Absence Of Living
Rottweiler
Copyright© 2022
Absence of Living Book #1 (1)
Absence of Living Carter Davis Book One
by Rottweiler
Description: 17 years into a life sentence for a double murder he did not commit, 35-year-old Carter Davis finds himself released with a full pardon and paid handsomely for his wrongful conviction. He buys some land and a truck and tries to get as far away from society as he can. His only friend, a 230-pound long-haired Mastiff named Travis.
Tags: Much Sex, Ma/Fa, Blackmail, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Rape, Gay, Fiction, Crime, Rags To Riches, Cheating, Torture, Polygamy/Polyamory, Massage, Oral Sex, Voyeurism, Nudism, Revenge, Violence
Published: 2024-03-28
Size: 50,203 Words
Prologue
A Summer storm raged outside the thin fabric walls of my tent as I lay bundled within my arctic-rated sleeping bag, listening to the thunder and wind as it shrieked through the canyon around me. Lightning occasionally lit up the night turning the darkness into an eerie screenshot on the walls around me. The tent shook occasionally from the gusts, but overall, it was protected by the sturdy plywood shelter that I had constructed for just this purpose. The heavy rain fell loudly upon the rigid tin roof above—loud enough to make sleep seem impossible. It was the kind of night best enjoyed from indoors, next to a warm hearth with a drink in hand.
I had no hearth or drink, but I was warm enough, between the insulated bag and the thickly coated behemoth pressed against me, snoring heavily and completely oblivious to the show of Nature around us. I tried to nudge Travis over to give myself more space but was met with a deep grumble that emanated from somewhere in his massive torso. With a resigned sigh I settled for turning over to spoon the mutt and rough up his monster head. I was rewarded with another softer grumble.
That was my current situation: alone, in the middle of nowhere, sheltering in a small two-man tent with a tempest raging outside, displaying Mother Nature’s darker side to its fullest. And I could not have been happier. This was freedom and it was all mine. Sleep came easier than I expected.
The storm had blown itself out by morning but a light cold rain persisted through the early morning mist. The fog was heavier up higher in that it obscured my view of the higher cliff faces. The clearing where I had constructed my temporary shelter was rugged, to say the least. It was backed up against the east wall of my little canyon and strewn with rocks and boulders that had fallen from time to time. I looked up from my small fire and once again breathed in the cool clean air. My little clearing was barely accessible by an old Forest Service Road that ran the length of the ravine. That would all change in the near future. I was going to turn this into my personal Fortress of Solitude.
Why do I keep referring to it as mine? Because I owned it lock, stock, and boulders. All 635 acres of Copper Creek Canyon and forest preserve. I bought the land, mineral rights, logging rights, and water rights. All for the princely sum of $471,805—or just under $750 an acre. And I paid cash, which was just over a quarter of my settlement for wrongful incarceration. How did I score such a deal? Well ... that was part of a different settlement.
I squatted before a small campfire ringed with rocks gathered from nearby. A cast iron skillet sat over a bank of coals, heating up as I prepared to cook a hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage, and potatoes (left over from dinner and still warm from the ashes they lay in overnight. Travis appeared as I was dicing up the potatoes. He’d wandered off as soon as I opened the tent, exploring and marking the area until his fist-sized nose detected the fruits of my labor. He was a 4-year-old long-haired English Mastiff. His fur was medium brown with deep red undertones and he weighed in at 230 pounds. Despite his imposing size, he had a gentle temperament. He was slow to ire but very quick to express it. We were a lot alike in that respect. Without so much as a greeting, he plopped himself onto the ground nearby and began worrying something hidden within the folds of his jowls. I thought nothing of it until I caught the briefest glimpse of brightly colored fabric.
“What is that?” I asked, pouring myself a freshly percolated cup of coffee. His sideways glance at me was the tell. He was guilty and he knew it. “Give!” I ordered softly. His response was a resigned huff as he reluctantly rose and sauntered over to drop his (ill-gotten) prize into my outstretched hand. It was a pair of frilly panties. They were bright lavender and made from a soft shiny fabric. And they were soaked with drool. “What the hell...” I muttered in surprise. I stared at my hairy companion as he wagged his tail excitedly. He huffed again, more urgently this time, and I shook my head, tossing them back. He snatched them from the air and promptly collapsed beside me to resume his chewing.
