JRBurton5@hotmail.com

NABBED IN KANAB

Welcome. The story you are about to read is true. A handful of names have been changed in order to protect their identities.

It has 57 chapters and a half-dozen appendices. My ongoing journals take this matter even well beyond those, but anticipating your own tolerances, I decided that enough’s enough, and wrapped it all up there.

Still, it is a lengthy tome. But the first two chapters are a biographical background on me that could be skipped if you want to get right to the meat. Perhaps that’s a funny thing for a writer to even say, but then, you can always come back to those, if you are inclined.

I hope you won’t skip the Introduction, though.

This is a work in progress. I am continually finding ways to improve it. You might even see some boxes around certain passages: that means I am wrestling with it at the moment– attempting to clarify, or pare it.

I welcome any feedback/comments/suggestions. That includes alerting me to any inconsistencies or difficult to understand passages, among many things.

My email address is JRBurton5@hotmail.com

Enjoy!

Nabbed in Kanab copyright 2007, 2008

NABBED IN KANAB: Introduction & Prologue

A third expression of freedom is responsibility. This is the obligation of the person to respond if he is questioned about his decisions. No one else can respond for him. He alone must respond, for his acts are determined by the totality of his being.”

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

INTRODUCTION

The very thought of starting this dissertation fills me with dread. No, it’s not the “how-to-begin?” dread. It’s not about style, or about setting up expectations either. If it were, I’d have already sweated the triteness of the phrase about the dread, and rued the pomposity of the claim to dissertation. But bah to all that! So much self-consciousness could only arrest my very mission. Such intrusions would only waylay my trenchant message. So it isn’t a writer’s block, or a lack of focus, or an insecurity at work here. Nor is this account intended as a warning. It’s really just a grappling– a clumsy effort at conversation, after a lengthy quiescence: a new attempt at sociability, wrung from the self-absorption that has too long kept my mind aloof from meaningful exchanges with my peers. I celebrate the closure of this era too, for lately I have feared that any prolongation of that aloofness even threatens me with the loss of peerage itself. Yes, I used the word peerage. Sorry- from here on out I’ll endeavor to disembark from my pedantic perch and talk to you with far less ornament. I mean, I’ll climb down now- from my linguistic high-horse!

Having done that, I sit, at last, on my well-calloused butt, and dig in for a project that’s sure to test my very capacity for stress. A long siege, no doubt. And this test comes on the heels of an ordeal just passed. That ordeal was the legal hurdle, with which this account deals: the endless, convoluted, corrupt, and inhuman circus that very nearly destroyed everything in my life– and whose backward stretching tentacles still have some mischievous design to them. It is that story I here endeavor to tell…And not merely to tell it, either, but to render it so powerfully that the currents I stir by doing that feed the tidal surge that will wash the bullshit away. Sure: like that’s gonna’ happen…

The first round I did not choose: I merely endured it. I say I endured it because through it, I suffered an enormous disempowerment imposed from without, from which I almost did not emerge. But now we move to part two, and THIS engagement– the relating of the tale– is one that I am choosing. I resolve to make it through this part too.

This brings us back to the stress I mentioned. There will be lots more of it here- and largely in the form of rage– and of rage revisited– at a time when it might behoove me to give it all a rest. But I can’t rest, because that would be to betray my anointed purpose, and to cop out on the talent I flatter myself to say that I’ve been given to deal with it all. And besides, my friends, that course would be the course of the man that these diseased bastards counted on my being. They thought I’d take it all lying down, you see– and thus facilitate their designs. But I refuse to do that. I refused and I still refuse, that is, since it’s still far from over. I will not be their weakling Enabler– by being silent when and where they thought they could count on that!

You will see what I am jabbering about forthwith. Meanwhile I must finish this introductory lament– in which I see that I waylaid myself before saying that it is not the longevity of the project, nor the required research, nor the necessary personal disclosures of this undertaking which frighten me– but rather it is the circling cloud of rage which frightens me, and which councils me to recoil from this chore. But I cannot do that. Instead, (and alas) I must embrace it anew, and transform it, hoping that through it– or in spite of it– I will vindicate myself, and my reputation as well (on the one hand), while also vindicating whatever long dormant talent I may in fact have (on the other). Perhaps in the end I will decide that this was all God’s way of provoking me to write– at long last, and after years of just talking about being a writer. Yes, perhaps all this happened because God grew weary…Or perhaps it was all for something else.

You see, there is a lingering sense here that all this happened for a reason, and that to not see it all the way through to some uncertain end would score as yet another failure for me– a failure of yet-to-be-revealed consequences, and on a cosmic scale. It is a sense that I fell into this situation as an ordained mission even– or as a test, you see: one that carries implications far beyond the milieu into which it might be folded… Oh, I don’t know exactly– not yet– and I know that I’m beating it to death. So I’ll say it one other way and then be done with it: I believe that there were metaphysics afoot, here- with concatenations well beyond the limits of myself: that this was not just about me– even though the “trial” itself appeared to be.

Did I really use the word “milieu” now? How pretentious- I hate that word.

Yes, our acts truly do spring from the “totality of our being”, as you have seen expressed in my introductory citation. I suspect that claim will jar many of my readers into recognition– and into head-noddings of assent. Okay then: the totality of MY being includes not just the motives and impulse that led me to get into the situation that this “apology” is about in the first place, but my ability to evaluate and communicate my impressions about it too. It includes not only my capacity for feeling both sensitivity and outrage, for example, but also my capacity to express those feelings– and, hopefully, to persuade you to share those feelings with me. I want to stir your strong emotions. My motives though, I must confess, are mixed here, for they are in equal measures lofty but also vindictive, such that aside from the fear of being consumed by my own rage before I can finish this dissertation, there lurks the menacing concern that the oozings out of my unalloyed hatred will leech the mettle from the rightness of my cause.

A final word on my intentions before we leave this brief Foreword, in which you may note that I have not forgotten to declare that this treatment aims to be so much more than an “apology”. I am using apology in the classical sense here, as meaning a defense, or an explanation, rather than a mea culpa. But much more than this– as I’ve already suggested– is that I intend this also to be a treatise, a tract, an exercise, and a manifesto– perhaps one which will transcend even my own avowed intents, and motivate others to more decisive political involvements which I could not have dreamed of. Well perhaps that is an outcome too potent to expect, but one never knows. In any event, should that come to pass, and presumably not in a way at odds to my desires, (that is to say, if it does not somehow backfire) then I invite any such would-be activist to embrace the idea that in order to perceive injustice here, and to vow to do something about it, that that righteous course in no way requires that you care at all for me, nor implies that you are sanctioning either anything that I have done, or that you believe I may have done. It is the egregious violation of proportion I urge you to combat here- the oppressive pathology of “law and order” at the expense of fluidity, artistry, fairness, and the free exchange of ideas which I am asking you to oppose; the “ends-justifies-any-means-since-we-alone-know-the-greater- good” tyranny that I urge you to identify, oppose, and eradicate, wherever possible. That attitude is evil incarnate– and the fates of many good people hang in the balance.

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All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke

PROLOGUE

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Allow me to introduce myself. I am Royce. Royce Burton. Actually Royce is my middle name, but I prefer it to my given name of John for several reasons. One is that every other guy was named John when I was growing up, and so the novelty of Royce was reason enough for me to have preferred it. Nobody ever has to say “Which Royce?”, or “Royce who?”. There are other reasons too, though- which you will understand in time.

I was born in Redwood City, California, in 1958. I was the youngest of three children. When I was still a tot, my parents moved us to nearby Belmont, which was a sleepy little town on the San Francisco Peninsula. My father was a Car Salesman, then became a Stockbroker. My mother was a Secretary. I grew up sheltered and good-natured, and always did well in school.

I did not play any sports as a boy, but I sorely wish I had. Nevertheless, I have been physically fit since I can remember- though I had frequent bouts of Bronchitis early on, which eventually led to my having my tonsils removed. The only other physical limitation worth noting is the fact that I am deaf in my left ear. I have been so since birth.

I went to High School there in Belmont, to Junior College in next door San Mateo, and to College in San Jose. After an unfocused and frustrated tenure there, however, during which I dropped out three times, I finally stayed out, only to go back and finish my education at San Francisco State after a ten-year hiatus. After twenty years I finally got a college degree: a Bachelor of Arts in English, with a minor in Creative Writing.

I have never been married, and I have no children. That’s funny too, because when I was much younger, and looked forward to my life, I always imagined that by this time I would have had not just a family, but a career and a house as well. My life didn’t turn out the way I had envisioned. Nor has life been the way I thought it would be. Nevertheless, my life still had a great deal of joy.

My life has been relatively free from honors, though the accomplishments I am still proudest of are that degree that I finally earned– to finally put to rest that nagging sense of incompletion– and the fact that I was an Eagle Scout by the time I was 14. Aside from those, I must confess that my life has been a paean to unrealized potential, and to unfulfilled expectations. I have traveled extensively, however– both domestically and internationally– and those travels are the greatest thing that I ever did for myself. They broadened my horizons, as they say, and awakened me to new senses of possibilities.

I do like to write, and I have spent substantial blocks of time writing my autobiography: an arduous though sustained effort that yielded several hundred pages. I never tried to publish it however, as I saw no reason the world would want to read about me.

I love to read, too, and before the events which I am about to tell transpired, I devoured about 50 books each year– almost all of that non-fiction. Those were later developments in my life, however. I started those international travels only after I turned 30, and as a kid, I didn’t like to read at all.

But I have loved the great outdoors ever since my father took us on family vacations to Yosemite, starting when I was ten. Scouting exacerbated that attraction, and I remain an enthusiast of backpacking and assorted outdoor activities even as I write these words. And it was that love– that unquenchable draw to nature- which is the salient feature here, as I begin my narrative.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapter 1 & 2

HEY: There is an “Introduction” one section back. You might want to read that first!

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER ONE

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A little whirlwind tour of the years leading up to my final departure from San Francisco:

In late 1996 I had been working in a family-style Restaurant in the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco for most of the past three years. Then I got the wanderlust again and quit so I could travel.

That wasn’t the first time I had done such a thing. I had left San Francisco several other times over the years– usually for months at a time: for Europe, for South America, for a winter in Aspen…But each time I came home I returned to the City by the Bay, as I had planned to do each time I left. Yes, like a yo-yo, I had come and gone repeatedly– from the city nearest to my heart– and all told, I had called San Francisco home for most of a dozen years. This time, however, I believed my defection would be final.

I spent the next six months rambling around Southeast Asia. I had a good time. But I came home from that voyage with a neurological virus called Guillain-Barre’ Syndrome, that brought a temporary paralysis to my hands and feet. It also affected the circulation, so my feet were icy all the time.

I had a mild case, it turned out—and thank God— but it badly hobbled me none-theless, and I had to move into my parent’s house for a few weeks while I recovered.

That house was in Belmont- the suburb of San Francisco where I had grown up. Later on I relocated to my sister’s house, in Oakland, to continue my convalescence. I was out-of-action for six weeks, all told, and it was during those weeks of recovery that I decided to move to Lake Tahoe.

Ever since I had spent a season in Aspen Colorado in the early 90s I’d wanted to live in the mountains again—to enjoy winter sports, white-water rafting, and hiking. I didn’t really want to go to Tahoe though. I wanted to go even deeper into the “West” (which meant further east, of course, if you’re in California) but I settled for Tahoe because it was as far as I dared to drive, with my still crippled fingers and my cold, clodden feet.

Having decided that, then, on a mid-May date in 1997, I drove my Buick to Tahoe City. I didn’t know anybody there, so I slept in my car each night and bathed in the public restroom while looking for housing and employment. I was looking for another waiter job, and I distributed my resumes all over the West Shore, as the greater Tahoe City area is called. Then I waited. And I waited.

Soon I found a job waiting tables at the Sunnyside Resort. That was the only offer I received, though, and it came in just as I was getting discouraged.

I worked there for most of the next four years. I call those my “Tahoe Years”.

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Those Tahoe years were punctuated only by a winter I spent in Park City. That hiatus was a mixed bag but it’s another story. The Tahoe years, on the other hand, were for most the most part outstanding– but I will breeze merrily through them, here, because they are not really the story either. What is important to note is that I prospered there, made friends, and found lots of love and respect. For the first time in my life there I ran around with a group of people and felt like I really belonged someplace. I was looked up to, also, by several people, and that was very satisfying.

The friendships endured after I left the lake. Of those friendships, though, I will mention just a few, because they will show up again in this treatment. You don’t have to remember their names, because I’ll remind you who they are. All of them started out as co-workers. There’s Sean Gomez and Erin-Kate Murphy, who were also my housemates, for a while. There’s Matt Plenge Rick Taft, and Cathy Maybury. My best friend at Tahoe deserves a mention too, even though he won’t be mentioned again, in this pages. But it is my narrative (by God), and good old Jeff Lilley deserves a mention. Oh yes: I almost forgot. I have to mention Ryan Voss.

Anyway, as much as I found respect from my co-workers at Tahoe, I was troubled by the lack of respect I seemed to compel from the Management. I told you my Tahoe years were outstanding, and that is largely true. But recalling this problem I will back off a little bit from that contention. The truth is that those years could have been even better, had that sword not hung above me.

The collective management seemed to regard me as a Peter Pan, I suspect- and perhaps they would have even been right. Perhaps that was due to my age and marital status. From a distance of years I wonder too if it wasn’t about a group dynamic aimed at a guy who never gets the girl and doesn’t even bothering trying anymore.

Yes, I have my speculations and my theories about this- and they occasionally get bitter. But for whatever reason, the managers seemed to discount me.

Nevertheless, by the time I left the Sunnyside Resort, in the Spring of 2001, I had been a Head-waiter and an Employee of the Month, and believed myself capable of being a Manager. But the lack of respect dogged me, and when some other late-tenure episodes of disrespect left me reeling, I decided that no one with healthy self-regard could allow himself to stay there. That’s enough about that too. There are so many digressions I could make, but I am struggling to keep this all reined in.

It tells you a little about me, though- and that’s the important point.

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I spent the next four months rambling around the West, as I so love to do. First I went to Moab, in the southeast part of Utah. That’s a former mining town, set amidst stunning canyon scenery, through which the Colorado River flows. Moab is now famous mostly as a mountain-biking mecca, but it was not for the mountain-biking that I went to Moab. No, it was for the river rafting. And within a short time after landing there, I had scored a river guiding job, with Tag-A-Long Expeditions. That was a close call too, be-cause I was the last person they hired that year!

So I figured on making Moab my home for a while. I envisioned it as a base from which I could explore the Colorado plateau. That could easily be a lifetime’s worth of exploring, too, for that plateau is immense. It describes a vast geography, which has been near and dear to my heart since long before I ever even saw it in the flesh. You see, I already knew it well, through all the books I’d looked at as a boy!

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Several years earlier I’d taken a white water guide school course on the Kern River in California. I had never really used it though- having gone off to Europe that summer, after I had trained.

The Kern River boasts of a lot of class 4 rapids, which are pretty exciting. Well upstream from Moab there is fierce water too- and there are some storied waters well downstream- but the Colorado River through the Moab area really is pretty tame. Class 2 waters, really. Lazy stuff. But what it lacks in excitement it compensates for in beauty, and I was content with it for the time being- figuring I’d work my way up to the bigger waters in the ensuing years. So during that hiatus in Moab—back in 2001 again now— I trained as a River-guide again- on the comparatively calm waters of that serene part of the Colorado.

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Bob Jones was the owner of Tag-a-Long, housed in a building on the northern end of town. Bob owned another building too- a ramshackle affair, just a few doors down the street. That had been a restaurant once, called “The Attic”, but it had long since fallen into disrepair. And behind that building, on an open dirt lot, Bob allowed his employees to camp out for the summer. I camped out there too.

That old restaurant sported a covered patio, where the patrons used to sit. Nobody used it anymore, though. The problem was that it was full of clutter: discarded old rafts, for example, and all manner of garbage. But it occurred to me that that patio could make a great adjunct to the camping area- if it were just cleaned out. So I took it upon myself to do that- with Bob’s blessing. It surprised me that nobody had bothered to do that before. It seemed very lazy.

Anyway it only took a couple days of concerted effort, to transform that old place. It was hard work, though, for it meant loading up Bob’s truck and hauling several hundred pounds worth of crap to the dump. But I did it, and then gave the place a good sweeping out. When I was finished, it made an excellent new addition to our employee living area. Indeed, right away the other employees started maneuvering their way in. Bob praised me for my effort, too, and I was very proud. So things started out quite rosy for me, there in Moab.

But within six weeks, things had turned sour. The heat was oppressive, for one thing- and fixing to get even hotter. Every free day I had I hunkered down in a local coffee house to take advantage of the air conditioning. Then I had a dispute with a co-worker, who was a glib Texas liar, if you ask me. He had blamed me for a safety breach on the river that he had in fact committed, and he took credit for something I had done on the river that may have saved a life. I wasn’t present when he claimed these things, but when I learned about them I marched straight to my manager Suzette to tell her the real story. Sadly, she was in no mood to listen, and refused to hear me. Her mind was already made up. That event wounded me, and made me think that if I stayed there I’d be starting out under a pallor of guilt that I did not deserve and was not allowed to address. So once again- between that and the heat- I decided I had to leave my elected home again.

The next day was overcast and a whole lot cooler, but it did not matter: I packed my van and left. On the way out I stopped to tell Bob that I was leaving. I figured I owed him that much. I didn’t tell him the whole story though- about Suzette and the liar.

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For the next two months I rambled about, finally landing in Jackson, Wyoming. I only stayed a few days, but I became smitten, and considered staying there and making it my home. I seemed to be eternally looking for a home. Sunnyside had been my home, but I had been expelled from it, I felt. Now I wanted that sort of experience again.

This time though, I was a bit more circumspect: a bit less impulsive about making such a commitment. Instead, I resolved to go back to San Francisco, reasoning that if after two weeks of being “home” the spell had not yet broken, that I would move back to Jackson for the winter. So back to SF was where I went- as I told you.

Oh yes- in Jackson I got a ticket for not having insurance. The cop pulled me over and gave me some bullshit about how my van had “swayed”, such that he thought I might have been drinking. Bah. They can claim anything, you know. But that ticket detail will take on significance later.

Instead of going back to Jackson, I ended back at the New Pisa- the family-style restaurant in the Italian section. That was the job that I opened this chapter with, that I left to go to Asia. So much for the finality of my exodus from San Francisco.

The first round at the New Pisa had proven to be a good job, which I had embraced during a difficult time of my life, and out of which much that was serendipitous emerged. It was in the vacation house of my Manager from that restaurant that I later lived in during part of my Tahoe years, for example. Also, he knew the General Manager of the Sunnyside, so his recommendation helped me to get the job there.

I still knew the menu there too, so when I went back to that glorious city by the bay yet again– after those tapped–out Tahoe years- and during the era I am currently highlighting- it seemed sensible to go by there and at least inquire about temporary waiter gigs. Well a spot was available, so I started working as a Waiter there again.

Within days the new manager Igor lauded my abilities and told me I could come back to work there full-time. I was flattered, of course. But I told him that when I left San Francisco four years before that the rents were absurd, and that during the ensuing dot-com boom they had become impossible… I said that the only way I could imagine doing it would be if Tom—the Owner—let me live on the abandoned third floor of the building. Believe it or not, Igor asked Tom and Tom okayed the arrangement. So I accepted and moved into the new Pisa. There I stayed for eighteen more months, before I pulled the plug once again.

But before I left it for the final time I was managing it- and living like a king in that long-abandoned “penthouse” above it. I refurbished it you see: I removed the dead rat and the overly-crispy Christmas tree and an enormous amount of other garbage; I scrubbed and swept and repaired the broken window and patched the walls and ceilings…and I hung pictures and draped the ceiling and furnished it with eclectica like has never been seen… the result being that I created a North beach studio to die for. The main room was 20x 24 feet with ten foot tall ceilings and south facing windows that looked right at the Transamerica Pyramid, and…

But I’m getting far a-field of those narrative restraints I pledged myself to. Suffice to say that my creation was so fine that I might have even stayed there forever, had the building not sold, thus forcing my long-since healed hands- as well as my ever-peripatetic feet to move on.

Obviously then, I didn’t go to Jackson Hole that winter. Instead I was ensnared by those pleasant circumstances for another year-and-a-half: to make another installment in my love/hate dance with that alluring city.

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In those first days of my residency above the New Pisa, I only had a few basic things in my apartment. I slept on an old couch, and perched my old television on a table next to it. Well I had only been living there for a couple nights when I woke up very early one morning and went to use the toilet. Then- as I went to crawl back into bed, I did something I cannot remember ever having done before in my life, at such an early hour: I turned on the TV. And what I saw I will never forget. Nor will anyone, I suspect, who was alive and conscious on that late summer day. It was September the 11^th, 2001: the day that lives in infamy as 9-11; the day the World Trade Center was destroyed, by terrorists with airplanes!

It was not yet 7:00 in the morning, on the west coast, as a new era was ushered in for my country. Horrified and stunned by it all, I called my parents, and woke them up. The world had changed before our eyes.

Soon anthrax fears and high-anxiety followed. But they are not my story either.

All of this is just included for historical perspective.

It was in that restaurant that I met my girlfriend Melissa, one November night- just two months after the carnage of 911. I was managing, and she’d come in for a meal of lamb shanks, and a glass of wine. Well that was at a time when I was so full of confidence that I thought I could do anything. I had never felt that way before— nor since. And espying such a lovely creature sitting all alone, I walked up to her as she was eating and started talking. She talked to me too, and we had a nice conversation- but about what I no longer know. She gave me her phone number that night– so within a couple days I called her, and we met another time. Pretty soon we were an item- a couple. And for well over a year she was the light of my life. Life was very good.

She worked at a big inter-active Science museum, in San Francisco, where she was a Project Manager– which seemed like an enviable position to me. In fact she’d been involved in some very cool projects during her tenure there- and had met some amazing people. Just during the time I was with her, for example, she’d rubbed shoulders with a handful of Nobel hopefuls, as well as James Watson- of DNA fame- and Benoit Mandlebrot, the mathematician!

She was pretty, and smart, as I’ve already told you. And she was well-read, too. In fact, we’d read a lot of the same books. She was also a bit of a loner- just like me, again. In short, she was perfect for me- so I had gotten lucky.

She was 40 years old then, and I was 43. She was going through a divorce, too- so someone else’s loss was to be my gain. Yes, Melissa was a gift from God- but a gift that I disdained. I mean that I left her, after a year and a half of bliss. I told you all of that. Men. We’re stupid like that. And my stupidity was underscored—emphasized—broadcasted– by the circumstances I fell into after I left her. Sometimes I think that all this hell was just God’s punishment for having been so brazen as to have left her: that he was vengeful because had given me such a gift– and because I had shat upon it.

So like an idiot I left her. That’s all I want to say about that, though– except that I had made a huge mistake.

