write a final letter to Ricky. Al would wish him the best, and simply terminate the correspondence.What could the boy do?
He was tempted to write the note right then, sitting in his deep recliner, his feet in the air. But at any moment an assistant of some variety would emerge with another breathless report that the candidate had to hear immediately He had no privacy. He had no time to think or loaf or daydream. Every pleasant thought was interrupted by a new poll or a late breaking story or an urgent need to make a decision.
Surely he'd be able to hide in the White House. Loners had lived there before.
Chapter Twenty-One
The case of the stolen cell phone had fascinated the inmates at Trumble for the past month. Mr. T-Bone, a wiry street kid from Miami serving twenty for drugs, had taken original possession of the phone by means that were still unclear. Cell phones were strictly prohibited at Trumble, and the method by which he got one had created more rumors than T Karl's sex life. The few who'd actually seen it had described it, not in court, but around the camp, as being no larger than a stopwatch. Mr. T-Bone had been seen lurking in the shadows, hunched at the waist, chin to his chest, back to the world, mumbling into the phone. No doubt he was still directing street operations in Miami.
Then it disappeared. Mr. T-Bone let it be known that he might kill whoever took it, and when the threats of violence didn't work he offered a reward of $1,000 cash. Suspicion soon fell upon another young drug dealer, Zorro, from a section of Atlanta just as rough as Mr. T-Bone's. A killing seemed likely, so the guards and the suits up front intervened and convinced the two that they'd be shipped away if things got out of hand. Violence was not tolerated at Trumble. The punishment was a trip to a mediumsecurity pen with inmates who understood violence.
Someone told Mr. T-Bone about the weekly dockets the Brethren held, and in due course he found T Karl and filed suit. He wanted his phone back, plus a million bucks in punitive damages.
When it was first set for trial, an assistant warden appeared in the cafeteria to observe the proceedings, and the matter was quickly postponed by the Brethren. The same thing happened just before the second trial. Allegations of who did or did not have possession of an outlawed cell phone could not be heard by anyone in administration. The guards who watched the weekly shows wouldn't repeat a word.
Justice Spicer finally convinced a prison counselor that the boys had a private matter to reconcile, without interference from the front. "We're trying to settle a little matter;" he whispered. "And we need to do it in private."
The request worked its way upward, and at the third trial date the cafeteria was packed with spectators, most of whom were hoping to see bloodshed. The only prison official in the room was a solitary guard, sitting in the back, half asleep.
Neither of the litigants was a stranger to courtrooms, so it was no surprise that Mr. T-Bone and Zorro acted as their own attorneys. Justice Beech spent most of the first hour trying to keep the language out of the gutter. He finally gave up. Wild accusations spewed forth from the plaintiff, charges that couldn't have been proved with the aid of a thousand FBI agents. The denials were just as loud and preposterous from the defense. Mr. T-Bone scored heavy blows with two affidavits, signed by inmates whose names were revealed only to the Brethren, which contained eyewitness accounts of seeing Zorro trying to hide while talking on a tiny phone.
Zorro's angry response described the affidavits in language the Brethren had never before encountered.
The knockout punch came from nowhere. Mr. T-Bone, in a move that even the slickest lawyer would admire, produced documentation. His phone records had been smuggled in, and he showed the court in black and white that exactly fifty-four calls had been made to numbers in southeast Atlanta. His supporters, by far the majority but whose loyalty could vanish in an instant, whooped and hollered until T Karl slammed his plastic gavel and got them quiet.
Zorro had trouble regrouping; and his hesitation killed him. He was ordered to immediately turn over the phone to the Brethren within twenty-four hours, and to reimburse Mr. T-Bone $450 for long-distance charges. If twenty-four hours passed with no phone, the matter would be referred to the warden, along with a finding of fact from the Brethren that Zorro did indeed possess an illegal cell phone.
The Brethren further ordered the two to maintain a distance of at least fifty feet from one another at all times, even when eating.
T Karl rapped a gavel and the crowd began a noisy exit. He called the next case, another petty gambling dispute, and waited for the spectators to leave.
"Quiet!" he shouted, and the racket only grew louder. The Brethren went back to their newspapers and magazines.
"Quiet!" he barked again, slamming his gavel.
"Shut up," Spicer yelled at T Karl. "You're making more noise than they are."
"It's my job;" T. Karl snapped back, the curls of his wig bouncing in all directions.
When the cafeteria was empty, only one inmate remained. T. Karl looked around and finally asked him, "Are you Mr. Hooten?"
"No sir," the young man said.
"Are you Mr. Jenkins?"
"No sir."
"I didn't think so. The case of Hooten versus Jenkins is hereby dismissed for failure to show," T Karl said, and made a dramatic entry into his docket book.
"Who are you?" Spicer asked the young man, who was sitting alone and glancing around as if he wasn't sure he was welcome. The three men in the pale green robes were now looking at him, as was the clown with the gray wig and the old maroon pajamas and the lavender shower shoes, no socks. Who were these people!
He slowly got to his feet and moved forward with great apprehension until he stood before the three. "I'm looking for some help,"he said, almost afraid to speak.
"Do you have business before the court?" T Karl growled from the side.
"No sir."
"Then you'll have to-"
"Shut up!" Spicer said. "Court's adjourned. Leave."
T Karl slammed his docket book, kicked back his folding chair, and stormed out of the room, his shower shoes sliding on the tile, his wig bouncing behind him.
The young man appeared ready to cry. "What can we do for you?"Yarber asked.
He was holding a small cardboard box, and the Brethren knew from experience that it was filled with the papers that had brought him to Trumble. "I need some help," he said again. "I got here last week, and my roommate said you guys could help with my appeals."
"Don't you have a lawyer?" Beech asked.
"I did. He wasn't very good. He's one reason I'm here."
"Why are you here?" asked Spicer.
"I don't know. I really don't know"
"Did you have a trial?"
"Yes. A long one."
"And you were found guilty by a jury?"
"Yes. Me and a bunch of others. They said we were part of a conspiracy."
"A conspiracy to do what?"
"Import cocaine."
Another druggie. They were suddenly anxious to get back to their letter writing. "How long is your sentence?" asked Yarber.
"Forty-eight years."
"Forty-eight years! How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
The letter writing was momentarily forgotten. They looked at his sad young face and tried to picture it fifty years later. Released at the age of seventy-one; it was impossible to imagine. Each of the Brethren would leave Trumble a younger man than this kid.