I enjoyed my coffee as breakfast slowly cooked, and pondered his find. I had hardly explored the entire expanse of the property I had just taken title to. The main road (if you could call it that) that led to my current spot split further back. To the left (West) it quickly deteriorated into little more than an overgrown animal trail, which I had yet to investigate. According to the topographical map, it led into a small branch of the same canyon. Two tributary creeks joined into a small river that was crossed heading towards my larger east-side branch. A bridge was fashioned from a sturdy flatbed railroad car, suitable for single-vehicle passage. The solid concrete footings would support a fully loaded logging truck.
As we waited, I enjoyed my coffee and glanced about. Maybe the West Canyon was a popular party spot for teenagers or something. I’d have to investigate that area next to see what else I would find.
Chapter 1: Do Not Pass Go
A little about myself—my name is Carter Davis, [formerly known as Spencer Devereaux, formerly known as Inmate #82793]. I am 35 years old and just recently released from the Ogden Hills Federal Penitentiary, after a full pardon. I was convicted at age 17 for a double murder I didn’t commit—which never happened, to begin with—but I’m getting ahead of myself. I had become a celebrity of some notoriety during that awful time, then an even bigger celebrity once public opinion shifted in my favor. I eventually found myself acquitted, thanks to the tireless efforts of several key amnesty volunteer groups. This is why I changed my name and did my very best to completely disappear from society as a whole. Okay, okay—slow my roll and get back to how it all happened...
This whole entire, bizarre story began in the early summer of 2001. As mentioned, I was 17 and soon to graduate from High School (with honors) and was already signed up to enlist in the Marine Corps. I was scheduled to ship off to Parris Island two weeks after graduation. Eventually, I hoped to become a Combat Engineer and blow shit up all day. I worked part-time at our local AM/PM right off the Interstate and typically closed the store at midnight before heading home. Part of my closing routine was to empty the garbage, take all the bags out to the dumpster behind the store, and make sure the Heads were locked up. The scene of the [un]crime was in the lot right behind the building, not even 100 yards from the overpass. What a scene it was...
At first, I simply noticed a white Corolla parked in the shadows and thought nothing of it as I placed all the garbage bags into the dumpster. Turning back, I saw that the driver’s door was slightly open and the glass was busted out. Even more unusual was the severe spider webbing on the windshield. Now that was odd, I mused to myself and sauntered right on over to have a look. The outside lighting did little to illuminate this part of the lot, but I could see the sparkles of broken glass and ... oh Fuck! Were those bullet holes in the windshield?
If I had only stopped right there.
If I had simply turned around and returned to the store to call the cops...
My mom used to say ‘Would’ve never will and could’ve never can.’
Instead, I did everything that I could possibly do—wrong. Well, I did NOT pick up the gun (contrary to police reports). My prints were never found on that weapon. They were all over the car door though. I didn’t see the blood until I put my hands right in it as I grabbed the door frame and pulled it further open. The dome light was busted so I couldn’t see just how much blood there was inside. But I could smell it. Feeling the wetness on my hands I looked at them and that is where my mind just ... Yeah, I lost my shit! I must’ve wiped them on my letterman jacket because it was entered into evidence. I also stepped in a small pool of blood and then stomped right on the fucking gun which was laying on the ground, accidentally kicking it under the car. My footprints were everywhere.
Alright, enough, I’m not in a place where I want to relive all those stupid fuck-ups that ultimately destroyed my life. In a nutshell—I booked it the hell away from there. I never finished closing the store, didn’t get on my bike, and I sure as hell didn’t call 911. Instead, I ran—straight home, 4 ½ miles away, crept inside so I didn’t wake anyone, and retreated to my room where I huddled on my bed like a stricken child. Hell, maybe I even sucked my thumb. I just know I was scared shitless.
It got worse two hours later when the cops showed up—a lot of them. The flashing lights lit up the entire street on our block. Mom and Dad were at the door and I heard their muffled conversation and the alarm in their voices. It was the police that kicked in my door and cuffed me right on the bed. I don’t remember being led to the car. I do remember seeing the tears in my younger sister’s face in the hall, and the brief ride to the station. Booking was a blur but I remember being stripped and wondering when (and why) there were plastic baggies taped over my hands.
I was questioned ruthlessly for hours and every time I denied anything they would spin my words to make it sound like I was lying.
“I swear I didn’t do it!”
“Do what?
“I didn’t kill anybody!”
“Why do you think somebody was killed?”
“What? Because of all the fucking blood everywhere!”
“Do you know Mrs. Debra or Taylor Costas?”
“No!”
“Did you kill Debra and Taylor Costas?”
“NO!”
“Then how do you explain all the blood?”
“I didn’t shoot anyone!”
“How do you know they were shot?”