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For all its benefits, however, that final round at the New Pisa never felt like home. San Francisco didn’t feel that way any more, I mean. Yes, that’s closer to the truth now. And I think that’s what I’ve already said, more or less: it felt like just another stopping off place, before I found another home. I hadn’t had a home since Tahoe– and that’s the salient point. But it’s also true I am no longer certain that anyplace will ever be my home.

As time went by the siren of the outdoors sang to me again.

I was getting older, at that point, and I believed that my last chances to establish a new career were closing in on me. I never could never do the 9 to 5 job. But since I had no family to support, modest needs, and an abiding love for the outdoors, such an out- doors job seemed ideal. What was more, I enjoyed people, and relished the idea of being a guide and teacher, in some capacity. I readily saw myself doing that, when I reflected, and several people who know me well told me I’d make a good teacher. So I’d searched the horizons of my soul for a career that could provide these things, and in which– though unlikely to grow rich– I could float off into my figurative decline: my middle-aged and later years– happy, and satisfied. And that career, I decided, was to be as a River Guide. Ah– but not just to be a Guide on any old river– no: I wanted to be a Guide on the grand-daddy of all the American rivers: the Colorado- in the Grand Canyon, of course!

I knew that I could not just waltz down to Arizona and get such a job. But I had completed that white-water guide school in California several years before. I told you that. I also told you I had flitted off to Europe, the summer I had taken that, and so I didn’t fold myself into that profession when I’d had my best chance.

I sigh as I write that, because my life has been a paean to lost chances. I have lots of regrets.

Several other times after that I had resolved to go become a guide, somewhere, but each attempt became another false start, and led to another change of direction– just as it had in Moab. Maybe the truth is that I was afraid. Irrational fears have also been my bane.

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My van had gone kaput by then, so in anticipation of my final leave I bought a Subaru. It had 197,000 miles on it already, but the miles did not concern me. And since that car served me well for the next three years, my lack of concern seems to have been justified. I was very happy with it too, because for the first time in my life I had a car that had all the things I’d always wanted- and needed- in a car: four-wheel drive; intermittent wipers; headlights that go off by themselves (if you forget to turn them off); a gas-gauge that lights up when you are very low on gas (enough said there too); and a lock that discourages forgetfully locking oneself out (…). Okay- guess what some of the things I had done several times are?

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I said I might have stayed in San Francisco forever, but that cannot be the truth- for the grand adventure that the West still promised was harkening to me often, and that call of the wild was too relentless to resist. Swept away by images of river-rafting and snowboarding and the like, I finally succumbed to my hobgoblin again. Come spring, I knew I’d have to go. And I was tired of San Francisco again anyway. That’s why the sale of the restaurant made it easy to leave behind the city and the job. I could leave San Francisco again, with one more sense of finality.

As for the girl I left behind, well: Melissa was the best girlfriend I have ever had. She was loving, and feminine and smart and pretty, and I loved her too– and I should tell you now that only a crazy man would have left her. So you might undertake this narrative with justifiable suspicions that my sanity was a bit in doubt anyway, as I embarked upon my grand misadventure.

It was in December– four months before I left for the last time- that I told Melissa I would be leaving, in case you’re wondering. So do not think I sprung this on her, and then just walked out. Au contraire, I gave her several months notice. It was only right.

Ah, but the restaurant had not sold yet, then, when I made my decision. So am I telling the truth? Hmmm. Aha! I think it’s more accurate to say that I knew it would sell eventually. Yes, that’s it: I knew it was for sale, and that eventually I’d have to go…

Could I have taken Melissa with me? Maybe. Perhaps she would have even come, if I had asked. But there were other issues too: like he fact that she had a great job in San Francisco; like the fact that she was forty and didn’t want children. See, I still thought I would want some kids someday. But my excuses do not satisfy me, even as I write about them now. So perhaps a more satisfactory explanation is just that I am very dumb.

Although she was sad that I would leave her, Melissa was loving and supportive through the whole break-up. She even attended my farewell birthday party at the end of March. She gave me lovely gifts that day too, including a shiny new camera, and some pastel crayons: both intended so that I might capture the stunning landscapes I would see.

My sister Leslie had arranged that party: just a family affair, really, aside from Melissa. So my niece Chelsea and my Brother-in-law Jeff were there. My parents were there too. My mother gave me a gift that day that I still remember well: a little multi-use tool to be kept in the console in case of emergency. It had a hammerhead end that could break the window and a knife blade that could cut the seat belt too.

I am only telling you about that because I imagined myself driving off the road, into a river somewhere, and using that device to save my life. And for a long time after the events I am to tell you about I wished I had indeed driven off the road, into a river somewhere- and just died there. But that is getting too far ahead of myself.

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I felt like I owned the world when I left San Francisco on an early April day in 2003. Those of my worldly possessions that were not either in my storage locker, or in my sister’s garage in Oakland, I brought with me, packed carefully into plastic bins in the back of my Subaru wagon. They included the props of the coming lifestyle I envisioned: paints and crayons (the ones Melissa had given me); books and notebooks; a backpack and a bicycle; and a duffel bag full of clothes. I brought my wet-suit too- of course- because it related to a primary motive for my exodus. It would not be necessary on the Grand of course, but I wanted it with me anyway.

I had plenty of money too, with my life’s savings of $20,000 easily accessible- being mostly in liquid form- as well as over $30,000 worth of unused credit, on my shiny gold cards. And I had time too- not just the ten week block free and clear before I was tentatively scheduled to arrive in Jackson Hole- but a sort of unlimited time: an unencumbered expanse of time before me during which I could reorder my life, re-establish my base, and re-inaugurate some of the interests I had occasionally cultivated- or dreamed of initiating. In short then, I was free: utterly free.

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CHAPTER II

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Going back even further now, but only for a moment, I want to introduce a friend from High School, named Keith Virostko. Actually he was more of an acquaintance than a friend. I first met him through a school-sponsored backpacking trip to the High Sierra, which lasted for two weeks. And though we both loved the outdoors, Keith was more involved in mountaineering, while I just liked to hike. I suppose that’s why we never got closer, at that time. But I kept in touch with him for several years, until we finally lost touch.

But during that final stay in San Francisco I stumbled upon a website where I could look people up and see where they were living. So I looked Keith up, and lo and behold, I found him to be alive and living in Jackson, Wyoming. Wow! I wondered if he had been there when I’d gone through there two summers before! So I called him, and we renewed our relationship.

That winter I took a week off at work and drove out to Jackson and stayed with him in his apartment for a week. Being a snowboarder, I also took advantage of the epic conditions there. Well Keith was planning to move into a house that summer, and would be looking for a roommate. And since we got along well while I was there, he asked me if I’d like to move in with him then, and I accepted!

There’s a little confusion here, because Jackson is in Wyoming, and so nowhere near to the Grand Canyon. So it seems strange that I was planning both on dedicating my-self to guiding the Colorado, and also to living in Wyoming. The resolution of that quandary, I think, is that I did not expect to find work as a guide right away, and figured I’d devote myself to the under-taking only until the middle of June. By then the canyon country would be getting too hot to bear anyway- and I would move on to Wyoming… Unless, of course, I got some unexpected and too-good-to-refuse job, I suppose. Yes, I think that’s right. I’m no longer certain. Sometimes I’m a mystery, even to myself.

Another hypothesis is that I hadn’t really committed to Jackson at all: that those plans were tentative, at best- just one alternative, for a perpetual peripatetic. That would explain why I never called Keith to confirm that I’d be coming.

In any event, my anticipated arrival in Jackson was the only time constraint I had put on myself as I motored out of San Francisco, in my Subaru, on that early April day. That meant I had two months of unencumbered freedom ahead: and I did not intend to waste any of it. My first stop would be Kanab.

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Situated at almost 5000 feet in elevation, Kanab is a sort of oasis in a topography of desert. It is known for its temperate climate, by those who know of it at all. It boasts of having only short, but severe winters, and of lengthy, moderate springs. The summers are hot, but less hot than in the famous landscapes which surround it, and amongst which it is nestled. And indeed, I suppose that it would necessarily be nestled amongst that which surrounds it, but let us not nit-pick. My point is that those parts get wicked hot: those magical places, which are just stones throws away: Zion and Bryce Canyon, to the north, and the Grand Canyon, to the south. But hottest of them all, if you ask me, is that Marble Canyon Corridor, as I call it- which climaxes just 60 miles east of there. I learned that it reached 115 degrees there, later that summer, while I was somewhere else. And during all that swelter Kanab remained considerably cooler- for that is what Kanab does.

The name Kanab is derived from a Native-American word for “willow basket”- but which particular native tribe that word derives from, my reference didn’t reveal. Per-haps it was from the Hopi, or the Navaho, for they are the still predominant tribes in that area today.

The first white settlers came 1858, according to my sources. It was on June 7^th of that year, as a matter of fact. But Kanab began inauspiciously, amidst skirmishes with the natives. (That’s what natives do, you know: they “skirmish” with invaders). But the invaders eventually got their way. You knew all of that.

Being Utah, you might assume that those first settlers were Mormons. But that was not the case. It was not until 1870 that Brigham Young himself assigned one Levi Stewart to “settle” that area. Well “settling”, of course, as we’ve just seen, is just a euphemism here- for usurping and expelling. But forget I said that. I’m just bitter. Anyway, the better known Jacob Hamblin cleared the way for the Mormon settlers, by somehow “negotiating” with the “locals”.

In any event, the area was soon “settled”, and laid out with those typically wide Mormon streets. Later, Hollywood discovered the area too, and starting filming Wes-terns there. Tom Mix was one of the first to make a movie there, filming “Deadwood Coach” as early as 1922. But by and large Kanab remained a small agricultural community– until the completion of a monstrous dam– 70 miles to the east. Since then, the town has burgeoned to about 3500 people. As such, it is the largest town and County Seat of present day Kane County.

That dam is the Glen Canyon Dam. Completed in 1965(?), and very slowly filled, it created the enormous Lake Powell. Well I have been on Lake Powell, and I declare that it is stunning! I even hitched a ride across it once- by boat- with a doctor and his son from Whistler, B.C. We went to the magnificent Rainbow Bridge. That’s an enormous natural feature that spans the tributary there– which is part of the lake itself, at its highest levels. Well at that time, the lake was at its highest level, so its bathtub rings did not offend the eye. The brimming reservoir even shimmered, then, with an ethereal light. So yes, the lake is beautiful, I grant. But it is not a fitting substitute for that which it usurped.

I was just a wee lad in California when that dam was completed– so I’d never seen the place. But when my father brought home a picture book, by the Sierra Club, depicting all its soon-to-be-buried treasures, I looked at them and was crushed. I knew that with the submersion of Glen Canyon that something grand was disappearing from the earth. It was something that I should have been able to see, too– in my lifetime, I thought. But it was too late.

Sorry. Once again I shamelessly digress, and betray an agenda. But you now know where I stand. Let us just say that Lake Powell broke my young heart.

Fortunately the Colorado plateau is still a wonderland of enchantment, and despite that watery grave there remain a myriad of amazing places, to enthrall us with red-rock facades, canyons, arches, amphitheaters, and streams. There is still a paradise of forms out there, to fill a lifetime of exploration. For me it is a love- and a lifestyle as well.

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But let us leave all that behind, for the moment, and journey to the Kanab of April 2003. That is where my story really—and at last— begins.

I arrived there after two days of concentrated driving. My first stop was a place called the Rocking V Restaurant. There was a table out in front, and it looked inviting, so I sat there to have some coffee. Of course, I had brought a book. I always had a book.

The Owner himself served me my coffee, and we began to chat. I’ve since forgot-ten his name, but I remember that he was from California too. That should surprise no-body, though, seeing how prevalent we have become everywhere. First everyone wanted to come to California– then everyone wanted to leave it. But I mention this only because as I look back across the landscape of my story, this respite was a nice beginning. I am struck with that memory of serenity as I sat there, with my dream still afoot, and with my first encounter warm and friendly.

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I was under the impression that the bulk of the guide companies were centered in the Kanab area, in the southwest part of Utah. It’s just like me not to have thoroughly researched the matter. And of course that conception proved to not be the case. There were, however, several such companies based near to there. A couple of them were as close as Fredonia Arizona- only seven miles away. And another trio of companies were strewn not too far from there: between Kanab and the place where the river trips begin their storied descents.

That place is called Lee’s Ferry. It gets its name from an early Mormon leader named John Lee who– being held responsible for the Mountain Meadow Massacre- was exiled to that place.

The massacre took place on September 11^th, 1857. So it was another 9-1-1! (Some accounts say it was on Sept. 10^th) On that date, 300 miles south of Salt Lake City, at least 50 Mormons– led by Lee and likely in cahoots with some Paiute Indians– massacred 120 men, women, and children settlers who were en route to California.

Lee was excommunicated and exiled, and 20 years later was finally shot to death by firing squad.

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Back in 1857, Lee’s Ferry was the middle of nowhere. Even today it’s remote. But a good highway services it. That’s Hwy 89. And from there to Kanab, that road describes what I call the Marble Canyon Corridor. That’s for lack of any better name. The map doesn’t call it anything, so I call it that because the closest town to it on Hwy. 89 is named Marble Canyon- and also because it sounds cool.

Quickly I called upon several of those river companies, where I introduced my-self and announced my intent. Encouragements ranged from lukewarm to exuberant. But the most encouraging response came from a man named Marty, at Grand Canyon Expeditions. He led me to believe my plan was an excellent one. Another encouraging reception came from Sarah Hatch, at Hatch River Expeditions. She took my name and number and promised to keep me in mind.

Thus encouraged, I quickly honed in on those two companies to give the bulk of my attention to. Grand Canyon Expeditions, hereafter known in these pages as GCE, is headquartered in Kanab itself- which, as I said, stays reasonably cool. Hatch River Expeditions, on the other hand, does not boast of such an advantage– being located in the tiny and sweltering town of Vermillion Cliffs, along that Lee’s Ferry route, 60 miles closer to the river.

Hatch River Expeditions will henceforth be known in these pages, for brevity, as HRE. But I liked to refer to it- tongue-in-cheek, and only to show off– as the Holy Roman Empire. I still had a sense of humor then.

After that I fell into a routine, and spent about four days a week haunting those domains. The rest of the week I was off visiting or exploring someplace else. But I spent the majority of that time– when I was in that region– in Kanab itself. Being cooler there was obviously an advantage. And as sleepy as the town was, there was still a lot more to do there than in the Marble canyon. Not that I did anything special there anyway. I’d just read in the coffee houses for most of the day, then at night I’d read in the little Chevron Station market– before driving up to sleep behind the water tower.

When I was down in Marble Canyon, I’d drive down to the river, and sit there reading or writing poetry. I had a National parks Pass I didn’t have to pay each time I went down there. In the evenings I’d sit in the little store back up in the town of Marble Canyon. After dark I’d sleep by another water tower– at the edge of that town too! I liked water towers. But there was more to it than that, because I’d sleep in the back of my car, and I had to remove a bunch of my stuff to make room for me back there. So since I left some of my stuff beside my car at night, I had to be careful where I did that. The water towers were pretty deserted places, I had found.

And each time I drove back to Kanab from Marble Canyon, I’d stop in at HRE along the way.

Anyway, one day Sarah Hatch led me out and introduced me to a couple of the guides. I figured that that was a very good sign. I can only remember one of them, now, but I’ve forgotten his name. In any event, nothing came my way from that meeting. But with patience, perhaps something would!

Near the HRE establishment there was another restaurant, with another patio, where I liked to have my coffee. There I met a delicious 40-something waitress named Cher. I’d left Melissa just two weeks before, but already I was anxious to get something new going. I missed having a relationship. And Cher excited me– so I had my eye on her.

Nothing came of it, though– I’ll tell you already. But a guy can hope. And we’ll see her again, so the introduction was necessary.

Back in Kanab, having made myself available to GCE, I checked in every couple days. I always checked in in person instead of calling. My purpose was to keep my memory alive, and to see if help was needed. One never knows when some personnel crisis will develop– and I intended to be around when that crisis developed. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, or something like that. But I was walking a fine line too, for I didn’t want to be too present: I did not want to appear overbearing, I mean– and therefore a pain in their neck.

But I spread the word that a wanted to be a swamper, which is an extra hand on a river trip: a gopher, that is. The swamper is the one who breaks his back just for the experience and doesn’t expect any pay.

After a few nights sleeping behind the water tower in Kanab, I discovered an-other place to sleep. It was a few miles outside of town, beside the Kanab Creek. It was partly that the water tower seemed too close to town, that I’d sought another place. Even though nobody had bothered me there, I felt a bit obtrusive. Well actually one couple did descend down the trail there and surprise me and we all felt uncomfortable. And that water tower was no place to sit around anyway– or nap– between my coffee house sessions. So I went looking for something nicer, and within days I’d found a perfect spot beside the creek. There was solitude there too. After that I slept there every night, when I was in town. I liked falling asleep and waking to the sound of moving water. And for stretching my legs and sitting to ponder it was a site hard to beat. Sometimes I’d even venture small baths there. I say “ventured” not because it was cold, but because it wasn’t very deep. Thus a bath meant finding the deepest part and rolling around in it. Usually I preferred to shower– at the local trailer park.

But even if I went a couple days without a shower, my hair didn’t get dirty, be-cause I’d gotten a crew-cut, in anticipation of the heat. I hadn’t had one for over 30 years, so it was difficult to get used to. Kanab was not too hot, as I have said, but I figured that down in the canyon– if I should get the call- it would be ungodly hot. And I wanted to be prepared. I wanted to be able to pack and go with a minimum of warning- if I should get the call.

One concern was that my cell phone did not get reception down by the river. That could be a problem, because, inasmuch as I was purposeful, it behooved me to wake up somewhere where I could get reception, if that sudden crisis developed. I wanted to be available, I mean, should one of the river companies require me in a pinch.

And damned if I didn’t miss one such call, one morning, I later learned. A Swam-per at GCE dropped something on his foot, and had to be disqualified. Damn! Had I got-ten that call that morning my life might have gone very differently!

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I had been through southern Utah many times other times, over the years. Usually I had gone directly to Moab. But I’d been to many other places on that vast Colorado Plateau. I’d been down along the Escalante River, for example, several different times. Usually that was for a multi-day backpacking trip, in one tributary or another. Once I’d even gotten lost out there– high above the river. Man: that was unnerving: lost, out of water and out of daylight, I ended sleeping on a sloping ledge….In the morning I shimmied along ledges and finally got back to the trailhead- where a sympathetic hiker let me gulp from his canteen. I had done a couple other extended hikes, in other Utah canyons too: like the Paria River, which is an incomparable four-day hike. Like Dark Canyon: a four-day hike to the Colorado River, in Cataract Canyon. My buddy and I finished that one by hitching a ride with a commercial expedition from the confluence to the marina at Lake Powell.

I must pause to mention Eric Last here: another friend I’d been to Utah with on several occasions. Hell: he deserves a mention too…We will meet him later on, anyway-albeit briefly– in this account. But don’t confuse him with another person we meet later who has a similar name. Remember that my friend was named Last—as in final

So I’d seen a lot of southern Utah. But I had been through Kanab only twice be-fore. Once was back in 1977, when a buddy and I did a driving tour of the west. At that time I had another old friend who worked as a guide on the river. He worked for a company in Kanab, which was why we had stopped there. But whether he’d worked for GCE or for another I can no longer say. Anyway I came through again in the mid-nineties, but that time I only looked and did not stop. Both times it had seemed quite lifeless. It exuded repression.

This time, though, I saw some vast improvements: a couple of espresso cafes, for one thing- and a Community Theater. It had an Art Museum too. At least, it claimed to have an art museum, but it was never opened. I tried to see it several times, and each time it was closed. But never mind that.

Kanab also hosted some worthwhile events: a Greyhound Day, for example, when people who owned Greyhounds paraded them around town. I was there for that, and I got to see a lot of lovely beasts, for they were everywhere: all sleek and friendly, bow-tied and obedient. A 10k footrace is another example. I was in town for that event too. In fact, I happened upon it unexpectedly, one morning, as I tried to drive my car into town from behind the water tower. I encountered an impasse, so I drove back to the tower and proceeded by bike. I should have been doing more of that anyway.

Nor was the occasional Greyhound the only four-footed beast of note around those parts, for just outside of town was located the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, where wayward and wounded animals might find a new life, and which I had the pleasure if touring. In fact, I fell in love with a dog, and longed for the day when my lifestyle might include one. They count on people falling in love there, of course—and adopting an animal. That’s why they do the tours.

As I edit these very words, I note that that place is gaining in notoriety. I’m glad.

So Kanab was moving in the right direction, it seemed to me. The scenery, however, was always the same. And that scenery was striking: red rock buttes, that sinewy mountain creek, and a scattering of trees. Those buttes were pretty, but they weren’t my favorite topography, in that southern part of Utah. That’s because there were lots of other red-rock formations further from Kanab, and I liked them even better.

I told you I stayed in Kanab for about half of every week. That was because the river trips left GCE only Thursdays through Sundays- so it only made sense for me to be there Wednesday through Saturdays. Those were the days the boats were loaded and pre-pared. I also implied that Kanab was not exciting enough a place to stay in all week around if you did not have good reason to. I did not, and so I availed myself of the interludes to radiate out to the surrounding attractions.

That is to say, I used Kanab as my hub, and fanned out from there. Sometimes I just went hiking- but not too far away. I’d go up to the Escalante Grand Staircase National Monument, for example, and hike the canyons there. Or I’d go to the slot canyons at ————. But on one especially ambitious hike I went way out on the Navaho Reservation, to the east of the Grand Canyon.

I remember that hike particularly well, because on that trip I got into trouble again. First of all I drove 40 miles across the reservation in search of the trailhead– but I couldn’t find it, and there was no one else around. Fortunately, I finally I found a Navaho Shepard who showed me where it was. It was too late to get started then, so I camped by my car and left the next morning.

Then, while attempting to descend the Salt Creek Trail to the Little Colorado River, I quickly lost the trail. Not to be deterred, though, since I could see the distant river, I tried to just wing it. That means I climbed right down the canyon itself– instead of skirting it, as the trail would have done. That meant a lot of bouldering too– to negotiate the drop-offs along the way. It meant tossing my backpack down first, sometimes, so that I could turn around and get a grip.

After a couple hours of that, I was tired and thirsty– and the river was still miles away. So I realized the futility of my endeavor. And by then- of course- I was already low on water. Hell: if I’d stayed on the trail I would have been down to the river already, where there was plenty of water– so I didn’t think I had to carry too much of it. But I decided that I had to go back out: to retreat. And climbing back up was even more arduous. So by the time I got back to my car, the hour was late, and I was exhausted.

I belabor this because in spite of my travail, I was luckier than another fella’ on another part of the plateau who got in trouble that same day. That now famous young man was Aaron Ralston. You might remember him as the guy in the Canyonlands who got his hand trapped under a boulder and had to cut his own hand off with a pocketknife. Yikes! So I fared better than he did- at least on that day!

I took a number of less eventful side trips as well. One was to Page, Arizona. I remember meeting some young European guys there who were trying to rent a boat. Well three of them revealed that they were from Italy. I’d been to Italy, so I asked what part, and all that jazz. The fourth guy hadn’t said a word, though, so I asked him where he was from. He somewhat sheepishly told me he was from France. I figured the sheepishness was because my country had just invaded Iraq, and a lot of stupid Americans had been roused to a rancor against the French, because they would not support us in our war. I was not so stupid, though, and I wished I had said something by way of apologizing for the crass behavior of some of my countrymen. Shit. It was a lost opportunity. I was quite cordial though, but I could have even overcompensated.

Another spur took me to Taos, to visit my friend Stephen. Yet another sojourn led me back to the Escalante river– to a secret place I won’t reveal. I also drove to Sierra Vista, in southern Arizona, where my only brother Mark and his family lives. So yes, I have another sibling- who had not made my birthday party. Mark had settled in Sierra Vista after being sent there by the navy, a number of years ago. He had flown helicopters for the Navy, and lived in Japan. Later he went to the Naval Post graduate School in Monterey, California. From there he graduated at the top of his class– with a Master’s in Oceanography- so the Navy sent him to the middle of the fuckin’ desert, to work on unmanned aircraft. Go figure. He’s retired from the Navy now– but he and his wife and their two daughters still live down there.

Anyway, he is ten months older than I. My sister Leslie– who you met at the party– is four years older than I. That makes me the youngest.

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Finally, one other trip took me back to Moab, which never stops calling me!

I did two important things in Moab that time. One was that I donated $100 to an organization called “The Living Rivers”. That organization’s avowed purpose was the decommissioning of the Glen Canyon Dam, far downstream. I’m very glad I did that too- while I still had some money! In appreciation of my donation, the founder of that organization, John Weisheit (who was also the husband of my short-term boss Suzette, from Tag-A-Long) furnished me with the name of a woman in Kanab, who was a potential contact for getting hooked up with a river trip!

The other thing I did was to visit Tag-a-Long Expeditions again, and say hello to my old boss, Bob Jones. He remembered me and remembered that I had cleaned out that decrepit patio area when I lived there. And right away, upon seeing me, he asked “Do you need a job?”. I thanked him but declined– though I now wish I had taken it. Then I asked him if there was a chance I might swamp one of his Cataract Canyon trips.

I told you that below the Moab area there is some challenging river. Well Cataract Canyon is the stretch of the Colorado River that starts just below Moab, and ends in Lake Powell. That’s the lake that will be emptied if “The Living River’s” ever gets its way. Anyway he said he’d keep me in mind: that swamping the Cataract for him was a real possibility!

Before I left town I surveyed that patio area that I had cleaned up. The guides had enthusiastically embraced it, I saw, because there was furniture and tents and TV and a refrigerator there. That made me very happy too. It’s nice to leave something that lasts.

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When I got back to Kanab, I looked up the woman Bob Jones had referred me too. Her name was Amanda Gorski. She was 26 years old and quite lovely. She worked at the Willow Creek there, which was a combination Sporting goods/ Bookstore/Espresso Cafe. My kind of place, in other words. A few nights after meeting her I took her out to dinner at the Rocking V. That, you may recall, was the first place I had stopped at when I’d got-ten in to town. The food was very good.

After that I visited her several times at the Willow Creek, but we did not find occasion to go out again. A guy can hope, but at the same time, she was pretty young. In any event, she couldn’t really help me with my quest either. Hell, she wanted those river trips for herself– as did almost everyone else in town, it seemed.

The other young lovely I met in Kanab was Osha Miller. Yes, Osha- and she’d already heard all the wise-cracks about the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. She was twenty, which is young too, obviously, but she seemed more worldly than I expected, for somebody her age. She was a little less flighty than Amanda, too, and I enjoyed her company more. It was also pretty thrilling to have a woman that age wanting to hang out with me. But she did, and over the next several weeks, we went on several hikes together. She even took me home to meet her parents: Eric and Norma Miller. I liked them too- and I think they liked me back. Part of the reason I mention them is that we will meet them again.

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So not only did I know a couple women in Kanab but I had my trio of hangouts- where I would drink my coffee and read my books. One of those was the Chevron Station, as you know, which was mainly my late night place, after everything else had closed. But the other two: Willow Creek, which I mentioned, and the Vermillion Café, where I started my days, were hip enough to reveal that Kanab actually had a pulse: that it was more than just the drab pallor of Mormon fundamentalist oppression that it might seem to the uninitiated– that one might prejudge it to be, I mean, just from knowing that’s it’s a Utah town.

And it wasn’t just a Mormon town, either, as you’ve probably gleaned by now. The churches there represented several denominations. Nor was it exclusively Christian: Willow Creek was owned by a Jew, named Charlie Newman. At least, I think he was a Jew. I hardly knew him at all, but the point is that I was pleasantly surprised to find that there were any Jews there at all.

The Vermillion Café was owned by a man named Harold Brain, who I got to know a little better. I doubt very much that he was a Mormon either– and not just because it was a coffee house. It was because those two coffee houses were the hippest places in town. Some of the literature I found on the tables there might even be called subversive: flyers mockingly critical of the Bush Administration, for example. Such stuff as that surprised the hell out of me. You see, I too had expected to find Kanab to be a den of status quo conservativism. Instead I sensed that there were people of political courage there– people who might even take unpopular stands, and speak their minds! I was very encouraged.

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I met some other denizens of Kanab too. The Fire Inspector, for example. That happened when I was four-wheeling on a dirt road at the edge of town. I’d never had a four-wheel drive, and so I was anxious to try it out. But I quickly hit a dead end, and then backed up too far, too fast, such that one wheel was hanging off the road. Sheesh. I couldn’t get unstuck, so I walked back to town, and hailed the first person I saw. That was Andy Aldrich, working in his garage. He didn’t know me from Adam, nor me him, but without a second thought he dropped what he was doing and came to my assistance. He drove us to my car in his big truck, and quickly pulled me loose with a rope. Very neighborly of him. Thanks again, Andy.

I went to the Library regularly, to check and send e-mails. So soon the Librarians started recognizing me as well. The townspeople were friendly, and I was becoming familiar around Kanab. Or so I thought. And when I noted a piece of land at the edge of town for sale, I even started to wonder if I could live there. I mused about buying it.

Back at GCE, I made a contact that was a stroke of luck. That was Bob Skinner. Bob was one of the River guides for GCE, whom up until that point I had somehow failed to meet. Well it turned out that Bob spent his winters in Park City, and was friends with my former housemate from the winter I lived there. I told you I had spent a winter in Park City– several years before. Life is strange. Well Bob and I got along quite well too, so he became another friend in town- and someone who might even indirectly vouch for me.

That voucher was timely too, because one of the owners of that company was feeling uneasy about my presence, it seems, and soon expressed that fact to Bob. Shit! It was something I had feared. Well the other owner, Marty, had been full of encourage-ment, when I’d met him early on. But this guy, Mike, didn’t seem to care for me at all. And since I hadn’t done anything to warrant such opprobrium, I was baffled by his attitude. But Bob explained to me what the problem was. It seems that in years gone by some other would-be swampers– had been overly intrusive. A couple had even intruded themselves into the guide house, out behind the main building. So Mike was merely being protective of his interests.

That was funny, in a way, because until then I hadn’t even know they had a guide house. But that’s beside the point. I suppose my age and questions about where I was living were on his mind as well. I hoped therefore that Bob would smooth Mike over, and help me move towards my goal.

Bob Skinner did in fact sort of adopt me, and started folding me into the program. Later he even arranged for me to ride down to Lee’s Ferry with him and his crew, to set up and load one of the boats by the riverside there. Yowza! It was an “S-rig”: one of those enormous floating fortresses that careen down that canyon. And setting that S-rig up is no small chore: it took us most of the day- working in the hot sun. But our reward was that that night we got to stay there and sleep on it. The National Park Service allows that, for boaters.

Before we went to sleep, that night, on that gigantic raft, we took the boat out on the river and Bob let me drive it! I was so excited I was like a big kid, then. And I seemed well on my way to realizing my goal.

In the morning Bob and the boat went down the river and I went back to Kanab with another GCE Driver.

But then the momentum waned, suddenly, and Bob had nothing more for me. He did suggest that I come back on a mid-June date, though, when Marty would be working with him there. He said that would be a good opportunity. That was still weeks away, though, so I felt put off. I figured that Mike had put the kibosh on me.

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Finally I got a call from Tag-a-long, and just in time, I suppose. For despair was closing in. Bob Jones had created a spot for me on a Cataract canyon gig— as a swamper— and I was beside myself with excitement. I accepted without pause, and set out without delay. Yes, the Grand Canyon seemed to be slipping from my grasp, but Cataract Canyon was soon to be mine- ha ha ha ha!

There were twenty of us, on the four-day trip. We utilized two boats: J-rigs this time, which are smaller than those behemoths they maneuver down the Grand. Huge boats are not needed there anyway, for the trips are shorter and the rapids smaller– but it is a stunning and memorable excursion nonetheless. And of our two guides one of them was very good. Even though I thought the other one was lacking, I still did what she said.

It was a magnificent trip!: four days of beauty, serenity, excitement and good company! Oh, can I even hope to do justice to the juxtapositions, the colors, the aromas and the ambiance- to the gurglings and ———-, the sand and the spray? I think not. But it was everything I imagined it to be, and more. And through it all- through the hard work and the long days, the fireside conversations and the recreational diversions– the hikes and the swims, the explorations and the ruminations– I confirmed to myself that that was what I was born to do: to be a river guide, I mean. It was glorious!

And not only was I doing it and born to do it, but I was a major factor in its success, I believed. I worked hard, interacted well, and contributed a measure of charm– if I do say so myself. So when my guides received a record take at the end of the trip- when the tips were meted out- I believed I had had a lot to do with that result.

And then it was over. The two guides, by the way, gave me only $50, from their $800 score. Well I hadn’t done it for the money, but under the circumstances, I thought they could have been a little more generous. The next day, I even told them so later. They demurred from offering me more, however, citing the horrible conditions of the year before, and averring that they were only now “making up for it” Blah blah blah! But fuck them. Ironically, I promptly lost the $50 bill too– and isn’t that just perfect?

But I thanked Bob heartily and left town again. Later I sent him a thank you note.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapter 3 & 4

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER THREE

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A writer must choose what to render: how comprehensively, how deeply. Much must be omitted, with the idea that at times a loosely painted canvas might suggest a greater totality of events. That decision about what to omit is the second hardest part— beyond the agonizing striving for the discipline itself. One must be cautious, however, for one does not always know what omissions are in fact important ones, any more than what inclusions might unleash unsuspected perceptions—or even reveal a lie, that the writer himself is unaware of! No, the writer is not— and cannot be— in complete control. Nor should he strive to be, lest he handcuff his own creation. For part of the desired effect of art is to give birth to something that might live: to something that has the potential to assume its own personality; to succeed and transcend the source, so as to continue to unfurl meaning into as yet unborn… milieus.

And so it is with me, here and elsewhere. But I am obviously attempting to proselytize you to a point of view, and so the claims to art are, as I said, diluted. The manacles of self-justification are still upon me, and so biased (knowing that, that is), I concede that this must necessarily fall short of a great work of art. Alas, though, this is not fiction, so you are already wise to those constraints…

Am I saying that I’m omitting something, and setting up my alibi? No, no, no. If anything I am regaling you with far too much, I suspect, partly in hopes that you will see things I have not— which means that it is even more than the want to convince you that leads me to do that. If I aimed for art alone I should be far more liberal with the shears.

I say all this because I want you to know that I know it. And I include some unanswered questions here because I know in my self-justification I might also house some self-deception. There I’ve said it: my truth is in the world.

I also say all that because I am aware of my glut of detail. But know that every excruciating detail of the critical encounter to come is included for a reason. Persevere.

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I did not go back to Kanab after that river trip. Not right away. Instead I rode my high spirits all the way to the Dirty Devil River, also in southern Utah, where I embarked upon a four-day solo backpacking trip. It was Memorial Day weekend, then, and I didn’t want to be around crowds, I suppose. Or maybe I was just too excited to allow myself to go get disappointed in Kanab again.

At first I tried to drive directly to the river via a 16-mile long dirt road. It was a beautiful drive too, but at the nine-mile point where I got out of my car to build a little bridge so I could ford a stream, I noticed that I had a half-deflated tire. And since I didn’t have a spare, for some unfathomable reason, I quickly turned around and got out of there.

I managed to get my tire patched, but by then it was getting late. So I decided to go to the river again by a different route. From there I would hike to my original destina-tion, along the river itself. That would take days.

So I loaded up my backpack, and drove to the trailhead, near Hanksville. I set off from there late on Friday afternoon, and arrived at the riverbank at dusk.

When I arrived at the riverbank, I joyfully stripped off my clothes and plunged in to the river. I found a place deep enough to lie in, and rolled around in it. There I drank in the red rock surroundings, and—- reveling in the solitude and beauty and grandeur— I cackled maniacally. I believed that I had arrived at a place that resonated with the deepest parts of my psyche.

Then, as the light faded, I set up camp, cooked my dinner, and faded off to sleep.

In the morning I heard the distant clatter of some boys descending by the trail I had come down. Not wanting to be in lockstep with anybody, I hurriedly packed, and started off down the river. They did not catch up to me, though, and I didn’t see them again. Nor did I see any other soul— for almost three full days!

Ah: those three days were like none other. I’d backpacked alone several times before— including a ten day solo stint on the John Muir trail— but I don’t recall ever having gone so long without seeing another person. Well, I did see a low flying biplane, but I couldn’t make out the pilot. Nor had I ever made a lengthy trek in which the best route was down the middle of the river. There were so many brambles and steep walls on the riverbanks that that was the surest way to go: the safest, and the easiest. Oh, occasionally I’d cut across the talus and the banks— to get from one meander to the next— but for the most part I was shin deep in the drink: poised between those gorgeous canyon walls, and with a vantage that made my whole being resonate with primordial vibrancy.

By the second day I felt that I had achieved something special— a sort of commutation with nature. That state was first revealed to me when I took a break on the riverbank, and espied a snake, resting at the same spot I sought for myself. Not wishing to frighten him away, I asked politely if I could share his spot— and he did not slither off, as snakes are wont to. So I ate lunch there, beside him, and then swam in the river again. Only as I was leaving did he at last do the same.

Later, as I stepped into the river— after another respite upon the shore— a frog jumped into the river beside me, and kept pace with me— swimming along beside me, keeping perfect pace, for a spell.

And on the third day, when I feared I had entirely missed the egress point, and started to feel panic, two birds came by— cawing and swooping— and thus heroically showed me the way out. And I— well I felt tuned in then, to some great transcendent dynamic. I felt blessed.

Finally I arrived at the place where the dirt road crosses the river. That had been my original destination, before I got the flat. From there I planned to hike back to the highway along that access road. But I would do that the next day— unless, of course, someone came along with a car or jeep and offered me a ride!

Well lo and behold a man and a woman came down that road in a jeep. They weren’t going back up that way though, so that hope was dashed. They did present me with a cold can of coke, though. I think it was the most delicious beverage I’ve ever had.

The next day was mostly drudgery— because that sixteen miles was largely across open desert. That made for inhospitable driving, for the most part, so I feared  I would end up walking the whole thing. But even passenger cars obviously went down there, I concluded when I discovered a lone hubcap… which I then quickly recognized as one of my own. Yes, I had lost it when I’d turned around at that very point. I carried it out with me. I finally made it out to the highway, where a Ranger drove me into town. From there I hitched a ride back to my car with a geology student from South Dakota.

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I emerged from that experience ready to move on. The Grand Canyon experience was not panning out, and soon it would be getting very hot all over the plateau. What was more, I’d just enjoyed seven days of bliss, and having so relished that, I decided that I could set aside the other goal for the year, with no loss of face. I could resume the quest the following spring, when I could approach it afresh. And finally— and perhaps most importantly— I was feeling lonely too. I felt disconnected. I wanted to be somewhere I could stay awhile, and see an old friend.

Besides, that date Bob had proposed for working with Mitch at GCE was still two weeks away, and that seemed like a very long time. I had no guarantee anyway, so it was best to cut my losses: to take care of myself, and get back into sync. Therefore I decided to leave for Jackson Hole, earlier than I had planned to. So I swung back into Kanab, via Marble Canyon— just to say farewell.

I saw Bob one more time, before I left. Well strangely, for some reason, this time he advised me to go back down to Fredonia to visit another river rafting outfit called Colorado River and Trails. That was a lesser-known rafting company that I had heretofore ignored. In fact, I’m not even sure I’d been aware of their existence to have ignored them. But figuring I had nothing to lose, I did what he advised. There I met a “Mary”, who was one of their river guides. She had nothing to offer me either, but she took my name and number, and said she’d post it on the bulletin board. That being done, I finally left the area for good, and drove myself to Wyoming.

There I surprised my prospective-housemate and old high school friend Keith by showing up unexpectedly. I could tell that he was inconvenienced by my timing, but he accommodated me anyway. Then he told me that he wasn’t sure he’d be ready to have a house mate until the middle of September. That disappointed me, since we had talked about June when the idea first came up, but since I had not adequately communicated with him during the intervening months, I blamed myself for the snafu. It meant that there was already trouble in paradise. My poorly pro-activated plans were not going as I had hoped, and I was already uncertain as to whether I should even stay in Jackson, or move on to somewhere else. It seems that I was not committed to any course of action any more.

I even called the Chuck Richards operation in California, where I’d taken that white water class seven years before. There I reached his secretary, said I might be coming through, and asked if I might find work. She said maybe, and we left it at that. I was utterly confused by then, about just what I should do.

Then, on the morning of my third day in Jackson, I got a call on my cell phone. The caller introduced himself as Dave McKay— the Owner of Colorado River and Trails. He wanted to know if I was still interested and available for swamping. I almost came out of my skin, as I told him that I was. He continued “So if I needed you this weekend, you would be available?” I told him I would be. But I did not tell him that I was in Wyoming, so he probably thought I was still somewhere near Kanab. Then he said that he wanted me to come in on Thursday, to meet a guide named John Toner. I pledged that I would.

I hung up feeling excited. I even embraced a sort of zen interpretation then, which held that by giving up the dream I had cleared the way for it to happen. I realize that that’s a metaphysical way of thinking not everyone understands. And I wanted so much to believe this opportunity was finally presenting itself that I revised my plan again. I would leave in the morning.

I didn’t even see Keith again, to tell him I was leaving. That’s because he worked irregular hours, at the Hospital, as a Nurse, and our schedules didn’t line up. So the next morning, while he was still asleep, I left him a note and got into my car.

It was Wednesday the 4th of June already, so I would have to hurry.

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On the morning of the 5^th I pulled into the lot at Colorado River and Trails— henceforth known as CRT, in keeping with my abbreviation schema. There I proceeded to identify myself to John Toner, from whom I received a hearty welcome. But he did not have anything for me. That’s right: John Toner had no need for me. He had merely wanted to meet me. I had driven nine hours for a false alarm, because I hadn’t divulged enough about where I was— and because I hadn’t asked enough important questions. I felt very foolish.

Then John suggested I come back again on Sunday, to meet yet another guide, named Walker. So once again, though my impulse was to get the hell out of that area, I decided to stay for two more days— and to meet with one more guide.

I called Osha, to tell her I was in town, but she was entertaining another friend from out-of-town already, and couldn’t get away on such short notice. So I spent another lonely day in Kanab, reading in the gas station. After dark I drove out to my usual place, and slept down by the river.

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I woke up early, feeling cold. It was earlier than I remembered being up the whole time I’d been around that town. I am not an early riser. But I pulled my long pants on and got out of bed. Then I loaded my things into the back of my car, and headed into town.

The route to town took me past GCE, so I pulled in to see if anyone was there. But no one was there- it was too early yet. Then I went to the Vermillion Cafe, but it was not open yet either. It would open at 7, I knew, and that was not far off, But with nothing else to do, I went to the gas station for my first cup of coffee. It was horrible, though: full of grounds, and as strong as tar. I emptied most of it out. Then- instead of going to the Vermillion- I went and ate breakfast, in a nearby restaurant. The waitress there was young and beautiful, and reminded me of a woman I’d let get away once, years before— without really having tried very hard to get her. After that I went back to the GCE.

This time the doors were open, so I went inside. Mike was there, and I approached him, to see if I could help. I do not remember at all what was said, but I do remember the way he steeled his jaw at me, and the curt way in which he spoke. I have an impression-istic memory: I often remember senses and perceptions more than actual words. And my sense was that I was being devalued then— as though I were being regarded as a pest. It seemed like he was tired of me, and just wanted me to just go away.

I retreated to the Vermillion, to lick my wounds and write some poems. I had kept journals for over twenty years, then, but writing poetry was a new endeavor. I had to be in the right mood for poetry— it was a form I used when nothing else would do. Journal-ling, on the other hand, was easy. In fact, keeping journals had kept me sane, I think, during difficult times in my life. No matter what had happened, I’d always been able to “work out my feelings there”, as they say, and to make myself feel okay again.

But in those twenty years of journaling I’d never written what I wrote that morning. Sitting there, on a stool by the window, I wrote this brief lament: “What if I just killed myself? Maybe some people would rethink the way they’d treated me.”

It is not yet time to analyze the narcissism inherent in this sentiment. But I am quite aware of it.

From there I went to the Library. It was only 9:00— so not only was it earlier than I’d ever been in there, but still even earlier than I usually got up. Oddly, I parked in front of the Library too, instead of on the side— which was what I’d always done before. So my routine was all out of whack. I had the Computer Room all to myself, though, for a change, and there, after checking my e-mails, and not knowing what else to do with myself, I played some on-line solitaire. I had never done that in there either.

Suddenly I became aware of a presence, hovering over me. I looked up, and lo and behold, there was a lovely young woman standing very near. She looked to be about 18 years old. She was cute. She wore blue jeans and a pull over shirt that left her belly button exposed. I smiled. Well she smiled too, then quickly touched my knee, said hi, and sat down at the computer to my left. I reached over and touched her knee, too, returning the hello— and we began to talk. She was a bubbly and effervescent mass of energy, I could sense at once, and I felt infused with a joy of life again, just for being in her presence. That was just a feeling, though: an aura. But it was a timely aura too: it was as if God himself had sent her to comfort me that day: that God had taken pity on me, in my bereft and forlorn state.

Don’t put too much stock in that expression though. I do not mean to sound psy-chotic. I only mean that it felt metaphysical: like an extension of my connection with life.

I do not know what we talked about: But I know that after a minute, I noticed she spoke haltingly. It was nothing serious, but it suggested some sort of impairment there. Yet nothing she did outwardly promoted that impression. She looked normal. She was using a computer too, with apparent proficiency, and conversing in a normal way. So I suspected she had a neurological condition. That would explain the halter in her voice.

She told that her name was Corissa. And she told me she’d been “born and bred in Kanab”, but now lived in Cedar City. That city was about 50 miles up the road from Ka-nab. I knew that because I’d driven through it several times.