They rattled my cage so badly that even I was convinced that I was a freakin monster. By the time of my arraignment, I had been without sleep for over 36 hours. It was in front of the Judge that any discussion of legal representation took place. I couldn’t deny being Mirandized because they had it on tape several times, along with my blank expression and mumbled “I guess so” when asked if I understood.
Okay, this was no episode of Law & Order. It went on for months ... But I will try to sum it up for you quickly.
The crime was double capital murder in the First degree. The victims were 39-year-old Debra Costas and her 20-year-old daughter Taylor. Both were well-to-do socialites and social media ‘influencers’ (whatever that meant). They were [allegedly] shot to death in their 1998 Toyota Corolla behind the AM/PM where I worked. And I was the alleged killer. Because of their massive following, the case went (viral?) overnight. The spotlight was centered on the ADA who was looking to cement his reputation as a hardliner. Word was he had political aspirations as well.
Are you ready for this? The trial focused on three main points, there was the murder scene in all its gruesome glory, the murder weapon—a 9mm Sig Saur, AND yours truly the defendant, with blood all over him and a very suspicious reckoning for what happened ... Why didn’t I call 911? How could I have not heard the shots? How did I get blood all over myself? I must’ve looked like Charles Manson sitting there in my orange jumpsuit, cuffed to the bar beneath the bench.
The only thing missing ... were the bodies.
Duhn dunh DUNH!
That didn’t matter to the prosecutor. But it did to the jury, who handed him a mistrial the first go-round. That really pissed him off! A whole new trial was arranged and, with some serious political clout, a lot of testimony and evidence got stricken as inadmissible. They even buried the fact that none of the prints on the weapon were mine. Nor did they detect GSR (gun smoke residue) on me or any of my clothing. No bodies? No problem. None of that was even brought up during the second trial. Ironically it seemed to fade in the public’s eyes as well. A whole new venue, new judge, new jury, new lawyers.
I had just turned eighteen when the 2nd jury found me guilty on all counts and I was sentenced to life without parole.
A week later I was moved from my nice cushy jail cell to a Super Max somewhere in the Midwest.
Chapter 2: Living and Being
Reflections
I was no longer Spencer Devereaux, high school jock, soon-to-be Marine. I became Inmate 82793. My indoctrination into life behind bars was brutal, to say the least. I will spare you the tragic details. Yes, I was beaten to a pulp, starved, threatened, raped, beaten some more, and then I got so sick I nearly died in the infirmary. And that was just my first six months.
It soon became apparent that my life as I had known it—was over. So, simply put, I quit living. Sounds stupid but that is exactly what you do. I stopped dreaming, worrying, feeling sorry for myself, feeling anything at all—and just started being. I became like a robot. I didn’t think, I just carried on with whatever the task was before me, sleeping, walking, shitting, walking, eating, walking. Awareness of self and others, even the passage of time, just stopped.
Then I was taken in by an interesting group of old-timers. Was it pity? Yeah, probably. Did they offer me salvation? Hardly. These guys were hard. I mean harder than concrete and tougher than leather. It began when I found myself being pushed/led to a different part of the cafeteria. I was made to sit at a table surrounded by some scary-looking characters. For the first time since I could remember I stared around me with something akin to interest while I ate.
Introductions were made and words were spoken. I wasn’t being coddled and sheltered here. I was informed very bluntly that I was a major fuck-up and that if I didn’t un-fuck myself immediately, I was going wake up fucking dead. And every time I blinked or looked away, somebody would reach over and slap me across the head so hard that I saw stars. I woke up quickly and began learning the lessons they taught. It was age-old wisdom that I have long since realized was not exclusive to prison life.
The lessons were not hard. They were brutal! I learned all about pain. It was my motivator. They taught me about Being. That is—how to be present at all times. Call it situational awareness, attention to detail, mindfulness—Hell, throw in a little ESP too and that is what was pounded into me, day and night, relentlessly. I learned to use all my senses and expand my awareness beyond my peripheral boundaries. They drilled me at meals to study and remember every detail around me, to recognize intent by just the look in someone’s eyes or their posture. I was shown to anticipate actions and have reactions programmed into my subconscious to act upon instantly.
And they taught me how to fight. Not Boxing or wrestling or MMA. This was down-to-earth scrapping. Dealing instant and overwhelming violence to your enemy in a manner that puts them down and keeps them there. I learned to use anything and everything at my disposal. Anything was a weapon if you were creative and focused. Be it in the showers, commons, kitchen, laundry, library, church, or your own cell.