She had a boyfriend named Dayne, I learned. When she said that to me, though, I pictured the word as “Dane”. I think like that: visually, I mean. But when I glanced at her computer screen, as she was logging in. I saw that her user name was “Dayne_Corissa”, so I learned how to spell both their names in one fell swoop. I wondered for a moment if she had a spelling problem too, but I quickly dismissed that, because on a computer one would think a regular user could spell these things correctly.

But I was relatively new to computers then, and hadn’t seen that particular usage before: the low line between their names, I mean. So I said “I see you use a dash in your log-in name”. Well she scoffed at that, and mildly rebuked me. “It’s an underscore”, she said, her voice full of mockery. My ignorance exposed, I felt momentarily embarrassed.

Quickly recovering, I asked her where her boyfriend lived. But I did not hear her answer. That’s because she was sitting on my left side then, and so talking to my deaf ear. So I did not hear her answer. I told you I’m deaf in my left ear, right? Anyway, what I thought I understood her to say was something with the word “Fort” in it. So I asked if he was in the service.

“Nooo”, she replied, a bit perplexed.

Then, without warning, and with no encouragement from me, she rose and stood behind me, and started massaging my shoulders. While she did that, she asked me “Has a woman ever done that for you before?”. I was stunned by how forward she was being, but I enjoyed it nonetheless, and didn’t ask her to stop.

After that, only fragments of that conversation remain. But I remember some of the things she told me. Like that she had come down to Kanab with her mother, and that she was going to meet her mother again at 11:30. And that her mother was in town to work that day. I assumed that was not usual, though, for I wondered why someone would drive all that way just to do a couple hours worth of work. And I wondered why Corissa had come to town with her. Perhaps they were going to do some activity there together, after her mother finished work, I posited. Yes. But I thought of many things that day— and most of them were wrong.

I wondered if perhaps Corissa had driven them down there: that perhaps her mother does not drive. But then Corissa told me that her step-father had come along too, so I doubted that was the case. The disclosure did support my picture, however: that that a family outing was indeed afoot. So I asked why he had come too. “My mother lost her license”, she said. Aha! But that didn’t help very much, because if that was the reason, then Corissa could have driven- and the stepfather would not have been necessary. So I deduced that Corissa could not drive either. Perhaps her neurological condition precluded that allowance.

I also remember that she asked “So you like biking and hiking and hunting and fishing?”, or something close to that. Recalling that, I figure I’d been telling her about my travels. And I said yes, to her question, though that wasn’t strictly true. For I do not fish and never hunted- but I did not lie, for it was the gist of her question I was responding to.

After that, though, the only thing I remember saying to her was “We could go to the water towers”. But the inflection was important there, for as I listen to it again, in my mind’s ear, I hear it as an answer—to the question of where we two might go.

I do not, however, recall having offered an initial invitation.

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I finished my game of solitaire, and then got up to leave. “Are you ready?” I asked, but she had become absorbed in something else, by then, and only shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps she had changed her mind. I didn’t care very much, though: I was tired, and I was not one to beat my head against the wall. No: I suppose I was a little disappointed too. But I didn’t argue with her. I just left the room without her, and walked to the front desk, to sign out, before I left. But she had followed me, I saw, because as I was signing out, the librarian said “So how’s it going in there?”, and she was not speaking to me. I looked up, and Corissa was standing nearby too. Aha! So she was coming with me after all: she’d just been playing coy, perhaps.

But her response was “Fine— except that my computer hates me”.

I chuckled when I heard that, for in its irony I thought it sounded like something I might say myself. And since she did not look at me, as she answered the librarian, I thought that I was wrong again. Corissa was not coming with me. She would accompany the Librarian back into the Computer Room, and together they would fix whatever her problem with the computer was.

I left the Library then. Out front of there I lingered for just a minute, because I was faced with yet another day of drudgery, and didn’t know what to do. Fortunately the day had warmed up by then, so I was overdressed. I was still wearing those long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, and they would have to go. But then what? I remember how powerfully I just wanted to just get in my car and drive away again— to rectify my mistake, of having come all the way back down there. To go and find someplace to live. Perhaps I’d go back to Jackson. Or perhaps I’d go to the Kern… I didn’t know, but I was lost, and wished I’d never come.

Then I remembered that appointment to meet Walker, at CR&T on Sunday. Fuck! But after all, I’d come this far, and two more days wouldn’t kill me. So I would stay in Kanab and see Walker on Sunday. Meanwhile, I would drive up behind the water tower, and take a little nap. I proceeded to my car.

But lo and behold, Corissa came bursting out the Library doors, and ran to catch up with me. I hadn’t even looked back into the library, so I did not know where she was. I was pleasantly surprised. And I figured I was wrong again: she did want to come with me after all. I looked at her and she at me. I smiled and she smiled. Then she blurted urgently “Can I drive your car?”. I stared at her a moment, not knowing what to think. It was strange that she should ask me that, though. So I decided I’d been right: that she could not get a driver’s license: that whatever her disability was precluded that privilege. Yet whatever that was seemed quite minor to me, so I found myself confused. Could it be that she was given to convulsions, for example?

“Can you drive?”, I asked, and she told me that she could. And I believed her. I believed that she could operate a motor vehicle, that is— though I suspected that she could not drive competently on the highway. She probably hadn’t been permitted to drive on the highway, I mean. But hell: for her growing up in rural Utah, I’d have been surprised if she could not at least operate a car. I wanted to spend time with her. And I thought letting Corissa drive my car would be fun. I had visions of laughter and of joy. And I thought of the big dirt flats out by the baseball field.

Those dirt flats were behind the library, near the water tower where I’d slept those several nights– and where I’d planned to take my nap. And behind that dirt area were the bluffs of the City Park- one of the places where Osha and I hiked. The upper water towers were there too— but on a tier high above that lower tower. And all of those features— towers, park, and dirt expanse— are only a few hundred yards from the Library itself.

The whole complex of features is accessible by a road, of course, but the first couple hundred yards of that were paved, so I decided to drive that part myself. But once we got to the dirt area, I figured that letting Corissa drive would be okay. So I opened the passenger door for her, and moved a couple items off the seat, before she scrambled on in

I thought of something else too then— and of paramount importance. For as I walked around my car then, I remember pausing to ask myself whether this was all right. Then I answered my own question, by saying yes, this is all right. But what was I even asking about, to ask if it was all right? The driving? Yes, I think I meant the driving. Letting her drive, without a license. That seems like the likeliest conclusion— but since then my mind has been through far too many paces. So I’ve wondered if I might have been asking myself something else.

Strangely, I do not remember driving off with her. Nor do I remember rounding the lower water tower, and conducting us to my old sleeping spot. It haunts me that I do not remember those things. The first thing I do remember was that we were sitting in my parked car— behind that water tower. And that we kissed, and that she reached over and grabbed my penis through my pants. It was as quickly as that. In fact, I’m not even positive which of those things happened first— but I think it was the kissing. We kissed again, too, but then I stopped, because she hollered “Not the tongue”. That was a little startling in its abruptness. But then I reached for her vagina, just as she had reached for me. But I stopped that too, because she hollered “Not the pussy”. I felt perplexed again. She was in control and she seemed to have control issues too.

I am certain I did not initiate these things. Yes, I’m certain. Yet there we were, in a secluded place— engaging in foreplay. Ha! Hadn’t we initially set out to take a hike? Hadn’t we added letting her drive my car as well? Or had sex been our plan all along— and the hike but a cover? I have difficulty persuading myself that that was not the case. But I am certain I’d been earnest about letting her drive my car— even though I never actually told that she could.

I reached behind her back, and disconnected her bra. Then she gently pushed away my hand, so I ceased that endeavor too. She re-fastened her bra, then she nimbly crawled onto my lap, across the parking brake and console. She was small, and she was lithe, and to all appearances she was eager. We kissed again, but this time without the tongue. I looked into her eyes, then, and I saw that they were lovely. They were shimmer-ing golden-yellow orbs. Or were they yellowish- green? I’m afraid that I’m no longer certain. But they danced with life- of that I’m sure. They shone intelligence and vitality.

She un-fastened her bra, which startled me. Then one thing led to another. I am not being discrete, though, to couch that in those terms, because it is simply the best that I can do. I’m not sure of every detail. But I know she was experienced— and in control. And I know that she told me pull down my pants. And I know that I asked her if she’d like to get into the back of the car. Yes, I’m sure that that it was I, who suggested that.

So we got out and went to the back of the car— where I lifted up the hatch and unpacked some of the usual stuff. I needed to make room for us, back there.

Again she told me to take off my pants, and I quickly obeyed. As I did that, she busied herself by taking off one shoe, and one pant leg— then I helped her with the others. The outcome seemed certain, then: I was quite aroused, and she was anxious too.

The next thing I did I’m very glad I did. I unzipped the side pocket of my shaving kit, where I kept my sole condom. It had been there a long time, and I should have had a question about it. But I had not yet produced it, and God help me, I say in retrospect, for there were forces afoot. I mean that perhaps that brief delay saved me from the worst! Because before I could don that the nubile young thing, who had gotten on to her hands and knees, glanced back, and asked “Are you going to try to make a baby with me?”

A ripple passed through me. The utterance stunned me, and it also confused me, for it did not seem a normal thing to say by someone who was fully…engaged. It did not strike me as the utterance of someone who was sufficiently attuned to the implications of the act, I mean: the act she seemed to be so eagerly inviting, that is. And I couldn’t under-stand the disparity between her actions and her “grasp”. Yes— that’s what I mean to say.

That is what I recalled having felt, I mean, when I thought about it later. And trust me when I tell you I have thought about this many times. In describing it I have said that I felt “horrified”— but at that moment, I think that I was really more confused. It was like I was in sort of trance, then: aroused and enticed, and in the throes of a strange imbuance. I felt hypnotized.

I sat down beside her then, on the tail of my car. That new development just did not congrue— not with the apparent experience, the aggression, and the glee. And I was losing my erection anyway. It was like something inside me knew more quickly than my addled mind could judge. Without saying a word, I reached back to get my pants.

That was the right thing to do— and I congratulate myself— but it was also a mistake. Because as I did that she again turned over, and once again oh-so-nimbly sidled onto my lap. It happened in a flash. I quickly grabbed her near butt-cheek with my right hand, and her far leg with my left. But it was too late: her vagina grazed against my penis, and I ejaculated onto myself. It was all over in an instant. A premature fucking ejaculation— ha ha- thank God.

And as I sat there, with cum all over my stomach, she surveyed it all with wonder. I could see in her eyes that she had never seen such a thing before. She seemed fascinated by it. And she seemed puzzled.

A moment of silence elapsed. Then I said “That’s it”. I meant that we were done. Obediently she got off me, as I reached for some nearby napkins, that I had in my car.

I cleaned myself up with the napkins. But as I finished cleaning up, she took a napkin from my hand. I readily let her take it too. Then she dabbed her vagina with it. As she did that it was I who was perplexed, because I didn’t understand why she’d done that. Surely none of the cum had gotten on her.

Then she looked over at me and said “Now if we could only do that two or three more times”. At that my bewilderment grew deeper. I wondered where she had even gotten such a way of talking— and when else she might have used it— without seeming to understand. It was as if she were just repeating something she had heard then: something she’d heard someone say that in a movie, perhaps.

But all I said to that was “I’m 45 years old”. I meant that that couldn’t happen even if I had wanted it to. But I doubt she understood that.

Not another word was said about the act.

************************************************************

We got up and started to get dressed. I changed into my shorts then. And I shed my outer shirt. But as we got dressed I asked her several questions. I wanted to understand. And from our ensuing conversation I do remember several things- though the sequence is unclear:

I remember throwing the wadded napkins into bushes beside the car. I do not like to litter. But the area around the tower was conspicuous for litter. But was that the whole reason? Or was it that I wanted no evidence of that event inside my car? Yes, that explanation satisfies me better. But would I ever want a cum cloth in my car?

I remember seeing that Corissa had a big scar upon her belly. It was shaped like a crater, just a few inches above her navel. I asked her how it happened. And without self-consciousness, she told me she’d had eight operations. She’d had six operations on her stomach, she told me, and one upon her brain. I forget where she’d said the other was one, though. But when I heard that, I thought “Aha: maybe she has had an accident.” After all I’d seen and heard, it was the only explanation that seemed to make any sense. So my guess was that she’d had an accident, but late in her young life. That explained why her abilities and intelligences had developed normally. Something like that. But that didn’t explain why sexually she seemed so…I don’t know. Uncomprehending. Imitative.

It was eerie and disturbing. And at that moment I felt like I was in two minds. Yes, I think that that’s exactly right: that I was amidst two different Corissa’s then.

While I was putting my things back into the rear of the car, Corissa returned to the passenger’s seat, where she produced my cell phone. After examining it there, she got out of the car, and approached me with it. “Can I change your message?” she asked. As I said, I was in a hazy state. But the very fact that she was asking the question supported a conclusion that had been gelling: that Corissa was anxious to show off what she knew: that she wanted to make sure people didn’t presuppose some pervasive stupidity in her, or something of the sort. It’s because she talks that way, I mean— and because something else might be wrong with her as well. I think I was gleaning some deeper strata of dysfunction there. I guessed that too many other people assume a limited range of ability for her, and treat her accordingly. Too many people treat her like a child, that is— and that she resents the treatment. And that she goes around preempting them betrays the very perception…

But I had not treated her like that, and had not seen a reason to. That was why she liked me, I think! I don’t shout at blind people either.

I walked up to meet Corissa then, where she was standing with my phone. And I considered her request for a moment too. But my answer was no, and I told her why. It was that I had a professional message on the phone— in case I get the river call. Besides, I was not sure how easy it would be to change it back, once she had messed with it. I didn’t tell her that part, though. I would have to get the manual out, in order to do that, and it seemed like too much hassle. So I stretched out my hand, and Corissa laid the phone in it.

Well no sooner had I taken possession of the phone, than she asked again if she could drive my car. I still wanted to let her do that, too. But I was no longer sure that I should let her drive. Meanwhile, perhaps sensing my hesitation, she leapt into the car— on the passenger side still- and tried to turn on the ignition. And I leapt too— into the passenger seat beside her— and grabbed for the same key. It was still in the ignition, where I had left it. The car was in gear, though, so I was afraid that it might lunge— should she succeed in starting in. But in that frenzy she abandoned the idea, and let go of the key. I removed it from the ignition.

And strangely— through all of that— though we were both in that passenger compartment- I did not contact her body. Well perhaps our hands touched the key at the same time, but our bodies did not meet. It’s because she was so small. I am telling you this for a reason too. It will matter later.

Then, once again she asked if she could drive my car, and once again I considered it. I must have really been delighted by her company, that I had not utterly abandoned the idea. But strangely, only then did it occur to me that she might not know how to drive a clutch. It must have been the fear of the car lunging that molded that new wrinkle. So I asked her if she could drive a clutch, and she said “No”, then quickly uttered “Yes”. (Or was it “Yes”, then “No”? I am no longer sure. But either way, I came to the conclusion that she couldn’t drive a clutch.) So my answer was no.

I do not know whether I debated if I should drive her back to the library then, but if I had, I must have decided that it was necessary. But the bizarre turn our outing had taken had rendered me confused. I wanted to know more about that— to understand.

I approached the matter obliquely. First I asked her if she had brothers and sisters, and she said that she had five. She told me their names too. But from that recitation, I only remember the names Vanessa and John. Completing the litany, she recanted, and said “No- six”. She’d realized she’d forgotten somebody, so added the name “Tricia”. Then I asked why she’d forgotten Tricia— but I don’t know what her answer was. In forgetting someone important like that, though, there was a hint of something deeper.

Next I asked about her parents. She mentioned her mother, as she’d done once before, when she revealed that she had come down from Cedar City for the day, so she could do some work. But now she added her stepfathers name to this tale: his name was George, and he was the man who’d come with them to drive the car. Then she told me they’d all be coming back the next day.

I asked about her real father. I wanted to know whether he was still in the picture. She told me that his name was Leon. Then she blurted something I will never forget: “He RAPED me, she hollered: “My father RAPED me!” Her words were startling and distur-bing, and made even more so because of the quality of her voice. It was a girl’s voice then, and in that little voice it was a primal outrage that I heard: it was the sound of some pathos from the marrow of her being. It was still her voice, but it resonated with the din of days long gone by. It was haunting— and I felt queasy in my stomach.

But in that revelation, I thought I’d gotten insight into the riddle I was trying to decipher: That her father had so abused her before she even had a knowledge of what sex was- and that the experience had turned her little mind inside out. I did not believe that that explained her halting presentation, though, but it did explain the confusion— the immaturity, that is, of her… sexual persona. (Yes, that’s it: and I think that’s well said: though I wouldn’t have used terms like “sexual persona” then!) But I also assumed, as I said- and gleaning from her cry— that the rape had happened a long time ago, and that the circumstances were well known by this time. I meant I assumed the problem had been recognized, and dealt with— in the legal arena— and by those who tend to such events.

I remember hypothesizing then that Corissa was the eldest girl in her family— and that that was why her father had so transgressed with her: that perhaps she had come of age, and that he had been….I don’t know… a predator in waiting. But that confused me too, because I’d inferred from the outrage in that pre-pubescent shout that it had been even longer ago than that— longer ago than whenever she came of age, that is. The voice I’d heard had been one of a girl.

It didn’t occur to me that he had picked on her because she was most vulnerable.

In the throes of that hypothesis, I asked about her siblings ages. What I remember from that recitation is that Vanessa would have been 23, if she hadn’t been killed in an automobile accident. Hearing that, I thought two things at once. One was that her family has been through a lot. I meant divorce, sexual abuse, alcoholism, and a dead daughter too. So I felt sorry for them. The other thing was that I was wrong in postulating that Corissa was the oldest girl, because she was still far from 23.

It was by remembering that thought later that I was able to reassure myself that she’d told me about the rape first— before she’d recited the ages of her siblings. Memory is a funny thing— and I needed all the touchstones I could get.

But as she scrolled through the ages of her siblings, I also noted that she had not included herself. So I got nervous, then, and asked, “And how old are you?”.

“Fifteen”, she replied.

My stomach heaved, as that news sunk in. God almighty. I’d been blindsided. My eyes grew large, and my psyche felt assaulted. I inhaled heavily, then exhaled the same way. “Thank God”, I thought. I was thinking of what might have happened, more than of what had happened. What had happened had been bad enough. But what if we had actually had intercourse, as well? I had been saved by a sort of bell. No, not a chiming one, but a little human one: asking that strange and incongruous question— about the making of a baby!

Another thought that occurred to me almost simultaneously was that for a 15-year old a lot of her behavior was really precocious. So learning that she was so young was at once amazing and disturbing.

While my head spun I considered that I should take her right back to the library— but again I was not sure that was necessary. For even at fifteen, why couldn’t she be with me? Accompany me, I mean: go on a hike. We had not had intercourse. Nor was there any reason for either of us to tell anyone what had happened. What would have been achieved by rushing Corissa back?

*************************************************************

Besides, I wanted to understand what had happened to Corissa: why she was the way she was. So I continued the conversation.

“When did this happen?”, I asked, to garner more information.

“Right after we moved to Kanab”.

That added to my confusion, because she’d previously said that though she’d grown up in Kanab, she now lived in Cedar City. She’d said some inconsistent things.

“And have you been with anybody else?”, I asked, cautiously. I meant beside her boyfriend Dayne, but I did not specify that. I was postulating a history of that sort of behavior. After sexual abuse, I knew that often happens. Plus it seemed incredible that she would have suddenly picked me out like that without having done that before.

“No, she said. Then she said “Just one other person”. I didn’t believe that either— the “just one other” part, I mean. I was certain then that she’d become promiscuous, as a result of her history. Besides, surely she was having an ongoing sexual relationship with Dayne, I thought. Despite the new revelation about her age, I still believed he was eighteen or nineteen—- the age I had deduced he was when I had asked if he was in the service. That idea lingered, I mean. But I asked her anyway, just to be sure.

“And how old is Dayne?”

“Fourteen”, she said.

God help me. I’d no idea. Oh god— what had I gotten into? The aggressive young woman cum precocious teen had, before my eyes, just become a vulnerable child. Hearing that Dayne was just 14 was the hardest thing to reconcile. Until then everything had more or less cohered. But that information located Corissa in another realm. She was young, she was handicapped, she was acting out her trauma. And I was in the midst of something that had come out of left field. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had had enough. It was time to take Corissa back to the library.

Fumbling for my key— which I’d put in my pocket, I addressed my next question:

“Where were your siblings when all of this was happening?”

“They weren’t there”, is the only thing she said.

And then fear found me, engulfed me, rolled through me— like an envelope of fog. The unmis- takable conclusion seized me, and commandeered my brain:

“My God, I thought— nobody knows about this. I am the only person she has told!”

I felt possessed. And I felt ordained. For some reason she had finally confided this to another human being— and that person was me. For some reason, I was the chosen repository of her revelation— though I did not know why. Maybe it was because I precisely was a stranger. But for whatever reason, something important was going on, and I had to do the right thing. I couldn’t just walk away from it anymore. I had to garner more information, and figure out whom to tell about this family rape.

But how could I be sure what was true? She’d already told me several lies, I remembered. But I did not doubt that she’d been raped— nor that she’d been raped by Leon. Her cry had told me the truth— and I do not think you can fake that quality of voice.

I needed to know whether I’d gotten the relationships right. What if, for example, it would be Leon— and not George— who would show up at the library later, to pick Corissa up. And how would Corissa’s mother respond to the disclosure— when I showed up to tell her about it. You see, it was not just the fear that she’d wonder who the hell I was, and what I was doing with her daughter— but there was also the chance that her mother would not believe my revelations— or would pretend not to believe them, anyway.

I considered returning the next morning— at 9:30 again— when Corissa would be dropped off: to meet her mother then, and to make my presentation. But that idea created other problems: such as how it would appear for me to be showing up like that. I might look like a predator. Of even more concern, though, was that perhaps Corissa wouldn’t be there. Maybe she lied. Maybe they wouldn’t come back, I mean! Then what would I do?

Then, as my head was spinning, weighing, assessing, and swirling with scenarios, another bomb issued forth from sweet Corissa’s mouth.

“I love you”, she said.

Oh God. Please don’t. But it was too late. I was moved, and touched— and anguished and stunned.

“You’re scaring me”, I said to her. But at that she laughed. “Why am I scaring you?”, she asked, evidently pleased with her own power. I don’t know what I said then, because what I remember most powerfully was feeling enormously relief. By laughing she seemed far less delicate than I was starting to think.

But she seemed vulnerable, too. Her feelings had been laid out on a plank for me, and I had to be careful. I didn’t want to hurt her. So my course of action was settled by that final blurt. I would spend a little more time with her— to pick her little brain; to ferret out the truth about this rape; and to let her down with grace. It was paramount to not abandon her after her heart-wrenching declaration. And I would deliver her to her mother, at 11:30, when they had planned to meet again.

Maybe none of that would even be necessary. Maybe Corissa would have told me that everybody already knew about the rape; that she didn’t really love me; that she want-ed to walk back to the Library, or that she wanted to go off hiking— but without me— I did not know. I am certain, however, that if she had expressed a desire to go off hiking up there without me- even then— that I would not have felt concerned. I mean I wouldn’t have questioned her capability to do that quite on her own. Remembering that helps me too— to reassure myself that I still did not believe her to be…incompetent, even then.

But about the rape thing, I needed to be sure.

“Let’s go on that hike now”, I proposed.

“Okay”, she replied. She seemed enthusiastic.

**********************************************************

I locked the car, and we set off on foot. Our destination was the water towers. All I brought was my car key. I was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes without socks (?).Corissa was dressed exactly as she’d been when I first saw her.

The first pitch of the trail started right behind the car, so we were upon it within seconds. It was only about 100 feet long too, so I bounded up that part. In retrospect, I think it’s very interesting that I did that. Bounding suggested joy and glee, you see— and it seems to me that at that point I believed myself on a mission. So I think that despite the swirling drama and confusion that there was still some feeling of pure glee about being with Corissa- or I would not have bounded up that hill like that. That tells me that a dour atmosphere had not enveloped us then— for if it had, I would not have been so exuberant.

But I only bounded part way up he hill. I stopped when I heard Corissa shriek.

At that I stopped and turned around. She was still standing right where we had started our ascent, and she was reeling, as though unsteady on her feet. That surprised me too. I wondered if that was yet another aspect of her condition: that climbing was a challenge for her, I mean. Then I considered that she was really putting on an act.

So I descended, and offered her my hand. She took my hand, smiled, and lit up with delight. It was a very sweet moment, actually. Oh, I did not mean to perpetuate an illusion, though. Not exactly, I mean. But I did feel an acute responsibility, then, and letting her think I was her boyfriend until I coaxed the facts out of her did not seem very heinous to me. It’s not like I told her I loved her too.

So hand in hand, we walked up that first pitch.

As we neared the top, though, Corissa noticed something down below, and said “It’s the cops!” Terrific, I thought, but not yet thinking there was be a real problem. I figured he just wanted to make sure there wasn’t any hanky panky going on.

“Oh— he’s motioning us to come down”, she said. I hadn’t even turned around yet, but I did then, just as Corissa started to descend.

“Don’t tell anybody”, she pled, as she began to run towards his car.

“Okay— I won’t tell anyone”, I casually agreed.

The Police Officer had parked his car behind mine and was standing by his vehicle. I walked down the hill and arrived at the Officer’s side only moments after Corissa did. He was tall and 40ish: a City Cop too, I saw— rather than a Sheriff. And as we all gathered there Corissa studied him anew and then furrowed her brow. “Mark?”, she asked, in seeming recognition. Then “MARK!” she blurted again, in joyful confirmation. Next she sidled over to him and hugged him, but I’m not sure whether he hugged her back. That’s because he was turning his attention to me.

“And who are you?”, he asked.

I stuck out my hand, and he his, and while we shook hands, I introduced myself. “Royce Burton”, I said.

“And do you know the young lady’s mother?”, he asked. But before I could answer, Corissa interrupted, saying “Oh it’s all right— he’s my friend”. And as she did that, she carved out an arc of air with her hand, as though symbolically slicing away his misperception. I retain a crisp memory of that event.

But the Officer shushed her, and signaled for her to remain at bay. He waited for my answer.

“No”, I said, and before I could add anything to that, he said “That’s the wrong answer”. At that he reached his arm behind me, and made some kung-fu-like maneuver that resulted in my head being slammed down hard upon the trunk of his car. Quickly he put a handcuff on my arm. Then he said something else, into my left ear, which sounded like a mutter. “What?”, I asked. He growled at me, and asked me “Did I stutter?”. So I said “Excuse me Officer, but I don’t hear out of that ear.” He repeated himself. “Put your hand behind your back”. I did as I was told, and he put the other cuff on me.

Witnessing that event, Corissa changed her tune and posture, and hollered at me “What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?”. Then, with hardly a breath, she turned to Mark and panicking, cried: “He raped me HE RAPED ME!”. I couldn’t believe my ears. I was certain that she didn’t understand why I was being arrested. So she he must have thought I was a fugitive, being brought at justice. And she thought that just for being with me that she would get in trouble!

The Officer’s full name was Mark Fisher, I later learned: a twelve-year veteran of the Kanab Police Department. He was tall and good looking, I suppose, and 42 years old: about what I had guessed. And it was he who had the honor of arresting me that fateful day— for the first time in my life.

He didn’t say “You’re under arrest”, though— although that was fairly obvious. He did read me my rights, however, and asked me if I understood them. I said I did, and asked what was the charge.

“Child Kidnapping”, he said. And I knew that was serious. Then, perhaps responding to my perplexed mien, he added “In the State of Utah, it’s not okay to take ANYONE, under the age of eighteen ANYWHERE, without consent of parent or guardian” Actually, I’m not sure how the phrased the last few words, but I had gotten the picture.

And when he finished I was truly stunned, for even then I thought that was an extremely stupid law. That would mean that picking up an under-age hitch-hiker is a felony in the state of Utah.

He led me around his car to the passenger side, and made me sit down in the front seat. I thought it was strange that he did not put me in the back seat, and I didn’t know what to make of that. Then he left me sitting there, while he talked to Corissa in private. I could see them, but I could not hear them speak.

****************************************************

Several things happened in the next few minutes. One was that another Officer arrived, in another car— but this one was a Sheriff. He parked behind Mark Fisher’s car, and scurried to join Mark and Corissa. He walked right next to me along the way. But something in his stride struck me as odd. It was like he was walking on the sides of his feet, and with his head down— like Groucho Marx I guess— or like a character from a Nathaniel West novel, unfolding himself as he moved. It was like he was hurrying because he did not want to be late for some delicious piece of cleverness…So he scurried on by, clown-like, and caught up to Mark Fisher. His name was Crosby, I later learned.

The next thing I remember hearing was an exchange coming over the car radio, while I was still sitting there. One voice said that we “should tow the car”, and another asked for a reason. The first voice responded “Suspected non-payment of taxes”. Hearing that response brought my focus back. Until that moment I thought that that conversation was between two distant officers, in some unrelated situation anymore— that I had just happened to overhear. Then I realized that it was the voices of the two officers right near me, and that I was over-hearing their conspiracy. Yes, it seems that my Subaru— with current and valid tags— was about to be towed for a contrived excuse about its taxes.

I’d been receiving wave after wave of confusing stimuli for the past thirty minutes. Now this. Immediately I asked myself why— if my car was indeed a suspected crime scene— they would they have to invent a reason to tow it? Things were rotten in Kanab, and I didn’t trust them a whit.

The last thing I remember seeing before they spirited me away was that Mark was talking to Corissa again. They were standing beside my Subaru. Corissa was directing Mark to look inside it, through the back windows, while pounding her little palms against the glass. She appeared so earnest then. Then she turned her attention to me again. She shrugged at me, as if to say “I’ve done all I can”. Then she waved goodbye. It seemed like a sincere goodbye, too. Then Mark Fisher got into the police car and drove me away.

The jail was just a couple blocks away. En route, I asked Mark why my car was being towed. I don’t know what he said, but by his reaction he must have realized I’d heard them talking on the radio. Then I told him I would like to meet Corissa’s mother. He asked me why, and I said that there was something that I wanted to tell her. “So you and the young lady did talk about sex?”, he asked, though I didn’t see how that conclusion would have followed. I did not deny or affirm it, though— I just let it go. Then another conversation came through on the radio. It was the dispatcher, saying that they still have not located the girl’s mother. Mark Fisher reached over and snapped the radio off.

It was approximately 10:30 am on Friday, June the 6^th, 2003. D-Day.

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CHAPTER IV

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I was booked, fingerprinted, dressed in orange, and ferried about from cell to cell. In between cells I was led to an interview room of some sort, where I was left alone, amongst thousands of dollars worth of copy machines and other expensive electronic equipment. I thought that very odd.

I also had access to a phone book, so I leafed through it in search of a Lawyer.

My thinking was that he should be from a town somewhat larger than Kanab. But the town should not be too far from Kanab either. So I wanted someone who was near enough to Kanab to know the players there— but far enough away that he was not sleeping with them. Or going to church with them either.

I selected one named Carlin Myers, from St. George.

St. George is a medium sized town, about 80 miles from Kanab. It has a population of 50,000 people, as I write these words.

The city has achieved some notoriety over the years, first as a common staging area for a myriad of Westerns that were filmed near there in the 50s, and later as ground zero for a fiasco of radioactive waste that blew down from the Nevada Test sites, to kill livestock quickly and people slowly. I had been through there too, by necessity, on my rambles. It’s not a very exciting town, really, though in comparison with Kanab it must be a Disneyland.

Eventually, Mark Fisher came in and presented with some paperwork to sign. It was some administrative stuff, I recall, so not a confession, in case you’re wondering. But the form did have a very large empty space at the bottom where they count certainly have put the signature line if they had wanted to. Instead the signature line was alone on the second page. So they could have detached the signature page and reattached it to a confession, you see. That was how I saw it. So I signed at the bottom of the document.

Then he attempted to interview me. I demurred, however, and took the Fifth Amendment. He did not like that either.

Instead I asked if I could call a Lawyer. He said he’d ask permission from the jailer, and left the room again. But while he was gone I picked up the phone and tried to dial anyway. But it was to no avail. They had blocked the phone, I suppose.

It was a wasted move for another reason too, because Mark Fisher came back just in time to see me doing that, and it incurred his wrath. “Why would you do that?” he screamed at me, twice. I thought there was a chance he might even strike me.

I was permitted to make my phone call anyway. So I called Carlin Meyer’s office. He wasn’t in, but his receptionist promised to have him call me back when he returned. Then I was led back to my cell.

A while later I was informed that the Kane County Public Defender had arrived at the jailhouse on some other business, and was available if I wanted to see him. I said I’d like that, so we had a meeting.

His name was John Hummel: a fifty-ish man who looked like “Dr.-Phil”, and whose appearance was more in keeping with my idea of the stereotypical cop than of a lawyer. He was stocky and mustachioed, and had male-pattern baldness. Those things didn’t bother me. But other factors put me off: mainly that he seemed too chummy with the cops there. Maybe that was good, though— in terms of information he was able to impart to me as a result: like that Mark Fisher was convinced I’d been arrested many times. That was because I did not kick and scream, and because I’d known enough to invoke my Fifth Amendment right. I’d kept my mouth shut, in other words. So apparently because I was calm and educated, Mark Fisher had deduced I am a criminal.

But why would anybody have talked to Mark Fisher anyway, I wondered. He’d slammed my head down unnecessarily, arrested me for Child Kidnapping, and towed my car on faulty premises. He’d also given me paperwork that could be misrepresented… We were hardly out of the gate and he had already demonstrated his commitment to persecute me to the ends of the earth.

At the same time, the fact that Mark had told him that also alerted me that something else was amiss.

You see, John Hummel told me that he himself was up for a Judgeship, and the implications of that ambition made me leery. I immediately wondered whether he might be “playing ball” with the cops in exchange for their support. Besides that, his perfectly timed arrival at the jail, on some ostensible “business” further raised my suspicions. To this day I wonder what other business he actually transac- ted there. Maybe none. So his arrival was too coincidental to be a coincidence, to me. I reasoned that they all wanted me to become one of John Hummel’s clients: to keep it all in the family, perhaps. Thus, the convenient arrival of the Public Defender was part of their M.O.

Anyway, the first thing I told John was that I had a toothache: a result of Mark having slammed me down on the car. I asked if I could see a dentist. Then I decided I could live with the toothache, and told him to forget it.

Then, after making sure we had an attorney-client privilege, I told John what had happened— which was probably a mistake. In response, he told me I’d probably spend a couple years in prison. At t at point I lost my serenity. “Oh God— I’m gonna’ go to prison”, I moaned. But then I recovered, and asked “Can I get a Master’s degree in there?”

“Oh, you’ll be all right”, John Hummel said. I liked that. “A jury’s gonna’ like you”, he added. I liked that too.

I repeated Corissa’s claim about her father too. I figured that he would have to let that information out. I suspected that he had to do that by law, I mean— just as a mental health professional would be compelled to. But I didn’t know for sure if that’s the case.

Finally, he claimed that Corissa has hydrocephalus, and functions at a fourth grade level. But I shook my head at that, because I was sure it was total bullshit. I thought hydrocephalics have enlarged heads. Besides that, I’d had way too much exposure to her by then to believe such a thing: I’d seen irony and laughter, ability and mischief sparkling in her eyes. So just by making such a claim my distrust of them deepened. They were determined to screw me, and I wondered what else might they claim.

Next he did something that really turned me off: he told me my bail would probably be “six figures”— but that he knew some “tricks’, and would be able to get the Judge to reduce it. But as he said “tricks” he winked, like I was supposed to giggle about his chicanery. Instead his gambit seemed so phony that it left me feeling cold.

He also inquired about my financial situation. I told him what I had, and he said that I would not qualify for a Public defender, because I had too much cash and credit. Of course, he’d be happy to represent me, he said— for a fee, of course.

I did not indicate whether I would or wouldn’t use his services, so when I asked him to call my sister, and he agreed to, I thought it right that he should do so. But he did not bother, I learned the next day.

*********************************************************

Later Mark Fisher came back around and told me that Corissa had made a video-tape, and that on it she implicated me for touching her in three places. I did not ask him which three places, which I think disappointed him again. Had I asked, and then argued, or had appeared to be mentally weighing what she claimed, that might have looked bad— as though I might have been guilty of some or all of them. Besides, there are only three places that would have mattered, criminally, I figured— and all of them were obvious.

The charge would be Forcible Sexual Abuse, he said. That was a second-degree felony. “Forcible sexual abuse”, I slowly repeated, muttering beneath my breath. Then he said “We think we have a scratch”. I looked at him with blank eyes.

He said my bail was set at $10,000. (Six figures ha!) The Child Kidnapping charge was never mentioned again.

*******************************************************

My cell-mate, Greg, was doing time for marijuana. He seemed like a regular guy. Well we talked about this and that, and then I told him some of my story. But I swore I’d never touched the girl in any way. My thinking was that a cellmate could be a “plant”, so I didn’t want to give those bastards anything they could use against me.

As I look back I realize that that was the only time I ever lied about what had happened. Anyway, as a result of my story, and anticipating potential prison time for me, Greg said “You better get big in a hurry”. He meant I better get prepared for some ugly treatment in there— as a child molester.

It was he who showed me the list of local Bail-Bondsmen, posted there. He even recommended a couple of them from that list. I’d never been through that process either, of course, so I was grateful for his input. Then, I was led back to that first cell I’d been in, in order to make those calls. I called the first Bondsman up.

****************************************************

The Bail-Bondsman’s name was Adam. And he sounded pleasant on the phone— but when I met him he was an asshole. My understanding of Bail-Bondsmen was that they put up the lion’s share of the bail, and ask for a percent. But Adam said he’d need $15,000 just to post my $10,000 bond. He said he needed that because I was from “out of state”— so he needed the extra 5K in case he had to come and find me. But that struck me as bullshit, because if I put up the whole bond, why would he need to find me? He’d have no financial investment to lose. So I summarily dismissed him.

The next guy also sounded pleasant on the phone, and he too came right down. But he had an evil eye that he fixed hard upon me. That hardly endeared him to me. But at least he only asked for $10,000, for my $10,000 bond. Well I could have put all that on my credit cards— and sprung myself without him. But of course, that backwater fucking town wasn’t set up to take a credit card on a Friday night, and besides, my credit cards were in my car. So I authorized him guy to go into my car, to retrieve my credit cards. I no longer remember his name, but I do remember that he was from Rebel Bail Bonds.

It was nice to know that my currently registered car, cum crime-scene— towed for “non-payment of taxes”— was so readily accessible to a Bail- Bondsman! Because sure enough, the yardman at the impound yard let him in, and he turned my car upside-down, looking for my credit cards. But he couldn’t find them. Hell!

So I sent him home too, and spent the night in jail.

************************************************************

In the morning they served me Fruit-Loops and coffee for breakfast. FRUIT-LOOPS! Was that to be a glimpse of my life to come?

Then I called my sister Leslie and her husband Jeff from the phone inside my cell. I’m not sure why I hadn’t called them from that phone the night before. Probably because it would have been too rude to call so late. Or maybe it was because they couldn’t have done anything then anyway. Or perhaps I had called but they were not home.

Leslie and Jeff were both Bankruptcy Attorneys. Well actually, Leslie didn’t practice law anymore, but she still taught it, at a small University. Jeff, on the other hand, was a partner in his firm. But it wasn’t as if the knowledge of bankruptcy would help me very much. Not at this time, anyway.

Anyway I woke them up, and I told them what had happened. I can still remember the fear and shame in my voice when I told them the charge. They didn’t ask me any specific questions about it though— like whether I was guilty. I guess that makes them good Lawyers. Instead, they got right out of bed, and sprang into action on my behalf.

Within hours Leslie had posted bail for me, via that second Bail-Bondsman I’d sent home the night before. But it was not without a lot of difficulty, I later learned, to arrange my bail from afar.

It still amazes me that a jail cannot just take a credit card at any time of day or night. I’m sure their inability to do that, though, is to the liking of Law Enforcement— and especially on the weekend. I guess it gives them latitude to keep the “accused” in jail for a while. But pardon me, for I digress again.

Anyway I was sprung, and then I sprung my car from “storage”. I was relieved to find my credit cards exactly where I’d left them, too.

The first thing I wanted to do was to drive directly to the water tower, to search for that discarded napkin. But I decided it was unwise to return to the scene of the crime too soon. Someone might be watching me. So I went to the Vermillion Café and had some coffee.

Later I did return to the water tower. There I looked far and wide for that napkin, but I could not find it. I figured that if they had that napkin that they’d have my DNA, so I was very nervous. I did find one napkin there, though, but it was a lot closer to the tower than my feeble toss would have landed it. I investigated at it anyway, though, and I could see that someone had wiped his ass with it. Yuck! I was amused to think that some cop— rummaging around there for evidence— had taken a shit and wiped his ass on it, not knowing what it was. But later I realized that didn’t make sense: had they gone back there, it would have been specifically to find that napkin— and they wouldn’t have been so stupid.

I lingered there beside the tower for a long time, even after giving up the search. Perhaps I was basking in some ethereal presence, still, for the evening light infused me. Then, before I left that place, standing forlornly by my car, a Tiger Swallowtail butterfly alit upon my tire. I tripped a bit on that, for his presence seemed to be an extension of that spiritual communion I had achieved down on the Dirty Devil River. It was as if he too had come to bring a message: to let me know that everything would be all right!

****************************************************

At first I had not been particularly nervous while in jail. That was because I was sure they’d realize how stupid they had been— and how unfounded their charges were. But after hearing John Hummel’s claim about Corissa’s mental abilities, and his predictions about my fate— and seeing how dishonest they had been thus far— I got pretty nervous. And my inability to find that napkin didn’t help. But maybe the police didn’t have it either. Besides, they hadn’t even checked me or my underwear for semen— or for any sign of any struggle. So I went about my business. I believed that with time, the charges would go away.

I stayed in Kanab through the weekend, for several reasons. One was that I was still determined to see Walker about that gig down on the river. I wanted to see Osha too, to tell her what had happened. And I had to figure out what Lawyer to enlist. So I had lots of reasons to linger there. Not the least of them was that I wanted to go to church.

**************************************************

I saw Osha, and I told her what had happened. “That sucks”, she said. Then she told me her mother Norma had been a Child Counselor, before they moved to Utah. She said I should go see her, and so I said I would.

Later I did go to their house, and met with both Eric and Norma. (Yes, another Eric. There’s a bunch of them in this tale.) I told them the whole story. Eric estimated there was a fifty-fifty chance that they had that napkin. And they both said they under-stood why I had remained with the girl!

Turning my focus to Norma, then, I asked her what the damage was: the damage to Corissa, I meant. I did not know how to assess it. I wanted to know whether I had done her some real harm. And what she said to me comforted me greatly. It was “This could be the greatest thing that ever happened to her”—she meant if indeed I had exposed an unaccounted rape. Phew! That helped a lot.

On Sunday I went to a local church, as planned. But it was not the Catholic one, which was where I usually went. I’d been to the Catholic Church in Kanab before and it was far too dreary. And on this dreary day, I needed joy and human warmth. So I went to the Unitarian church instead. It had a lot more life!

*******************************************************

After that I went looking for Michael Gentle.

A Berkeley transplant, Michael was a large man, in his fifties, with a salt and pepper beard, He was one of the townspeople I’d been glad to get to know, during this era. He could often be found on the back deck of the Willow Creek, which was where I had originally met him. We had spoken several times there, and he impressed me as being both smart and also very conscious. So being in a spot, it was his counsel that I sought.

Finding him on the back deck of the Willow Creek, I pulled him aside to talk.

I approached the situation by saying “I don’t know you very well and you do not know me: but I know you impress me as a smart man as a thoughtful man, and perhaps you can help me with my problem” Something like that. He nodded his head graciously, and then I told him about my trouble.

Well Michael led me straightaway to a phone book, in the office there, and opened it to the Lawyers. He agreed with my thinking about finding someone in St. George. And from that town’s roster he made two recommendations: one was Michael Shaw, whom he described as “a bulldog”. The other name was Clayton Huntsman. He said Clayton “has a big name in southern Utah”, and to that news he added: “And he wins!” Michael said he knew all this because he’s seen them both in action— though I do not know why.

He asked me who arrested me, and when I told him, his pause suggested to me that he knew the cop. But “You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested by the Sheriffs”, was what he said. I asked him why that was and he said: “They’ve been known to manufacture evidence”. Yikes! I thanked Michael for his help.

Armed with those two names, I figured I’d drive to St. George on Monday. Meanwhile, as planned, I went to see Walker, at CRT. And after a brief impromptu meeting with him, he picked a date for a river trip departure, and told me I could come! Yahoo!

**********************************************************

On Monday morning I called Clayton Huntsman’s office, and secured a meeting for that same day. Then I drove down to see the man.

On the way to St. George I made two other calls. One was to Carlin Myer’s office. I reached his receptionist again, and reminded her who I am. Then I asked why Carlin had not returned my call. “He did return it”, she said: “But they said you already had a Lawyer”. They meant John Hummel. So that was how they are.

I also called Michael Shaw’s office. I reached his receptionist too, She said that Michael was all booked up, and wouldn’t even be able to talk to me for two more weeks. Damn! I didn’t have two weeks.

******************************************************

Enter Clayton Huntsman: late fiftyish, pudgy, about 5’ ten in height, and staid in his demeanor. He struck me right away as one who has immense respect for the law, and for the institutions he was a part of. A man steeped in fine traditions, you might say. Like someone who had grown up reading about Darrow, and Jennings Bryan, and had decided early on to uphold their ideals. A portrait of Abe Lincoln hung upon the wall, to further anchor his ideals. Several certificates and degrees hung upon his wall as well: from Law school, from the Navy, and from God knows what else. And all around was walnut, and elegance, and paneling.