As I immersed myself further into the concept of Being, I found that I slept less but rested better. I became more efficient in every aspect of myself. By sleeping only 6 hours I found time to quietly exercise in my cell, performing the many and varied calisthenics and isometric resistance exercises they instructed me in. I became hard as concrete and tough as leather. When someone pushed me, I didn’t push back—I put them down. And they stayed there. Punitive segregation (PSEG) became routine for me. I never considered it punitive despite its intent. Rather, I relished the isolation and used the time to further my reflections and exercises. Living was a weakness, easily preyed upon by the predators. Being was to become invincible. Being was power.
PRESENT
It was more than just a party site, I discovered. There were several natural hot springs that appeared to emit from deep within the ground on the west side of the smaller canyon. I first noticed the steaming streams that crossed the trail as they meandered their way into the west fork tributary that would become the Copper River. I noted the disturbed earth and foliage and followed Travis upward until we found the first pool. It was clearly dug out in a rudimentary fashion and expanded so that a small group could gather in it. There were several stumps and fallen logs set about it along with discarded beer cans cigarettes, and assorted old items of clothing, shoes, and other trash. An old single-bed mattress lay rotting on the slope below the pool.
The trail continued on for 50 more yards where I found the second and third pools. They were not nearly as well established and were grossly littered with old tires, cushions, broken-up wooden furniture, and a few worn-out folding chairs. Travis disappeared and reappeared as he followed his giant snout about the area.
I noticed several No Trespassing signs posted as I made my way up to the springs. All had been defaced or torn down. A handwritten notice painted onto a piece of plywood was nailed to a tree proclaiming: NO HIPPIES ALLOWED. Someone had crossed out the first word and wrote NAKED over it diagonally. I chuckled as I returned to the main trail, considering what I should do about the whole thing.
Travis suddenly froze at the trail where it divided. His low growl chased all thoughts of the hot springs from my mind. Suddenly he barked and bolted further down the canyon trail, disappearing into the dense trees and underbrush. Cursing, I stumbled after him, wondering what could have set him off. A few minutes later I caught a whiff of smoke and found my awareness expanding as I stopped and took in every scent, sound, sight, and feeling from the surrounding area. There was definitely someone further below, deeper in the canyon. It was a small fire and I could smell hints of food cooking.
Several loud warning barks came from nearby and almost as suddenly, the startled cry of a man’s frightened voice. I raced forward and soon found myself in another small clearing right at the base of the cliffs that marked the end of the west canyon. A small waterfall plummeted from above and entered a large pool before spilling away into the tributary bed.
I spied a ramshackle tent pitched right up against the wall of the cliff and the campfire burning within the boundaries of a tight ring of rocks. A metal grate was set over half of the ring supporting a small skillet and blacked coffee pot. Most startling was the figure that had backed himself well into the pool trying to escape the vicious clutches of my overreacting mastiff whose tail was wagging excitedly from side to side as his loud barks echoed through the canyon.
“Go away!” He cried out in a shrill stuttering voice. “You devil monster! Go eat someone yer own size!”
The figure was an old man who struck me as being straight out of a cartoon, somewhere between Yosemite Sam and Miner 49er. He stood maybe 5 ½ feet tall and wore a pair of patched-up old overalls and a dirty denim shirt. A ragged leather bush hat sat low over his dirty gray head and a grungy beard fell to his belly.
Travis replied by standing up on his hind legs and then stomping forward with another loud bark accompanied by a splash as his paws landed in the water at the pool’s edge. This brought another startled shriek from the old man as he fell backward and landed on his backside with the water coming up to his chest. His frayed hat fell from his head and began floating away towards the stream. I moved to retrieve it but Travis lunged over with a bounding leap and caught it in his massive maw. Water flew everywhere as he danced about with his new treasure.
The old codger’s outrage peaked as he staggered back to his feet. “That’s mu hat you bastardy brazen brute!” He screamed, waving a fist. Then he noticed me and his eyes widened with further shock.
“Dat yer beast?” he cried, “call it off! I ain’t done no wrong by it! And give me my damn hat!”
I turned, trying to maintain a neutral expression, and ordered Travis to surrender the hat. The big dog looked at me and I could see the rebellion in his eyes as he held his ground. “Give now!” I growled and his ears drooped slightly in response.
“Lass es fallen!” I barked in German. His ears drooped further and he submissively lowered his gaze as he sulked forward and dropped the grimy hat by my feet. I should’ve expected the charade as I reached down to grab it. Standing tall he suddenly shook himself violently, drenching me with stream water in his utter rebuke of my authority.
With another curse, I turned away and shook the hat in a feeble attempt to dry it before presenting it to the old man who cautiously stepped from the pool dripping. His eyes darted back and forth between me and the biggest dog he had ever seen.
“Travis won’t hurt you,” I grumbled in greeting, “he just needs to work on his social graces a bit.”
The man grumbled as he snatched his hat from my hand and plopped it back onto his balding scalp. He continued to grumble to himself as he turned to his small fire and tended it. I did not have to analyze further. I recognized the subtle inferences gleaned from my subconscious and conscious observations. They were like small clues that I was able to draw upon for my conclusions and responses. But even without heightened senses, I knew immediately that I liked this old man.
I turned towards his fire but stood apart as he went about his chores of shuffling his pots and stirring the coals. There was a stump of wood near the ring that he clearly used for his seat but he squatted instead as the flames began to rise and offer heat for him to dry himself by. Eventually, he subtly lifted his gaze to me and then looked over toward the stump without a sound. I acknowledged him with a nod and quietly walked over to seat myself. Travis finally contained himself enough to join me and settle onto his belly beside me. He panted quietly as he watched the old hermit’s every move.
“My name is Carter,” I said finally, “I apologize for my dog’s behavior. He meant no harm by it. He can be an idiot sometimes.” That earned me a grunt from my host and a glance from my pet. “Is this your, uh, claim?” I had to struggle for the term even as I spoke.
“Aye,” he growled back, “this is my claim! I staked it! It’s mine!” He seemed to spit each word as he spoke, never looking up to face me. He waved his arm weakly about the stream and pool. “I works it. It’s mine!” His gaze wandered over to a stack of bags near his tent as well as several buckets, mining pans, and screened frames.
I chewed on my lip as I nodded thoughtfully. “Gold, eh?”
His troubled expression was suddenly clouded by my mention of the precious metal. I felt uncomfortable by his sudden defensive posture and I placed my hands up placatingly.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” I offered softly to put him at ease, “I’m just curious.” I looked over at his pile of tools. “I think is fascinating what you are doing. Could you tell me more?”
He eventually accepted my neutral posture and settled more comfortably next to his fire. The moisture steamed from his clothes as he stirred a small pot of beans. I respectfully declined his offer to share his meager breakfast, so he tucked in with a carved wooden spoon and I listened to his story.
His name was Gil. Just Gil. He didn’t know his age and shared little of his childhood. He briefly mentioned the military and his eyes seemed drawn as he remembered a past that he didn’t put into words. I chose not to pry. If he had a family, he also chose not to share it. He spoke with simple words and terms but his story was almost eloquent and it was only his more recent past that he truly embellished upon.
Gil was a wanderer. He avoided people because they made him uncomfortable. I could relate to that. He had been in this spot for several seasons, working the stream and collecting a bit of gold here and there. (He eventually felt comfortable enough to show me a tiny glass vial filled to the top with shiny gold dust. It was easily an ounce or better.)
When I asked how he sold it he mentioned a man who owned land nearby. The land owner traded him the gold dust for groceries and the rights to spend his winters in an abandoned pump house on the edge of one of his fields. I was troubled by this ‘arrangement’ but kept it to myself as he continued his story.
REFLECTIONS
“Who sits behind me?” Hondo asked quietly as we sat at the round table in the cafeteria.
I didn’t even look up as I sipped from the juice box, “Juarez and company.” I expected no punishing slap, nor was one forthcoming.
The old convict before me chewed silently as he gazed knowingly into my eyes. I found that unsettling once, but comforting now. “What do the princelings behind you discuss?” He asked again without moving so much as an eyebrow.
Again, I needn’t have even been present to answer. “They are tripping over the uncertain future of fen in the yards,” I replied. ‘Fen’ or street grade fentanyl was a popular drug that seemed to easily find its way into the supermax, despite the incredible level of security. The source of the narcotic was known by many but discussed by none.
I set down my empty juice and hesitated before grabbing my plastic fork. The tell was loud and obvious to those seated around me. Both men to either side of me (Manny to my left and Fisher to my right) became uncomfortably still. I shrugged and continued, “There are whisperings,” Hondo did not blink but I could sense the anger in him, his tell was the minuscule twitch in his right cheek. “The Capa...” SMACK!
It had been so long since I had warranted such a punishing gesture. I winced as the pain flared across the side of my face. An unbidden tear escaped and my expression burned with shame and defiance. The tables nearest us quieted at the sound. I bitterly continued to eat the contents of my pressed cardboard serving tray. Looking down at my food I considered my actions before looking back up into those blazing gray eyes. I swallowed and watched as his hand trembled. I looked back at my mentor and my expression assured him that the next blow would never land.