The meeting with Clayton lasted three hours. We sat in his ornate chamber there, on opposite sides of his desk. His receptionist popped in occasionally, bringing water, and playing Hostess. Her name was Bonnie: a very pleasant woman that I later learned was his wife.

During our meeting he told me some things about himself. Like that he had been in the Navy, as I had already deduced. (Later I learned he’d learned both Japanese and German there!) But the most salient thing that he revealed that day was that he had had a cancer scare some four years prior to our meeting. “A death sentence”, he called it— but he had survived it, and thus had conquered death.

Then I told him my story. He did not seem to want to know everything, though, and I figured that was part of the game. Remember that my family lawyers did not inquire about guilt or innocence either. I guessed he wanted to preserve deniability. He made it clear he would not suborn any perjury. And that was fine with me. I wasn’t asking him to do that— or even planning to. Indeed, I did not know that I even had a reason to consider such a course. But I accepted his partial solicitation as just part of the game on which we were embarking.

Besides, I didn’t even know what the laws were. So as far as I was concerned, I was probably technically guilty of the charge that they had made. (Hell, I was guilty of the Child Kidnapping too, if what Fisher said was true— though that offense was no longer being charged. But I didn’t know why they’d dropped it). After all, I had touched Corissa’s ass when she had tried to mount me. And I had contacted her vagina— though to my way of thinking, it was she who had contacted me. And though that left still a “third” place— no doubt her breast, which I didn’t recall having touched— I was certain it was not necessary to have touched all three. In order to be guilty, I mean. Nor did I understand why they called the touching “forcible”. But I would find out soon enough

Like myself, Clayton was quite surprised that I had been able to pick my car up so soon after the event. For shouldn’t they have gone through my car in search of hairs, or DNA, or something? But perhaps their not having done so suggested something to him: something telling— that only insiders understand. Or perhaps it was just that he knew the rules down there, in that corner of Utah: the “game”, if you prefer. Yes, that must have been it, for before the end of our meeting, Clayton said “Relax: by the time this thing is over I’ll be able to get it down to a minor charge— only peripherally related to a sex charge”. Thank God. Then he joked about “over-time parking”, and I was enormously relieved. I hired him on the spot, and the first $9500 went onto my credit cards.

As I was leaving, Clayton left me with a crucial dictate. “Talk to nobody about this” he said— “not even God”.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapter 5 & 6

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER FIVE

**************************************************

I decided to go back to the Bay Area, and to stay with my sister Leslie’s family.

On the way I stopped at Lake Isabella. That’s where the Chuck Richard’s opera-tion is. Chuck, I’ve told you, owns the company there that bears his name, and where I’d taken my Guide School course seven years before. And he was the person I was looking for. I recognized him right away, too, but I had to remind him who I was. Even then he only vaguely remembered me, though, but he remembered my classmates better: the ones who’d stayed there that summer, while I’d gone off to Europe. Anyway I inquired about my prospects for guiding again for the summer (after my Grand Canyon gig), and he said there was a chance. That was the same thing his secretary had said on the phone, but Chuck was more specific: there was a real chance, was what he meant. It didn’t matter though, because by that night I was feeling restless, and I blew out of that town too.

The next day my car broke down north of Bakersfield. I called AAA, and the driver came and towed me to a garage in the nearest town. That town was Wasco: a little agricultural blip upon the map.

The garage there was run by Mexican’s. That didn’t concern me, but the fact that they didn’t seem to have a lot of experience with Subarus did. That inconvenienced me a lot, because it took two days to fix it. Meanwhile I had to hang around the town.

The first night I stayed in a hotel. But the second night, attempting to save money, the mechanics let me sleep in a van behind their shop. I chuckled that they let me do that. It was as though I were an immigrant myself!

On the third day the repair was finished, so I paid for it and left. But only sometime later I noticed something strange, on the inside of my car. It was a new recess that had been punched out in my dashboard. There was a new little built-in shelf, that is, to the left side of the steering wheel. Really. Apparently it had been there all along– but hidden by a piece of plastic, and I had never noticed it! Nor had the previous owner, I guess. Anyway it made a perfect receptacle for my cell phone, and after that I always kept it there. I’m telling you about this detail for a reason– but it will have to wait.

******************************************

Back in the Oakland hills, I stayed with Leslie and Jeff and their daughter– my niece. Chelsea was twelve years old, then, and the apple of my eye.

I say “back in” Oakland, because I’ve spent a great deal of time in their home over the years, availing myself of their boundless generosity. It was there that I had spent several weeks of my recuperation from the Guillain-Barre’. I have always felt welcome there, and at the drop of a hat.

This time I went there because I needed to touch home plate again, so to speak– but also because I had three weeks of down time before my Grand Canyon trip, and I needed somewhere to go in the interim. Yes that’s right. I remember now.

By pledging to get the charge so substantially reduced, Clayton had truly had put my mind at ease. Thus, it seemed that that butterfly had truly shown me the truth: that this saga would turn out all right for me. Sure– I would be out almost $10,000, but from that I could recover: poorer, but wiser– one would hope. But my life could go on, and it could start on the river, three weeks from that time!

*******************************************************

Within days I heard from Clayton. He told me that the Prosecutor had not yet decided what he was going to charge. I didn’t understand that because I thought he’d already made his charge. So I learned my first lesson about this prosecution business: that charges can be added and subtracted by the Prosecutor after the arrest. Basically, it is the Prosecutor who decides what to charge anyway– after some review. So what Mark Fisher had arrested me for was by no means binding. I suppose that shouldn’t have surprised me, but I’d never had occasion to think about it before. Cops can obviously change the charges too, before the Prosecutor gets involved. I say obviously because Mark Fisher had dropped that Child kidnapping charge and put forcible sexual abuse in its place before the Prosecutor had been involved. But now there could be further modifications.

Clayton clarified that the prosecutor hadn’t decided whether he was going to charge the Forcible Sexual Abuse– henceforth to be known as FSA– as a first degree or a second-degree felony. That struck me as odd too, for it seemed to me– even in my ignorance– that any specific charge would already be categorized in severity by law: that FSA would already be in either one felony category or the other. So I realized this business is very different than I thought.

A few days later I heard from Clayton again. He had driven up to Kanab and met with Eric Lind. Eric Lind was the Kane County Attorney, and it was he who would prosecute my case. And Clayton reported that Eric Lind had decided to charge it as a second degree felony after all. I knew nothing about the Prosecutor then, but hearing that, I imagined that Eric Lind must be a reasonable man.

In addition, though, Clayton divulged, the Prosecutor was adding a second charge, called Unlawful Detention. That was a “b misdemeanor”, he explained, which is considered pretty minor. And that didn’t sound too bad either. Clayton said he wouldn’t even charge me more money to defend it! That was good news too.

But beyond that, it wasn’t going as Clayton had hoped it would. For Lind would not play ball. He was refusing to offer a plea-bargain for a misdemeanor, which I gathered would be normal. “It pisses me off”, Clayton said. Perhaps with time he’d come down on his offer, though– Clayton indicated– but for the moment, he was only offering a plea to a third degree. Felony, that is. That felony was called Attempted Kidnapping(?).

So I was looking at a felony after all! Ouch! The prospect was alarming. I had never been in trouble in my whole life.

Clayton said the prosecutor would stipulate “no prison”, however. He meant that Eric Lind would agree to ask the Judge not to give me any prison time. And he said that Judges usually respect the Prosecutor’s request. “But he might toss you in jail for a little while”, Clayton added. He tried to make it sound like jail was no big deal, though: like it would be a colorful chapter for my autobiography, or something.

But he didn’t say that I should take the deal. That’s because he thought I had a good shot at beating the rap.

Nor was I at all inclined to take the deal anyway: it was very early in the game. And it would be a waiting game, I deduced. With time, the Prosecutor would offer a better deal. He’d no doubt offer a misdemeanor eventually. Besides, taking the plea would have meant walking right into a felony conviction: choosing it, without having a trial. That meant giving up without a fight– and there was just no way I’d do that! But if the Prosecutor did not come down, then that meant Clayton’s original selling point– that he’d get this charge way down– was bullshit.

Finally, Clayton told me he’d handle the Arraignment for me, such that I need not be present for that. That was good, because it would save me a long trip.

Anyway, I think it was after that discussion that I got really nervous.

**********************************************************

I read the all the pertinent statutes, but nothing seemed amiss. I mean that nothing struck me as especially out of place. I didn’t know what in particular I should be looking for anyway… things like Constitutional issues, inherent contradictions, or absurdities, I mean. Hell: all this was new terrain. I didn’t know what to look for.

Then I read the text of the Child Kidnapping (CK) statute, which clarified the elements of that long forgotten charge: the one I had originally been arrested for. I was still wondered why they had dropped that, you see, only to put the Unlawful Detention (UD) charge in its place. Well there I found the answer: it was that the “age of consent” is fourteen, in Utah, for being “taken anywhere”. Aha! So only by taking someone younger than fourteen somewhere– “anywhere”– would I have needed parental consent. No wonder that charge hadn’t stuck!

The CK law is an example of a strict liability law. Strict Liability means it does not matter whether the accused– the “actor”, as they like to say in legal lingo— is aware of the particular fact that is being considered. For example, if an adult transports a child under the age of fourteen– anywhere– without parental consent– but does not realize the child is younger than fourteen– it does not matter at all. There is “strict liability” on that point.

When Fisher had arrested me, he’d said the age of consent was “eighteen”. I told you that. I also said that even then I’d thought that was a really stupid law. Well now I saw that I was right: that my common sense had been vindicated, by the actual wording of that law. And for what he’d nabbed me for, his recitation of the law wasn’t even close.

Of course, that didn’t explain whether Mark Fisher had believed his claim himself. If he was just mistaken, it begs the question of what he would have charged me with if he’d known what the actual statute was. He had arrested me on a strict liability offense. But if he’d known the actual statute, he would have had to both ascertain her age and ascertain whether she was with my of her own consent. Or he would have had to make a judgment about her capacity to give that consent.

But he never asked Corissa if she was with me by consent. Nor could he have ascertained her inability to give that consent– except by relying upon his preformed opinion. Yes, he knew Corissa: but the surprise she’d shown upon greeting him suggested they had not seen each other for along time…

Which proves nothing, of course– but it left me wondering whether arresting me for the strict-liability CK had freed him from some important obligations. At least in his own mind.

That brought me back to her claim that I was her “friend”. That statement struck me as a declaration of consent. So if he’d known the actual statute, would he have heard that and then arrested me anyway? But more than that: even without having heard that—statement, I think one might rightly wonder whether– had Mark Fisher known the actual law– he would have arrested me at all

So the whole thing stank, and to my understanding it was a false arrest. What was more, they realized it was a false arrest, I figured. So Prosecution was screwing me to cover their mistake.

***************************************************

Soon after that call from Clayton, the shock of it all enveloped me. A cloud of anxiety closed around me, and I became unable to indulge my simplest pleasures. I could not read a book with any kind of focus. I could not watch a TV show, and follow what went on. I could not do my daily crossword puzzles anymore. The only past-time I could indulge with focus was electronic solitaire. So I spent countless late night hours playing that, on their downstairs computer.

****************************************************

Back in Oakland, I called Melissa and asked if I could see her. She was stunned to learn that I was back in town. I’d sent her a letter, just a couple days after my Dirty Devil River hike– which was just a couple days before my arrest. In that I told her about the birds and snakes and frogs who had been so welcoming on that trip. But that was she last that she had heard from me. Then, suddenly I was back– so of course she wondered why.

We sat together in the park across the street from her apartment. The view from there was magnificent– and celebrated in a million postcards. There I asked her what the worst thing that could have happened to me was. Her answer was that it would be that I had died. “No, it was worse than that”, I said. Then I told her my story. My shameful story, that is. I could have died just telling her.

********************************************************

But I would not be deterred from my river trip. I knew that setting would revitalize me, and I deserved the damn thing too. Besides, it might be one of my final tastes of unencumbered freedom, for a while.

So after two weeks at Leslie’s house, I placed a call to Walker, to confirm that I was coming o the trip. We were still on! So a few days before that big event, I drove back to Fredonia, and Kanab.

I arrived on Tuesday for my Thursday rendezvous(?) with Walker. The first thing I did was to go down to the Willow Creek, where I immediately encountered Michael. He asked me how things were going with my case, and I told him it wasn’t going well. Then he let me in on what sounded like a little secret:

“The Prosecutor is an idiot.” He sneered. I was very encouraged.

“Really?”, I asked: “Eric Lind is an idiot?”.

But he seemed stunned by my question, for he looked at me with big eyes “That’s who’s prosecuting you”, he asked: “Eric Lind?”.

I told him that it was. He looked momentarily uncomfortable and looked away. Then he looked back at me and announced with a wave of the hand: ”Oh, he’s an idiot too”. I was relieved anew.

********************************************************

The next day I got a message on my cell phone. It was from Dave McKay, the owner of CRT. He told me I couldn’t go on the river trip after all: something about his wife wanting to go in my place. Some last minute snafu. Some bullshit, to my ears. Well I was incensed, and so I called him back. And when I talked to him in person he said that it was his daughter who was the problem. He couldn’t get his story straight. But the underlying fact seemed clear: he had heard about my “problem”, and he didn’t want me to come. I earnestly pled, but it was to no avail. Then I chewed him out. I was livid. After all, I argued, I had accepted the job three weeks before, and I had confirmed it a few days ago… and I had driven all the way from Oakland– having arranged a whole month of my life around this trip… Moreover, I went on, we had an oral contract, for an exchange of services… I didn’t know if any of that was legally correct, but I tried it anyway. But he would not budge. He did, however, pledge to make it up to me later. So that was that. It was no use arguing.

I calmed down before the conversation had ended, though, figuring that my cause was pretty well lost. I even told him that I would probably head back up to Jackson. Well he said that I should look up an old friend of his there, who owned the “Rent-a-Raft”. His name was Rod Lewis. He said that Rod might offer me a job.

*******************************************************

I decided that those next three weeks would be grand anyway– like the canyon I wouldn’t be seeing: that I would have a stellar time of it– whatever I should do. So I did.

First I went to Springdale, Utah, at the gates of Zion National Park. I’d been there many times. At the coffee house there I met some very cool people, and so I was off to a good start. I lingered there for several days.

One of the people I met there was a great lady named Patsy. I felt comfortable with her very quickly, so (even though Clayton had told me not to tell anybody) I told her my story. More or less my story, I mean. I left the couple most damning details out. Well she was very sympathetic to my plight. It turned out that she had even been the mayor of a little Utah town, in the greater Kanab area. So I wondered if she might know someone– or something– that might help my cause.

She didn’t know anyone, but she did know something, because she told me about something called a “Plea in Abeyance”. I had never heard of it until then. She explained how it worked. The Prosecutors has to agree to it, of course, but if he does, then an accused person can enter into a plea which hovers over them for a while but then simply goes away. There are conditions and stuff that must be met, but it is only by fucking up the terms that the person actually gets convicted. In other words, it’s a conditional plea to an offense for which the defendant never gets convicted. And I was very encouraged by that! How glad I was to have met Patsy.

From Springdale, I moved on to Park City.

In Park City I stayed with another ex-housemate, from the winter I had lived there. His name was Erik DeBruijn: a Dutch national who’d been living in the states for years. He was a Physical therapist, and very intelligent. And he’d been trying to establish a permanent U.S. Residency- but had been thwarted at every turn. By this time his luck may have been changing, though, for he had an American fiancé, named Megan. So it seemed that he would finally get his wish.

Erik was the friend I had in common with Bob Skinner– the guide at GCE who had tried to bring me aboard- until the owner pulled the plug.

I stayed with Erik and Megan in Park City for several days. It was a good visit. They wanted me to stay for longer but I was itching to move on.

*********************************************************

Then I went back to Jackson. I arrived on the third day of July– creeping along with a long back-up of traffic. Lots of other people were rolling in to town for the holiday too– and most of them were from Utah, it seemed.

Anyway, just a dozen miles shy of Jackson I pulled off the road to use my cell phone, in a place called Hoback Junction. And as I sat in my car there I happened to look to my left where by chance I saw the Rent-a-Raft establishment: that was Rod Lewises place, that Dave McKay told me about.

“What the hell”, I said to myself, as I parked and went on in. Within a minute I met Rod Lewis. I introduced myself, and said that Dave McKay said hi.

“How is the old bastard?”, Rod asked. I gathered that it had been a very long time.

Even though he was very busy, later that afternoon Rod drove me upstream and put me in the river in an inflatable boat. He wanted me to get a look at that part of the river, he said, so he could use me for some future endeavor. To make a long story short, I started working there the following day! And three weeks quickly turned into two months

It is the people we meet who make such experiences worthwhile- and memorable. And my co-workers did exactly that. They were Kara, Linda, Dean, and Preacher Dave. They included Rod’s family members too: his brother Dave (another Dave) and his wife Judy, from Redding California, as well as his aged parents, Walt and Betty. That Walt was an old curmudgeon, too- full of piss and vinegar, and shouting all the time. My purpose her is just to give them all a mention.

Anyway, that Lewis clan owned a chunk of land there, in Hoback Junction, along the Snake River. That was where we all stayed at night, in assorted tents and trailers. Everybody except for Rod, that is- who kept an apartment in Jackson itself. His parents stayed in a very nice trailer behind the main building. I stayed in another, smaller trailer, a bit further away. I cleaned it up fairly nicely, and ran an extension cord out to it.

*****************************************************

The Rent-a-Raft was established to provide an alternative to enlisting professional guide services for floating down the river. The idea was that instead of spending a lot of money for those expensive services, it was a lot cheaper for people to rent all the equip-ment themselves and act as their own guides. Hence the name. In other words, it was a do-it-yourself affair. It was sometimes a chaotic affair too- and especially for big groups. But since the savings was exponential, we attracted lots of big groups.

Anyway we rented boats of all types and sizes, ranging from a one-man hard shell kayak to a sixteen man inflatable beast. In the mornings, when the hoards came, we’d scramble to make sure the boats were properly pumped up and equipped, and properly strapped onto the tops of their cars- or trailers. It was also crucial to make sure that all our guests had a life preserver and signed a liability waiver. So it was a high energy affair.

So equipped, our customers would drive the boats down to the Snake river, float down even farther, and presumably have another car downstream to ferry them on back. People had a blast doing that. And we had fun doing it too!

Sometimes in the evenings, after work, Kara, Preacher Dave, and I would take the rafts and kayaks out and float down that river too. There were some respectable rapids there, with names like Lunch Counter and Big Kahuna, and that was the best part of the job. Playing chess with Kara at night was the second best part.

I made a friend out of one of our customers, named Dan Winterfeld. Dan and I were both still amateur kayakers, so we went out on the river together and practiced our rolls a couple times! What a blast! The first time we succeeded in rolling our respective crafts, we marveled. It seemed so easy then that we thought that we had cheated!

And speaking of new friends, Patsy from Springdale came for a visit while I was staying there. She brought along some other fiends from Springdale too. I got them a good deal on a boat, of course, and later I visited them in their campsite near there.

So life went on. I had friends and I had a good job. I was paid a decent wage, I had a place to live, and I got my lunches provided for free. And when I thought of some project I to do- as I often did- I was always set free to do it. I’m an “ideas guy”, I like to say, and I had a lot of good ideas: like erecting an enormous canvas tarp to shield us from the sun.

******************************************************

Walt liked me, and he praised me frequently. Good old Walt: always taking the crew into town to buy us breakfast. Anyway, one time when I was talking with Walt, I happened to mention Dave McKay. Well he lit up at that, because he knew him! I hadn’t expected that. I told him about the trip that Dave had taken away from me, and Walt huffed and resolved to call him about that. Then later he did exactly that, while I stood there beside him. But it still didn’t get me on the river. Dave McKay was still full of shit.

There was a dark side to all this camaraderie, though: for there was a lot of bick-ering within the Lewis camp. Interfamily stuff. But it got so bad that Dave and Judy Lew-is got pissed off and packed their trailer up and left.

A few weeks later, I left too, but under peaceful circumstances. I left feeling grateful for the experience, and especially grateful to have met Rod.

No, Rod is not my story either. But his story bears at least a brief repeating:

Rod moved to Jackson when he was just nineteen. That was after he’d been diagnosed with cancer, and had been given eighteen months to live. So he wanted to be in a place of his choosing, where he could die in peace. And since he was dying anyway, he didn’t much mind going into debt- so he started a rafting company. And he accumulated a bunch of land. And then he forgot to die.

Much of this story I heard from his brother, so I’m not sure it’s exactly the way that Rod would have told it. But according to Dave, at some point during his illness Rod went into a church in Los Angeles– the church of Katherine Kuhlman– and prayed for a miraculous cure. At that, Rod had felt a jolt of electricity surge through his body, and was immediately cured. That had been 33 years before.

In the intervening years, he’d become obese, though. And he swore a blue streak. But in his heart he was a very good man. He was still single too, after all these years, though he’d been engaged one time. This part he told me himself. The problem was that he was a Baptist, or something, and the woman he fell in love with had been of a different faith– a Catholic, like me. So on that basis he decided that it just could not work out. That made me very sad.

That’s enough on Rod Lewis and that gang though. But I am not done with the town of Jackson yet. I have impressions still to share.

*****************************************************

I had been through Jackson several times over the years. The first time was in ’77, on a trip I’ve mentioned before. At that time Jackson was still quite rustic. The next time I went through was in the summer of 1991, and already the town had had changed. It was losing that rustic quality, it seemed, and being transformed by big money. I went through a couple more times after that, before landing there during that summer of 2003– the one of which I speak. And by then its transformation had been more or less complete: It had lost all of its charm– it seemed to me. It had lost its quaintness.

There was an upside to that transformation, though. It was that there were lots of restaurants and coffee houses and stuff- and tons of art galleries. It had gone upscale, in other words– but far too much for me. It had a recreation center with a hot tub, though, and that was all right with me.

I had a favorite coffee house there- of course. That was Shades Cafe. I tried to get together with one of the young women who worked there, too– but it didn’t work out, and never mind anyway. And there was a Catholic church in town, which was something I required. In fact, an expensive new was just completed while I was there. I even went to the first mass held there. Finally, an art center was under construction then. That seemed like a very good thing.

But let me complete the tone I’ve set here, about my impressions of Jackson, Wyoming. It’s that the place was not for me. In the end, I didn’t really want to live there. After going to the Prelim I would not come back. Not for the winter anyway

************************************************************

While I was in Jackson I kept in touch with Clayton by telephone. There he told me about another claim made by the Prosecution. It was that while we’d been together, Corissa had sustained a couple scratches. I was stunned. That they would even claim such a thing disturbed and frightened me. Mark Fisher had mentioned them in the jailhouse, but they had not been mentioned again and I was sure she had not sustained any such thing. So that they dredged that claim up again surprised me. It shouldn’t have, though– after that claim about her mental abilities. But I was incensed and outraged too- and I suspected foul play. I thought My God: They’ve actually scratched her– so their zeal will not abate! Clayton said that the prosecution had photographed the scratches, and would include them in the Discovery Package.