“I only share what troubles us all...” I was cut off before I could add his honorific ‘Vecchia’ or ‘old one’ in his home language.
“The capa’s future is sealed.” Hondo hissed. “It is of no moment to you la Ragni,” ‘little spider’ as he called me, “one may indict himself through ignorance or complacency.” He added softly to everyone at the table. “He will be caught up in this and even his ignorance will not save him.” The Capa in this case was the Warden.
I grimaced. “So, there will be...” again with the twitching fingers...
“Yes,” he confirmed and looked about as several of our group mumbled, “that ... this does not concern you.” Hondo lifted his juice box in salute and sucked it dry. “‘Que sera sera’, as our little beaner friends would say.” He laughed a harsh malignant cough. “It matters not in the big picture. You,” he pointed that gnarled brown appendage straight at my face, “you’re destino diverges from here.”
His suddenly mirthful eyes glanced down at my tray and, with a sigh I turned it around and pushed it across the table so that he could help himself to my sliced pears (fresh from the #10 can). I waited patiently as he made a show of savoring every bite until they were gone. Then he sat back and sighed. We had less than two minutes before we would be called to clean up and vacate the cafeteria for the next group of inmates.
Hondo belched loudly and grinned. “Ah yes I too have been hearing whispers,” he announced to us all with a knowing smile. He looked back at me, “You my Novello spider, you will be leaving us shortly.”
I gasped at his words but he stopped my question with a shake of his head. “Later, in the courtyard. I will share what I have learned.” He rose and picked up my tray as well as his own which was, in itself, a staggering gesture.
It was my first visit to the yard in over a month, having just been released from the “Hole” or PSEG. I was confined for an incident involving the ‘punishment’ of several inmates who were associated with a rival faction known as the ‘Raptors’. They were heavily involved in the fentanyl and meth scene and were especially prone to any perceived insults or threats to their status. It was shared with me by Angel Ramirez (the only Hispanic inmate to share our table) that another member of our close circle had been targeted by the Raptors for refusing to share his stash of cigarettes. Not that it would have done them any good, because smoking was strictly forbidden and only ‘tolerated’ (speak ‘overlooked’) on the roof of the commons. Access to the roof was only approved by the guards as recommended by Hondo’s circle.
The three bangers involved were too green to know better and were certainly not educated enough by the Raptor seniors to suppress their eagerness to impress. So, when it became known to me that a brother was being targeted, I chose to intervene quickly and directly to ‘educate’ the ‘poco pissante’ on Hondo’s behalf. It was understood that my actions were not sanctioned by him, but nor were they discouraged. I accepted any and all repercussions and made no effort to implicate my circle in any way.
The lesson was provided during the later-hour laundry shift. I had leaked to two of the presumptuous raptors that Manny (my targeted brother inmate) would be on laundry duty at that time along with myself and a select group. At the appointed time the three bashers appeared only to find me handling the assorted washers and dryers. I enjoyed their confident postures as they surrounded me and prepared to do ... whatever they thought they would do. It didn’t turn out as they had planned. And when the COs appeared after hearing the ruckus, they found all three crawling and twisting on the ground, screaming and crying in agony of their battered, broken, and bleeding selves—whilst I assumed the position of complete surrender. I was on my knees with my legs spread and my hands behind my head placatingly. When told to, I fell face forward and assumed the prone snow angel posture.
One does not appreciate the simple things, like fresh air and the warmth of the sun on your face until they are taken from you. Reclining on the bleachers with your shirt off and your eyes closed, feeling to soft warm breeze as it gently washes over your skin. When your sense of awareness is heightened to the point of total presence and being, it is almost euphoric to the mind and body. I sensed Hondo’s presence below me, in the shadows under the bleachers. But he still surprised me with his soft voice.
“Much has been happening,” he spoke softly, “out in the world. Your case is under review once again, pressured by the amnesty groups who are once more seeking information that was once buried.”
I snorted. “To what end Viccio?” I replied, “the Governor...”
“Has been replaced in the last election,” he interjected, “his replacement is a woman! A democrat at that.” He laughed. “The entire state has flipped, Senators and Representatives too.”
“The prosecutor who became a Senator?” I asked cautiously. A small ember of hope flared deep down.
“Ah, he was defeated in the primaries and is now facing a RICO indictment.” The mirth of my mentor was infectious and I found myself smiling happily for the first time in many years. Oh, how I hated that man!
I tried to wrap my mind around it. This was not the first time my conviction was called into question by the public. My own family was beyond reasoning in their contempt for the powers that be, who wrongly convicted me and thought to bury me along with the entire debacle. All attempts by the media and journalists to interview me were squashed well above the DOC level. After over a decade of incarceration, it seemed as though my case was well and truly lost.
“The platform she rode on was of justice and equality,” Hondo added “Her message was that our state judicial system is broken and needs to be fixed. She is ordering sweeping changes to the policing and prosecuting of crimes and has ordered an expansive review of all cases tried and convicted in the state. Every single one.”
“So eventually my name will come up,” I pondered. If they assigned red flags to anything found lacking during the investigations and trials, then my case would certainly...
“I have heard that it already has,” he replied softly from beneath his perch, “and the groups involved are already pressuring to have you moved from here to a lower security confinement facility, pending the resolution of your next appeal.
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.
We didn’t have much for reading material at Westy but we did have a limited library. It took me 2 years to read everything in it. Two of my favorite publications were Popular Mechanics and Popular Science. We usually received periodicals months late and often missed issues—but I made sure I got the chance to devour each copy that came in. What I read about and learned fed my dreams of the home I would build if I were ever to be free again.
Once I was transferred to the level 3 facility, I found my situation to be greatly improved. After probation, I was eligible for placement on the academic/vocational waiting list. And I had immediate access to a huge library and computers with limited internet. Eventually, I worked my way into the fabrication shop where I was instructed in the fundamentals of welding and ironworks. I even tested out and got certified all the way up to 6G in stick, MIG, TIG, and solid core wire. I was then eligible for wood shop and outdoor labor where I learned framing and general construction. We built the kennels and cages for what would become my all-time favorite activity—dogs.
PRESENT
I made it to town in good time and went straight to the dealership to pick up my mini excavator and trailer. I had asked them to let me load it to get a feel for the process. I had already put a similar model through the works in the back of their lot where they had several ‘obstacle courses’ you could play with. The bright red brute was perfect for my initial plans to expand and clear my road and to develop the clearing where I wanted to build my ISO shelter. It took just under 40 minutes to sign for everything, load the Yanmar, hook up the trailer, and be on my way to Kevin’s house, he was expecting me since I called ahead. He seemed pretty excited to see me.
Pulling up to his place I took up a large chunk of his street. He and Rachel were at the door when I released Travis so that he could charge over and capture all their love and attention for himself. I paced myself in my approach to give them time to spoil him with affection. Kevin Sinclair was a tall and lanky character born and raised in West Texas. His wiry frame, unruly red hair, and almost ghetto drawl were his trademarks. He stepped forward and gripped my hand warmly while his ebony-haired wife held the door open for us. Travis immediately lost interest in our hosts as he strutted inside like the prodigal son. Their only child was a monstrosity of a cat named Charlotte. I suspected that things were about to get lively.
As I followed them into the split level my nose was overcome by the rich spicy aroma of Rachel’s native cuisine. I was led straight to the dining table where they stuffed me with one of the finest meals I had ever had. We made small talk until the dishes were cleared away; Kevin took it upon himself to clean up since his wife prepared that fine meal. I was given leftovers to take back with me.
In the den, I fell back into a very comfortable recliner that backed up to the stairs. With a sigh, I stretched and lifted my head up ... to find myself being scrutinized by the cantaloup-sized head of their Maine Coon.
“The Governor wants to meet you,” Kevin stated as he settled onto the loveseat nearby. I rolled my eyes and he quickly interjected: “This could be a good thing for you. Especially now that the civil case is closing.”
“You and I both know she is just leveraging a photo op out of it.” I snorted. The very last thing I wanted to do was stand in front of a bunch of cameras with another mucky—muck politician. “What about the civil case?” I asked.
“It will be a slam dunk for us,” he replied confidently, “with all their assets frozen it will be relatively simple to collect the settlement.”
The settlement was $3,450,000. Half of which would be mine while the rest went to my family for their hardship and Kevin’s take, of course. I had no issue with it. Kevin was more than my lawyer, but a good friend and advisor as well. He was worth every penny.
REFLECTIONS
“Be that as it may, Mr. Sinclair,” the speaker was one Edwin Gerald McCalkin, owner and general manager of the Ford Dealership, “young Carter here has no established bonafides to warrant such an extension of goodwill on our part. I must insist on 25% to be paid upfront before we can continue the transaction.”
“I’m okay with that,” I interjected as the owner and Kevin talked over me. I was beginning to regret calling him in to assist with the purchase. It might have been easier to simply go to the next town and deal with someone else. I was about to suggest just this when Kevin shook his head vehemently.