I asked him where the “scratches” were. But he said only that there was a scratch upon her belly. I noted that he said “it”: so it was “a” scratch. Hmmm. I swore I didn’t know anything about it. Nor could I imagine how she’d possible gotten a scratch while with me. I don’t know if he believed me, though. But it was funny how the “scratches” had become a single scratch.

“Maybe she just got them rolling around back there”, he said. He meant rolling around in the back of the car. But that time he’d said “them” again– meaning in the plural. So I wondered if he was testing me! If so, what was he testing me for? Was he trying to find out whether I had scratched her, whether I’d scratched her more than once, or whether we had indeed “rolled around back there”?

I had never said that we had “rolled around” back there. I hadn’t even said we’d been “back there” at all. Nor had I denied it either- because he had not asked me, and I had told him very little. At that point I didn’t tell him anything he had not asked. I didn’t understand how much he really wanted to know.

He asked me again if I’d ever been arrested. I guess he thought if he kept asking that that something new would be revealed: that perhaps some prior situation would eventually come out. Maybe I’d say “Except for that one time”, or something like that. But I said no again.

And he asked if I’d ever been caught in “this sort of situation” before. He meant, of course, some liaison with some under-aged girl. I insisted I had not. Finally, he rephrased his question. He asked if I‘d ever been in a situation like this in which I “should have gotten caught”. But the answer was still no. “I have never been anywhere near to a situation like this before”, I told him truthfully.

While we were on the subject of arrests, I told him that I didn’t think I should have been arrested at all. For by then I’d learned about something called “——– Laws” Those are laws that allow Law Enforcement personnel to detain a suspect without actually arresting him- under “reasonable suspicion” that he has been involved in a crime. I argued that those laws had made my arrest unnecessary then. I said that he could have merely detained me, while he investigated what went on. After all, all Mark Fisher saw before he arrested me was the two of us walking up the hill. We were hand in hand, it’s true– but that was not a crime.

And I said that slamming me on the car had been utterly uncalled for too: since I had put up no resistance.

Furthermore, I contested, Mark arrested me for a law that did not apply anyway– since the girl was not under fourteen at the time. And finally, I maintained, even if Fisher had had the statute right, he still would have been wrong- because of the girl’s age. I went on and on. I wanted him to agree that many things had been fishy: that they’d done a lot of important things wrong. And I wanted him to agree that I had a case against them for False Arrest and Unnecessary Force.

But my arguments fell on deaf ears. He said all those things were “allowed”. He meant law enforcement was permitted to do all those things.

Then he asked me what a 45-year old man and a young handicapped girl could possibly have in common. That didn’t seem at all the point to me, but that concern became a theme he harped on, as time went by. I never got what he was driving at, though. I understood, of course, that he was saying that many people would not accept that our liaison was for any other reason than for sex. But I didn’t see how that issue transformed the circumstances at hand. In other words, I wondered, would a jury think a touch was not a touch if we’d had lots more in common?

And he asked me where we were going, as we ventured up the hill. So I explained that too: that Corissa told me that she’d been raped- and that I’d wanted to learn more…

But that only registered a muffle, from Clayton. His reaction frustrated me too, because I wanted him to understand that my reasons had been good. I wanted him to see that it showed I was a caring person. But he insisted that the whole matter wasn’t important anyway. Where we were going was not an element of the case anyway. Besides, he said, my good intentions there would surely count for nothing.

In other words, I pondered, whether we had something in common was an important aspect of the case, but why we were going up the hill was not?

Perhaps he didn’t believe me anyway. Or perhaps good defense Attorneys are just careful about such things. About believing their clients, I mean. I think I’ve already said that. That’s ironic, though, because I never lied to Clayton about a thing. But he could not have known that.

I remember one more thing, from that conversation. He said that he was all for me in fighting this thing. He also expressed his grievance with the Prosecutor again too– about his most ungenerous deal. “It pisses me off’, he said, using the exact words he’d used the first time he had said it. “But don’t worry, Royce”, he said: “I won’t roll you on a felony”. His words were full of fatherly assurance, as he said that- and I felt comforted.

******************************************************

I officially turned down Eric Lind’s deal. That meant that we would have to go to court, for a Preliminary Hearing. And that court date would be in late September.

I left Jackson in the middle of August, before the season was complete, so I’d have plenty of time to prepare.

I had not seen Keith Virostko the whole time I’d been back there. The truth of the matter was that I felt ashamed. He was still confused about me calling myself Royce, too- and after all those years- with me suddenly having a new name and an indictment- I sup-pose he was… suspicious, too.

******************************************************

CHAPTER SIX

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After leaving Jackson I had five weeks to prepare for the Preliminary Hearing. So I had time to spare. So instead of going southwest, to California, I drove due north, into Montana. I hung out in Missoula briefly, but I was too impatient to see anything else. Montana had not been my destination anyway– it was Washington I wanted to see. My Grandmother lived in Seattle, in an assisted living home, and I wanted to visit her.

September 1^st was to be her 100^th birthday, and I thought I should be there. She had dementia, though, so it was doubtful she would even know me. The dementia was relatively new. Until she was 95 she had been sharp as a tack, and I had kept in touch with her. After the dementia we stopped talking, and I hadn’t seen her for a couple years. But I held a vain hope that though she’d forgotten everybody else, that she would still remember me.

Unfortunately, my vain hopes were dashed to pieces when I visited her. Not only did she not know me, but when she looked at me she said; “There’s something funny about you”. I didn’t know what that meant. Maybe she merely meant I looked familiar, but it sounded more like an indictment. I thought she was sensing something awful, and my stomach clenched in fear. I didn’t stay there long either– there just wasn’t any point.

I did not stop to see my friends Bret and Rosaleen in Portland, on my way back south, and I never told them I’d been so close by. Sorry Bret and Rosaleen. But I wanted to get out of that area– and I couldn’t excuse any more delays. Or perhaps the truth was that I was too ashamed to see them too. Yes: in retrospect, that seems more to be the case. I haven’t mentioned them before but you will be meeting them later in this account.

As I drove down to California, I also stopped to call an old man, who had retired to Coos bay. He was the father of an old friend, who I had known for thirty years. For some reason we talked about Wallace Stegner. But I didn’t tell him about my trouble, either. It seemed easier to confess it to strangers. I wish I’d stopped in to see him, though, rather than just call. But I had not taken the coastal route. I was in too much of a hurry.

In Redding, California, I stayed a night with Dave and Judy Lewis, who had left Jackson in a huff a week before me. Then I went to Oakland, to prepare for the big event.

********************************************************

When I got back to Oakland the Discovery Packet was waiting. It was dated July 31^st. The Prosecutor had sent it to my Attorney who’d sent copies of it to me. But it didn’t include the all-important video-cassette. It turned out that Clayton had received a copy of that, but that it was unusable. It seemed our Mr. Lind had sent us a blank one.

The Discovery Packet was filled with legal papers. My stomach lurched severely as I opened it.

It started with a Table of Contents– so everything appeared very official. And that table of contents listed twelve enclosed items. So I read that first. Scanning down the list, all the items seemed clear. Until I got to item 9, That was the “CVSA Log”. But I would find out what that was soon enough.

For the moment, my eyes were riveted on item number10. That item was the Medical Report. And beside those words, on that Contents page, were a pair of other words. They were encased in parentheses, and they said “suspected rape”! My stomach plunged, and my whole body crawled.

I went to that one first, terrified and indignant.

But wait! For let us take these things in order here:

First was the Kanab Police Department Offense Report. It was basically a synopsis, and presumably written by Mark Fisher. In it he explained who had initially called him, and why. Well it was the librarian, it seems. It also described where else he had searched for us, before finding us behind the tower. And it admitted that Corissa had cried “rape”. It also said that at the water tower Corissa had told him I’d tried to put my hands down her pants. It claimed he’d arrested me for Unlawful Detention, and it described the brief conversation we had had, when I told him I’d like to meet her mother.

Finally, it said that at an interview with “DCSF”, later that same day, that I had touched her in inappropriate ways.

It did not, unfortunately, claim that Corissa had defended me as her friend. Damn!

I wondered why he’d thought it necessary to highlight where else he had searched for us first, though. I wondered if he had done that to create the impression that he hadn’t all along known where we were– and I considered that just for having emphasized that search, that he was really betraying that he had.

Next came the “Vehicle Inventory Form”. That was exactly what it sounds like- from when they inspected my car. It listed almost everything that had been in my car– which was quite a lot of stuff.

But it had included something that I never had in there. That was fishing equipment. I hadn’t fished in years, and didn’t even own such stuff. In addition, the inventory omitted an item, which I thought was quite important. It was a condom! Did that mean that they had never looked in the side pocket of my shaving kit, then? For I could have had marijuana in there, for all they knew.

So it struck me as a sloppy search.

Third was the Officer’s Daily Log. It was a single page formality, of no use to me.

Then followed the “PC Statement. That’s a “Statement of Probable Cause for a Warrantless Arrest”.

Item number 5 was some photographs. And those made my heart skip a beat: for two of them are of Corissa- holding up her shirt. Her belly displayed what I guess was supposedly a scratch. OH MY GOD! So they really were hell-bent to get me– and they really had manufactured a scratch! But the photograph was really pretty poor, and it was impossible to make out a scratch. There was a big mark there, though but I thought that was the scar I had already observed. And there was another mark upon that picture too– but I couldn’t tell if it was a scratch, or just blemish in the paper.

The other eight pictures were pretty useless: pictures of the water towers, and the access road around the lower one. But aha! Something conspicuous was missing from that pile of photographs– because there was no picture of my car, in there: no photograph of my vehicle, all piled with stuff! And I thought that a very strange omission!

The next item in the Packet was called a “Property Invoice and Receipt”. But that was not at all what I expected. For it was a sparse single page, and it had but one important declaration. That was the term “R KIT- SEALED”. My God, the Rape kit! And what the hell would that yield?

Dickie Robinson’s Statement followed that. Dickie was the Librarian that Corissa had stopped to speak with, before following me to my car. But I hadn’t known her name until that very moment.

Again, her statement was but a single page. She said that “Royce” had signed in at 9:05, and Corissa at 9:35. She said that I had signed out at 9:50, and Corissa at 10:10. (And isn’t that interesting! We had left there just half a minute apart- yet out sign-outs suggested it had been fifteen minutes!) And she said that before she left the library, Corissa had said to her “This man likes me as a girlfriend”. She also said she thought Corissa had made that up!

She revealed she’d been distracted, at that point, and so ignored Corissa. But a moment later, she watched us leaving together, from her office window. She felt suspicious and tried to find Corissa’s mother’s phone number. But when she called her work they said she had already left. Then another of the other Librarian’s got upset about the situation, and had called the Police.

That struck me as odd, too: that her mother couldn’t be found, I mean– an hour and a half before she should be coming to get Corissa. She had left her “hydrocepahic” daughter alone in the library– in a town she was putatively only in “to work!”

The CVSA Log is also called a “Statistic Sheet” It’s really an official form that goes with the lie-detector. Yes, that’s right: Corissa had been given a lie-detector test. So the CVSA gave me a record of the nine questions they had asked her, and reproduced the responses of the bunch of squiggly graphs. Like I’d even know how to read them! But I was scared to death.

I read all the questions, which were followed by her response:

1) Is your name Corissa Mumford? Yes

2) Is the color of the wall brown? Yes

3) Is today Wednesday? Yes

4) Did Royce take you in his car behind the old cement water tower? Yes

5) Is this the month of June Yes

6) Did Royce touch your breasts? Yes

7) Are we in the city of Kanab? Yes

Do you like chocolate? No

9) Am I wearing a watch? Yes.

But that last response was lightly crossed out, and No was written beside it.

And now, my friends, we come at last to that Medical report.

I saw that it was prepared in the Kane County Hospital, on the day I was arrested. It was no surprise, of course, that Corissa had been taken in for a medical exam. Indeed, I would have been more surprised if they had not done that. But I was also struck by the fact that the report very stupidly included the address at which she lived. I thought that was negligent, to tell a “criminal” where his “victim” lived!

But beyond that, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the damned thing. It was written in Medicalese, and indecipherable at that– and what was not indecipherable was blurred by having been copied.

But it did appear that they’d performed a litany of tests: blood samples; pubic combings; fingernail scrapings, and spermatozoa smears. OH SHIT! But it did not make any claims regarding any of those- about having found anything, that is.

Above all that there was an illustration of a vagina- and that I understood! And the Doctor– or the clinician who had conducted that test- had written “Normal” under the illustration there. It said “no e/o trauma”, too– and I was sure that that was good!

There were a couple things that did concern me, though, outside of that immense realm of what I couldn’t know. One was that under the word “vulva” was hand-written something about a gelatinous secretion. I could make out the word “collected” too. Could that mean they had collected some my fluid? Unh!

The other problem appeared under the “Staff Interview” box, where were claimed three more disturbing things. One followed the word “Harm”, and said “Attempted Molestation”. Another was after “Status Before Assault”, where the Interviewer had written “Not sexually active” Finally, after “Assailant Penetration’, someone had written “none”. But that word was crossed off too, and “fingers” was written in its place.

But who had changed that word, and why? And how, from that, did someone come up with “suspected rape”? Again I thought I smelled some rotten fish.

Then one more thing struck me, as I studied that report. It was that no mention had been made of any scratches! Or none that I could tell.

Item number nine in this litany is a Bail Bond report. Forget about that, though, for it’s irrelevant here.

Finally we come to number ten: the “Defendant Criminal History Report”. And there they had me dead to rights. My sordid and seamy past was at last exposed. Yes, they knew about the citation I had gotten in Jackson, almost two years before– when I was driving without insurance! They also learned the amazing fact that to drive legally I must wear corrective lenses!

There were a few more sheets of paper in that Discovery packet– but none of which were formally identified. They had just been tossed inside there, with the rest.

They included some illustrations of male and female bodies– on which Corissa (presumably) had written the body parts. Her hand-writing was terrible, too, but her parts were in the right place. There was also a sheet of paper on which she’d written the names of her family member. It also was a mess.

Finally, there was a piece of paper from Mark Fisher, with his estimate of how long Corissa and I had been away from the Library, before I was arrested. That estimate was that we’d been away for only fourteen minutes! Wow! It had seemed like twenty to me. I remembered that John Hummel had asked me how long we’d been away too. So I

thought that interesting that he had asked! Had he asked that on behalf of Mark Fisher?

******************************************************

There’s so much I don’t remember clearly, through all this: events I grapple with, to try to make cohere. But it’s mostly the chronology that I have my concerns about, for the specifics are unimpeachable: they’re things I couldn’t forget about in a million years.

Like how supportive Melissa was through all of this. Being back in touch with her, I leaned heavily upon her during this ordeal. And even though by this time she was seeing someone else, that circumstance didn’t prevent her from being a great friend to me. She rubbed my back and held me and cooked me lovely meals. She comforted and coached me. And through it all, she was the only person who ever saw me cry.

“My God, Melissa”, I sputtered. “I’ve ruined my life”. I was inconsolable.

She too was worried about me. She saw that I was half insane then, and that I wasn’t sure I could go on. One time she even asked me: “You wouldn’t do anything to yourself without saying goodbye, would you?”. I promised I would not.

I also remember when I finally told Leslie and Jeff the humiliating details. I waited weeks to tell them exactly what I was dealing with. They knew I’d been arrested, of course, and they knew what the charges were– but I hadn’t told them any more than that. Finally Melissa bucked me up to do that, because I’d kept putting the task off.

So I called them from Melissa’s place and asked if we could meet. Yes, I already lived with them, it’s true, and I saw them daily, so that call was really just a formality. It was more a notification, really– that I was ready to talk.

I remember the manner in which I told them too, and even where we were, when at last I summoned up the courage. We were downstairs in their family room. They sat on the sofa there, and I sat on the bureau. I could’ve cried. I assured them I hadn’t had sex with the girl, though. And I stressed that she hadn’t claimed that either. I explained that the charges were about “touching”. And I told about the touching she had claimed.

I remember something Jeff said then too, when he asked about the penalty. For when I told him, he looked incredulous, and blurted, “Five years– for a breast?” He laughed, and I somehow laughed too. I was genuinely amused, despite my dark torment.

I’ve been sternly taken to task, by one of my readers, for that last half paragraph. He thought I was making too much light of this– inasmuch as what actually occurred was obviously so much more egregious than just the touching of a breast. I see his point, but I think his criticism missed what that exchange was really about. But since he missed it, then so might you. And I don’t want to lose you.

It was intended as an ironic commentary on draconian laws. The point was that the Utah law really did allow for up to five years in prison for the touching- and not just the fondling– or grabbing– of a minor’s breast- and that includes touching even through the clothes…and the specific and more serious circumstances of my situation took nothing away from that draconian statute. The point of our exchange was that these laws are extremely severe.

I said to them that whatever happened, I needed to be sure that I’d always have a place to go. I meant that I wanted to know that they’d always let me return there, even if I went to prison first. And God bless Jeff, who beat Leslie to the punch. “Of course you will”, he said.

*************************************************************

Alone with Leslie, on another day, I told her about the deal I’d been offered. Leslie had worked in a Prosecutor’s office early in her career, and had even prosecuted some minor cases there. So she knew a little bit about all this stuff. And she thought I should take the deal. She thought that anything I could do in lieu of risking prison was the best move. “But I’d be a felon”, I cried.

She said that if I came back to California it was unlikely that anyone would ever check my record: that life could go on as usual. But that seemed wrong to me. It’s easy to check things like that on the Internet, I reasoned. And if you’re a felon in one state you’re a felon in them all. So I was not convinced. To me a felony conviction meant that my life would be ruined.

Anyway, I told Leslie and Jeff first. Later on, I told my brother Mark. My parents still don’t know. I was too ashamed to tell them. I was afraid I’d crush their hearts.

*************************************************************

Scratches on her belly, huh? Or “a” scratch, in any event. I kept thinking about that. And I was sure that it was foul play! Who had done it, though? And when, exactly, had they done it? The only thing I could be sure about was why they had done it: it was to screw me, obviously! For with those scratches this whole episode could be portrayed as a violent one. They could say that I had terrorized the girl!

The “when” question was partly evident too– since I couldn’t remember any mention being made of the scratches on the medical report. It meant the perpetrators had been careless– because they should have thought of making the scratches sooner. So I figured that her mother Cora had done it…The problem was that she wouldn’t have had had access to Corissa until after she arrived to the hospital, right?… Yeah: she arrived at the library to find her daughter gone, because she’d already been taken to the hospital… Yeah, that had to be it… And afterward, in righteous indignation– not realizing her gaff– she’d scratched her own daughter… yeah: she said “We’ll get this bastard, Corissa”. She probably even said “I’m sorry that I have to do this”… So mom had scratched her own child… But it was “for the best”, I’m sure she had decided.

Or had Corissa done it herself? Hmmm. Yeah: maybe those scratches would lend credence to her own story– if indeed, she had transformed her story into one of force. After all, she had been afraid of getting into trouble. …

I never could believe she had done that herself though. So I stayed with Cora.

************************************************************

But who knew what– about that– and at what point did they know it? I was thinking about the Cop, and also about Eric Lind. Mark Fisher had interviewed Corissa after she left the Hospital, and not a word about a scratch– or scratches– was said on the cassette. And though the blemished photos of the supposed scratch were included in Discovery, not a word of claim had been made on their behalf. Hmmm. I smelled a rat!

Perhaps they’d included those photos for mere intimidation value? That’s it! For if they made no claim then they’d have nothing to retract. I saw how those sleazy dogs worked! And if they made no claim about them, then they wouldn’t have to zealously investigate them either. Oh, the diseased sons-of-bitches. And the evil mother too.

************************************************************

I reviewed my memories more times than I can say. I replayed them obsessively. And sometimes that obsession would yield important things. More information, I mean: new realizations.

One thing that emerged from this self-investigation was that I still could not re-member having seen Corissa’s breasts. I remembered her unfastening her bra, though– but not actually taking her shirt off. But then, one does not just unfasten her bra and leave it hanging there. And I don’t remember seeing the bra hang, either– nor believe that outcome even likely. It’s just that I don’t remember what she did with it from there. Not that it mattered, in the sense that I wouldn’t even have to see her breasts to touch them. Nor would she have even had to have her bra off, for that matter. I could have touched them through her clothing. But I don’t remember doing that either.

A more fruitful line of inquiry concerned that scar I had seen on Corissa’s stomach, behind the water tower. I remembered wondering as I saw it whether there were other scars there too– but higher up on her belly. It seemed to me that after six operations that there would be other scars upon her belly too. And lo and behold, the answer came to me. I realized that if I had seen Corissa without her shirt on, that I would have had the answer to that question at the time! I mean that if that had happened– if she had really taken off her shirt– that I wouldn’t have had to wonder whether there were other scars– because I’d already know! Man! I felt excited by that revelation– and I also felt set free. It didn’t prove that I hadn’t touched her breasts, but it did suggest she had never removed her shirt! In other words, since I had not even seen enough of her belly to answer my question about the scars, then I had to be right about never having seen her breasts!

Uh oh: but why would I have even seen that scar at all– if it was hidden beneath her shirt? Well the answer was that it was barely hidden there: that a small hiking up of her shirt would have been enough to expose it! And she had exposed a lot of belly!

But wait again– because even those photos didn’t reveal other scars, “higher up” Wow! Aha!: that is true too– but again, had I seen her chest and noted their dearth I still would have ceased wondering if there were others. Said one other way, if there were no other scars, then seeing her chest would have freed me from wondering if there were others. Conversely, if there were other scars and I had seen them, then I would have similarly stopped wondering too. Either way I would have had my answer. Ergo, I did not see her chest.

So it didn’t matter– to that question- what some photos taken later might show. Besides, we didn’t know what those photos supposedly showed the presence or the absence of anyway– they were too poor.

But why, I deeply pondered, would I have remembered all that other stuff, but forgotten about seeing – or touching– her breasts? And my answer disturbed me anew. It was because touching the breasts was the thing I was implicated for on the lie-detector test…That was why! Subconsciously I’d had to forget about them– so that I could deny having touched them! That way the only thing they asserted real evidence for I could truthfully deny!

Ah shit– wait again: because I didn’t recall seeing her breasts even before I knew about the lie-detector test! I already knew I’d been accused of touching her in three places– and I did remember both those other touches. The more egregious touches, that is– that they hadn’t ask her about! And I had no idea which of those touches they might ask about on a lie-detector test. Hell: I didn’t even know they’d ask her to take one.

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I couldn’t understand why Mark Fisher had arrested me at all. I told you that. I wasn’t sure he had probable cause, I mean. All he knew was that Corissa had left the library with me, gone somewhere with me in my car, and was ascending a hill hand-in-hand with me when he found us. Why would that have been probable cause, by a correct standard of law? I mean, once he’d realized his standard for arrest had been incorrect, didn’t that nullify his probable cause? And what excuse did he have for slamming a non-resisting arrestee against a car, by any standard? Even if he’d suspected something illegal had occurred, wasn’t he compelled to ascertain that before he arrested me? I couldn’t believe a mistaken understanding of the law by him excused his behavior.