“I think I will just see what the Lieutenant Governor’s thoughts are on you taking advantage of my client’s misfortune.” He didn’t even pause to let the Owner call his bluff before he had his phone out and made the call from memory. “Yes, good afternoon, ma’am,” he spoke into the device as he turned and walked from the office, “this is Kevin Sinclair, attorney for Carter Davis, I’d like a word with Lt Governor Adams if he is available?” His voice faded away and I found myself watching the mixed emotions play across Edwin’s pale face. He nervously slicked his dark brown hair back and tried dubiously to ignore my presence.
Moments later Kevin’s voice could be heard as he returned to the office still speaking into his phone. “Yessir, quite,” He paused and held the phone before him as he touched the screen, “you are on speaker now sir, and ... there we are face timing. Can you hear me?”
“Indeed,” came the reply and I instantly recognized the soft slow voice of the honorable Quinten J. Adams. He was the key political figure charged with carrying out the investigative directives of our new Governor, and he met with me on several occasions as my case was being fast-tracked through the system. Edwin recognized the voice as well because his expression became drawn. I enjoyed his discomfort immensely.
Kevin turned the phone about to reveal the smooth dark-complexioned man seated at a desk with the great seal displayed behind him. His smile brightened as he saw me. “Mr. Davis! It is wonderful to see you once again. I trust you are getting back on your feet and reintegrating well?”
I smiled back. “Yessir. I couldn’t have done it without all your help and Kevin’s incredible support.”
His teeth glared starkly in contrast to his skin. “It has been our sincere pleasure, young man. You have become a symbol of hope and progress to all our residents. Whether you like it or not your celebrity will become a banner that others will stand by as they struggle to correct the wrongs in our legal system.” He looked behind me and I could feel the power emanating from him even through the small screen. “Ah, Mr. McCalkin!” he greeted him amicably.
The general manager gulped awkwardly and nodded his head in return. “Er good morning ... sir,” he stammered.
“You may not know this,” the Lt. governor stated to everyone, “but Coolidge Park is my home town and I remember buying my first car at this very dealership. Do you remember that Mr. McCalkin?” he asked smoothly.
“Um yes indeed sir,” Edwin replied, “it was a convertible Mustang. Very nice car indeed.”
“Oh yes, it was.” The smile was bright as ever. “And how are the expansion plans going?” he added with just a slight change of tone. “Everything going smoothly with the zoning committee?”
I could almost feel the crushing blow to his ego as his head nodded convulsively in reply. “Yes ... yessir. And thank you again for your help in that matter.”
The Lt Governor sat back and turned his head dismissively. “Think nothing of it! We take care of our friends—isn’t that, right?” His voice was smooth but his eyes were penetrating as they peered at the general manager.
“Uh ... ab ... absolutely sir.” McCalkin stammered as he rose from his desk hurriedly. “Th ... thank you for the call and checking in sir. You have a great day!”
“And you, my friend,” he glanced back at me and Kevin turned the phone so only I could see the wink of his eye. “Take care as well Mr. Davis. I look forward to meeting you again soon.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied as Kevin canceled the FaceTime and returned the phone to his ear. His voice was quiet as he once again left the office.
When he returned, he sank down into the chair beside me wearing a smug expression. “So where were we?”
McCalkin sank into his executive chair defeated and sighed resignedly. “10% is sufficient for us to order the truck,” he stated meekly, “we will put a rush on it and see if we can get it as soon as the day after tomorrow.” He folded his hands before him. “There will be an added surcharge to the shipping fee...”
“Which I am sure the dealership will graciously wave in this instance...” Kevin purred.
For a moment I thought the other man would argue but he opened and closed his mouth hurriedly before any sound came out. Instead, he nodded once, looking away.
“Excellent!” Kevin said animatedly as he rose. He paused after he turned to go. “Oh,” he turned back, “and you still offer that 7% discount for cash purchases, correct?”
There was a vein pulsing on the side of the car dealer’s head and I struggled to contain my smile as he gritted his teeth before grunting an affirmative.
“Very good then.” Kevin turned to go after pausing to shake my hand. “Good seeing you again Carter.” He paused once more at the door. “Oh, and Carter,” he added, “don’t forget to show them your tax-exempt status for the year, signed by the Governor.” And with that he was gone, leaving me to wrap up the paperwork.
PRESENT
“I got a call from Westy,” I said and played him the message.
Kevin frowned as he listened. “That can’t be good. Is that Hondo?”
I nodded.
“Do you know how his health is?” he asked as the same thoughts occurred to him.