Clayton was unimpressed with that appeal, however. He swept my pleas aside. “You won’t get anywhere with that”, he said. He assured me that Mark Fisher’s behavior was permissible. He said it was “allowed”.

************************************************************

I thought about that lie-detector test a lot too. Of course, there I was handicapped by not knowing how to read it. But the questions themselves struck me as haphazard: as just hastily put together. For some of the questions there spoke to things a person who hadn’t been there at the time of the test wouldn’t know the answers to anyway. Like what color the walls were. Like whether the administrator was wearing a watch. Like whether Corissa did indeed like chocolate.

But above those concerns weighed the glaring omission that I already mentioned. And I thought I had a point on them there. You see, my research had revealed two things. One is that prosecution has an obligation to furnish what is called “ongoing discovery”. Second, and towards that end, it is incumbent upon them to probe for what is called exculpatory evidence! In other words, anything they find that might ameliorate or contradict their claims must be explored and passed on to the defense, whether their findings there be beneficial or damning– for any of us.

Thus, I reasoned, by not asking her about her most egregious claims, they had failed to probe for that evidence. If they had pursued those and found corroboration for their own position there, that would have been very good for them. But they hadn’t probed for the evidence that would most inflame a jury: the things that is, that for lack of evidence would be beneficial to me. Things like touching her butt and vagina.

That was why they hadn’t bothered to do that. If they had asked those things, and hadn’t gotten the response they wanted, they would have had to tell us that! And that suggested that they really were afraid of her answers– and of what they might imply!

I also assumed that the “pressure graph” (the squiggly lines) that corresponded to that particular question had furnished them with the answer they had sought: that is, that her answer recorded there had confirmed I’d touched her breast. If it hadn’t done that, then instead of sending it alone to us, they would have asked some other questions– regarding the other claims she’d made.

After prosecution claimed Corissa was incompetent a new wrinkle occurred to me. That was that that test couldn’t even necessarily be interpreted to show that I had touched her breast. After all, from that perspective, the lie-detector result would only con-firm that she thought I’d touched her breast! And if she was truly incompetent, would she even understand what a lie is– such that her answers would reliably indicate anything?

I realized then that the “incompetence” claim was a two-way street.

********************************************************

I could have claimed that as an incompetent, Corissa’s response to the test were unreliable. But it didn’t seem like it would help me very much to agree that she was in-competent. In my heart I didn’t believe it for a moment anyway. But strategically, it was a bad move. What were we going to say: that Corissa was too “out of it” to know whether I’d touched her breast? Uh uh! If we did that then the whole question of consent would be conceded too, you see. Then if a jury thought I’d touched her in any inappropriate way my guilt would be assured– and I would be guilty at the felony level…and if she were an “incompetent” then I’d have to convince jury I went for a hike with someone who was utterly “out of it”– for some inexplicable reason– and never touched her at all. So no, it would not be a very good strategy– the complication of the rape kit notwithstanding.

My strategy had to be to count on her capacity to consent.

Resolving that, though, didn’t temper my indignation about the omissions the other side had made. But maybe I could still discover something useful– to hang them with. So I examined the graph that corresponded to breast question, and compared it with the other graphs. And wouldn’t I love to tell you that I discovered something stunning there. But I didn’t. The whole thing was just too abstruse for me.

********************************************************

I shared my reservations about the lie-detector test with Clayton, but he was unimpressed. First of all he told me that the lie-detector test was “inadmissible” anyway. I’d always thought that was the case, too, but until then I was not sure. Then he said that a claim to having touched her breast was sufficient for them to build their case around– and that securing that, they would not have asked her any more. But he had utterly missed my point. “Aren’t they also supposed to check out evidence that might be beneficial to me too?” I asked “They don’t care about your rights” he snorted. Then he assured me the way they’d conducted the test was “allowed”.

But they hadn’t even attempted to establish whether touching her breast had been inadvertent….Maybe it had happened… oooh…when I jumped in beside her to grab the key away!

********************************************************

So the lie-detector test– like the arrest and the brutalization that preceded it– was “allowed”. Allowed: I came to hate that word. It was what Clayton uttered in response to everything Prosecution had done that struck me as suspicious and underhanded behavior. Each time I had wanted him to share my indignation, or to light up with the recognition that something I identified was truly illegal, all he said was that it is “allowed”

“Allowed”. Everything was “allowed”– so my outrage was futile. Every goddam scheming thing the prosecution did was “allowed”. Eventually that word came to sum up how I came to see the process itself: it is a Prosecutor’s game, in which all manner of evildoing by the D.A. is “allowed”; every trumping up of charges, every manufacturing of evidence, every failure to investigate exculpatory evidence, every manner of subornation and subterfuge– is “allowed”.

But that wasn’t all the “every”s, in my complaint: for every time I got off the phone with Clayton I was a mental mess. That was because every new installment of circum-stance through all of this: every development; every disclosure, every legal rule and every claim– seemed to go against me.

***************************************************

I couldn’t come to terms with the timing of the whole thing– and with the metaphysical preordination that seemed implied by it all: by the fact that I had done what I needed to do to take care of myself, in leaving Utah when I did; by the way that I was lured back to Utah, anyway, to meet my fate; by my rejection at the river company, and the suicidal musings that triggered; by my earlier than usual visit to the library– with my unusual choice of parking space– and on through the arrival of Corissa herself– as if on some sort of paranormal cue. It was as though the cosmos themselves had aligned all those factors with me in mind. To me it defied coincidence enough to necessarily invoke those spiritual dimensions– in my interpretation– and the conclusion to be drawn from it all was that God just did not care for me.

Clayton definitely didn’t want to hear any of that either.

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The Preliminary Hearing was set for September 26th, in Kanab. Unlike the Arraignment, though, my presence there was required. Clayton said the Hearing would last about forty-five minutes. At first I had wanted to testify at it, but he said that that would be foolish: it’s a “rubber-stamp” anyway, he said– for whatever the Prosecutor is charging. He insisted that testifying there would not assist my cause. In fact, he told me I wouldn’t have to do anything at all- except sit there and be quiet.

I made an appointment to meet with Clayton again, a few days before the Prelim. We had to compare notes, of course, and to make sure we were on the same page. And since there was still a great deal to say, so in those few weeks before I left Oakland again, I wrote Clayton a very long letter. I wrote it in one long interrupted sitting of nearly eleven hours. It letter was a combination of several things: assertions, hypotheticals, analyses, grievances, and impressions. I faxed it to him before I left for St. George.

***************************************************

Clayton had moved his office to a different building since I had hired him, in June, and I got lost in St. George, trying to find the new place. I arrived 20 minutes late for my appointment, so we were both upset when I arrived. I hate being late.

We sat down in another formal chamber there. It was dark and restrained too, like the first one had been. There we discussed some aspects of the case we had not discussed before. He said he was impressed by my letter: impressed that I had thought so long and hard, that is. It is very encouraging, he said, to have a client so committed– and so involved.

He informed me that Corissa did not have to testify at all, at the Preliminary Hearing. I was surprised to hear that: that the “rubber stamp” aspect of it extended even that far. But Eric Lind had let Clayton know that he intended to put Corissa on the stand anyway. Apparently he wanted to see what sort of witness she would make. So I was relieved and hopeful about that too.

Then I presented him with a list of questions I’d prepared: they were suggested questions really, since I figured he had a better grasp of the fine points than I– that he was better versed in the procedures and the tactics, I mean, such that he might not deem it wise to ask all of my questions, for some reason or other. I also figured he’d generated others of his own. That was correct, because looking at my list he nodded, and said that those were very close to the ones he had come up with too. Then I felt even more encouraged– that we were on the same page!

After all this time, though, I no longer know exactly what those questions were. But I can guess what most of them were:

Did Corissa defend me as her friend as she came down from the hill?

Did Fisher arrest me for Child kidnapping, and slam my head down on the car?

Was Corissa’s cry of rape indeed a false one?

Was the medical report improperly altered?

Did Corissa ask me if she could drive my car?

Did Mark Fisher photograph the back of my car? If not, why not?

Did Corissa notice my fishing equipment?

Did I run up the hill in advance of Corissa?

Did I ask Corissa if he boyfriend was in the service?

Why was Mark Fisher looking in the back of my car?

Nothing new was revealed at that meeting, however, regarding the prosecution. They had not come in with a more reasonable deal, I mean– as we had hoped they would.

***********************************************************

Before I left Clayton told me a little story about the former Assistant Prosecutor, in Kanab. Until then I had not even realized that Eric Lind had had an assistant. And as it turned out, he didn’t have one– anymore. It turns out that that Assistant had had a problem with methamphetamines, Clayton revealed– and he had finally killed himself.

I was disgusted by that circumstance. It suggested that the Prosecutor’s office was just a den of iniquity: as a hiding place for scumbags and lowlifes– and that Eric Lind had sacrificed all moral ground, in presiding over such a scene. I shook my head and steeled myself against any further pretensions to piety, from that camp. I’d seen enough of Prosecutor’s evil by then– and at that point I’d heard enough of it as well.

Gee: imagine that: the Assistant Prosecutor had been a law-breaker too!

“He called me up one time”, Clayton added, still talking about the drugged assistant. “And he left a message on my phone”. He adjusted his posture as he went on: “And he was yelling and screaming at me– it was the most unprofessional thing I’d ever heard.” I wasn’t even sure why Clayton was revealing that to me then. But as I said, it left a sure impression, of unseemly behavior in those ranks. And maybe that was exactly his point! Maybe what he meant was that I should prepare for more.

Then I went to Kanab again, early, to face up to my fate.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapters 7 thru 9

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER SEVEN

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I arrived in court early, and proceeded to the front of the courtroom. There were two tables there: one for Prosecution and one for the Defense– just like in the movies. But because of my bad hearing, it was important that I sit at the one to the left, while looking at the bench. I thought it would be nice to be able to hear the judge. But there were books and papers all over it already, so I figured the Prosecutor had arrived even earlier than I, and had commandeered it first.

I went outside the Courthouse, and lingered in the fine air. After a minute a dog came around, and I bent down to greet him. Then, standing up, I saw Mark Fisher across the courtyard. He was speaking with another man, and the two of them looked over at me. Part of me wanted to go try to talk to Mark Fisher, but thinking better of it, I went back into the building.

As I returned to the Courtroom, I caught my first glimpse of the Prosecutor. I knew it was he because he was hovering over that table with the books. I had expected an older man, however: I’d imagined him as taller, and white-haired. But this guy was around 30, with a full head of brown hair. He was of medium height and build, and cleanly-shaven.

Even thought I suspected he was a complete asshole, I approached him, and asked if I might make an unusual request. He said sure, and so I asked if we might swap tables. I explained about my ear, and he agreed to change places. Then, after he moved his books to the other table, I sat at last, waited for Clayton there.

Clayton and Bonnie came in soon thereafter. He came up to the front and greeted me and sat with me, while Bonnie took a seat in the gallery. But immediately after he greeted me, the Prosecutor came over and summoned him aside. Then the two of them left the room. I assumed the Prosecutor was offering a more reasonable plea bargain.

Their absence seemed interminable.

While they were away, a woman entered through the Courthouse doors. She was middle-aged and plump. Our eyes met, and she smiled at me, and I at her. She intuitively struck me as a warm-hearted woman.

But Bonnie said something to me just then, and distracted me. So I turned my attention to Bonnie instead. And while I spoke with Bonnie, I felt the other woman’s gaze turn into an icy stare. It felt like her eyes were burning holes in my head, and I dared not return her look. I realized who it was then. It was Corissa’s mother. It had to be.

A minute later she went away, and soon after that I got up to use the toilet. But as I exited through those same doors, the woman was standing near my path. And beside her was an enormous man, who I feared was there to rip me apart. She spoke harshly to me, as I attempted to walk by: “I guess you know who I am”, she said. “Um Hmm”, I said quite meekly, bowing my head, and trying to hurry by. “I’m Corissa’s mother”. But I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t expected that encounter, and Clayton had sternly cautioned me about any contact with Corissa’s family anyway. “Anything you say they might use against you later”, he had wisely said. He meant that I could still be sued, and must neither antagonize them with denials nor give them any admissions they might use against me.

I also feared the big man and wanted to escape before being torn limb from limb. So I scurried by, and went to the toilet. Fortunately the man did not follow me into there.

Then I took my seat again. But Clayton still had not come back. Next a Sheriff came in and stood in the middle of the courtroom. He spoke to the Bailiff, then, from across the room- or else the Bailiff spoke to him. I don’t remember. In any event, one of them asked where Corissa was. The other replied that she was late. Then the first one asked who was driving her, and the second one answered “Leon”. Shit! Leon?

I didn’t know whether Leon was a common name down in those parts, and this Leon could have been anyone. But in my mind, they were talking about her Stepfather: the same Leon who’d committed the rape on Corissa. And apparently now he was driving her to the Courthouse, where she would testify against me. Oh God, what might he be pressuring her to say, I wondered. And were those circumstances things they had all planned together: by first enlisting Leon to help make sure they got me– and then staging that courthouse conversation to make sure I knew they had? So the juggernaut was rolling on– everything was against me.

Finally Clayton came back in, and then it was he who summoned me aside. So we got up and left the courtroom. Instead of looking triumphant, though, Clayton appeared shaken up. So I was concerned, and wondered what the matter was. In silence I followed him, as he led me into a private room, and opened up a book. There we sat, while he explained to me what the Eric Lind had done.

He had threatened to add another charge, called “Aggravated Kidnapping”. That was a first-degree felony charge, and it carried what was called a “minimum mandatory sentence” too. That meant just what it said: if convicted, I would go to prison. And the minimum mandatory sentence that it carried was “six, ten, or fifteen years to life”. That’s correct: to life! So now these goddam people were threatened to put me away for good. If

If would not accept the deal Eric Lind had offered me, they would make me face a harsher charge. I was being blackmailed–and every fiber of my body recoiled with doom.

Clayton was unnerved. I could see he had been blind-sided, and I didn’t like what I saw. Unsteadily then he showed me the statute, from the pages of his book. With his finger he led me slowly through the relevant statute, which said: “If, in the process of committing Kidnapping, or Unlawful detention, the actor acts with intent to commit”… and then it listed several different types of crimes. Forcible Sexual Abuse was among them. So sure enough, there it was: they had parlayed it into a first-degree felony, called Aggravated Kidnapping!

But could he do that– so late in the game? Was that blackmail really permitted, I mean? Was I still in America?

I was devastated.

Clayton assured me that that behavior was “allowed”. He then went on to tell me it was Mark Fisher who had thought up this gambit– and that he had thought it up just that very morning. He told me that the Prosecutor was justifying this action (to whom?) by claiming that the preliminary hearing would be too “traumatic’ for the girl. So what he was doing was aimed to save her from the trauma.

Oh the sleazy son-of-a-bitch! I was enraged. These people would stop at nothing! Corissa had come with me of her own volition: she had initiated the sexual contact– which was never consummated– and afterward she had defended me as her friend. She had also told me not to tell anybody. So where was all this goddam trauma? And what did these cocksuckers have against me? These people were diseased!

I raged, demanding that we go through with the Hearing anyway– but Clayton eventually calmed me down. He told me that I needed to think long and hard about this, and to pull myself together. After all, I hadn’t even seen the video-tape yet. And he was right- he had me there. Reluctantly I acquiesced.

He suggested that we try to meet with the Prosecutor. I agreed, so he went off to arrange the meeting. Succeeding, he returned, and so we went off to meet my nemesis.

We met with Eric Lind in another nearby room. Clayton introduced us there, and I shook his fetid hand. Ugh: (I still feel polluted by that touch.) Clayton and Eric started talking then, but I don’t remember the earliest part of the conversation. Meanwhile I said nothing at all, as Clayton had advised. But at some point, Eric Lind proceeded to cross his little arms so tightly around his chest that his fists were actually behind his scapulae. Then he crossed his legs, as well, and leaned upon a table. Next he spoke to both of us, in regards to sweet Corissa: “She will testify today, that she said ‘No, No- I don’t want to go’, three times”, he threatened.

That remains my most ineradicable memory of Eric Lind: a posing, phony little rodent, utterly willing to destroy my life, by promulgating lies, with crossed arms: listening to himself being tough. And I believed it was not mere bluff either– because I didn’t yet know they were allowed to bluff. I believed rather that he had suborned her perjury.

He is allowed to suborn perjury too, by the way, I much later learned– but that’s a different chapter. In fact, as I have said, the prosecutor is allowed to do just about any goddam thing he wants to do. I told you that. He has immunity, as Clayton later explained to me. That meant I couldn’t sue him even if I could prove that he suborned perjury against me. But I didn’t know that yet there in the courthouse. All I knew was that I was being threatened with perjured testimony, and that the sleazy scoundrel Eric Lind was adding a charge based on something he’d made up. I was beside myself with rage. I hated those people intensely. But Eric Lind was evil incarnate– and I loathed him above all.

Clayton proposed to Lind a Plea-in-Abeyance, as I had suggested to him.

I had asked Clayton whether he thought he could get me one of those, during one of our several conversations. But at the time I proposed it I wasn’t sure Clayton had ever heard of such a thing. That had been another thing that had concerned me about him. In any event, I further wondered why Clayton had not proposed that idea sooner: between the conversation in which I’d mentioned it to Clayton, and this day in the court. Hadn’t there been ongoing negotiations, in the meantime?

But the Prosecutor wouldn’t hear of it regardless. ”I don’t think I can do that”, he spewed, without inflection. He said it twice, in exactly the same way. And as he said it, his limbs were still tightly crossed up, and his jowls flapped like Richard Milhouse Nixon. What a phony piece of shit that Lind was. What a slimy prick!

I was crestfallen, disempowered, stunned and traumatized, as we called off the Preliminary Hearing, and returned to the courtroom. Clayton assured me that we could have another Hearing later, but whether we would really go through it again depended on whether or not I took the deal. And now it seemed like I would have to take the deal. But I didn’t have to decide that right away.

All this time Judge Mower had been kept waiting, but that hadn’t been my chief concern. But now we had to go back into the Courtroom, to tell the judge what we had decided. And there the picture grew still worse, in my eyes, because there Clayton spoke to the judge with what seemed to me excessive deference. He was fawning and obsequi-ous as he apologized for the delay. He told the Judge that we had decided to postpone the Hearing– and that in doing so we agreed to waive our right to a speedy trial. All that was just what I expected. But as he said all that his demeanor betrayed that he had a terror of the judge. I think he even trembled. So I wondered if there had been a “history” there, between the two of them– that he should be so meek. I lost even more confidence in him.

****************************************************

Clayton said that for the Prosecutor to add a late charge like that one time was not considered vindictive: that only if he does it more than once would we have a real complaint. Amazing! Then he added the chant that had become a mantra: it was “allowed”. Goddam it, where was the outrage that I needed to see? Well the answer, I think, was that he’d spent it all, on things like that before. Unlike myself, perhaps he already knew what it was futile to beat one’s head about.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

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After the aborted prelim I called Leslie’s house, and Jeff answered the phone. I was close to tears as I told him what had happened. My voice choked with emotion, and my whole body shook. Fortunately Jeff had a very good bedside manner, and was able to console me.

He confirmed for me what I already knew: that the odds are stacked against defendants: that all the resources of the state are brought to bear against the accused. So my perception was hardly an illusion.

He told me that the pendulum had swung: that the days of people getting freed by technicalities were over, and that the “machinery” of law now heavily favored the other side.

So why was that information consoling, you might ask? Well the information itself was not. But in the way he made me see that I was hardly alone in all this– that my plight was shared by legions of others, I felt some strange relief. It was something conveyed in his tone of voice: a deep sympathy, I think– and a sincere caring; the same quality that he exuded again right after that as he told me to “Come on home”.

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I did go home. But first I drove to Flagstaff, and stayed with Sean and Erin Kate. They had been my housemates, you remember, when I live at Lake Tahoe. Since then, they had lived in Costa Rica, Boston, and Turkey. I’d visited them in Boston, too, while

Sean was getting his ESL degree.

I had been through Flagstaff earlier that spring, on one of my radiations out from Kanab, and I’d been pleasantly surprised by it: it’s a vibrant College town, with a lot of things to do. It even has an Observatory! As a matter of fact, I had been smitten by the city, and thought I could even live there for a while. So it was funny that Sean and Erin Kate decided to move there too, just a short while later. They planned to dig in there for a while, and I vowed that I would visit them there. Meanwhile Sean would teach English as a Second Language at a Community College, and E.K. would pursue her own advanced degree. They were also planning to get married soon, but I’d known that for some time. That event would take place in Mexico, in November! I had assured them I’d be there.

I was happy for them, of course, but I was also happy for myself– that I had good friends in such a cool place. So I imagined that when this fight was over, I would put some roots down there myself.

Anyway, I went directly to Flagstaff from Kanab. I was a mental mess, of course, but I think I hid it well. And only after being for a full day did I tell them about my case. I didn’t want to dump it on them right away. They were stunned, and deeply sorry for my plight. They were also appalled by the legalistic machinations. But who would not be?

When I finished relating my tale, suddenly E.K. paused and looked off for a moment, as though to snare a passing impulse. And when she turned back to me she said: “I think this will be okay”. She gently nodded while she said that, too. Wow! I took that as an insight based on women’s intuition, and I was relieved beyond belief. To this day I feel grateful for her sharing of that vision– for it was one of the things that sustained me, when things were seeming hopeless.

That butterfly that landed on my tire helped me too. But for having taken it as a sign I was never sure I wasn’t just crazy. So to have another person sense something like that was truly a relief!

************************************************************

Back in Oakland again I was a basket-case (or a “Kanab”-case, if you’re in the mood for wordplay). I could hardly eat, and I lost weight. I was back to not being able to read, or do a crossword puzzle, or watch TV with any comprehension again. I couldn’t even write in my journal, which was an activity I’d pursued for twenty years. So I was back to writing poetry, so as to express myself at all. Thank God I could still do that.

I feared for my very sanity. I was sure I would not make it. I had visions of the insane-asylum- and of the nice nice nurse, who would bring me fresh flowers every day. She’d medicate me and humor me– and pat me and say “okay dear”– in my padded cell.

My stomach seized up night and day. It squirreled and it heaved. It plunged and flipped. It pulsed and lurched without respite.

Fortunately Leslie and Jeff had a hot-tub on their big back deck. I spent hours a day in it, to keep my stomach quelled. The deck afforded a magnificent sweeping view San Francisco, and basking in its aura also helped to calm me down. Sitting there placating those stomach demons was the highlight of my day.

*************************************************************

Eric Lind came in with another offer, via Clayton. It was for a second-degree felony plea this time. So he had actually raised the stakes, in other words, instead of lowering them. But that was not all, for by it’s terms I’d have to be a Sex Offender too. He said it was what Corissa’s mother wanted. On that point he claimed he had no authority but to comply.

He would still stipulate no prison, he pledged, but there could still be jail time– and I would have to agree to register as a sex-offender, in whatever town I lived. That indignity would last for thirteen years. Thirteen years! And, naturally, that registry requirement wouldn’t start until after my jail term was completed.

I guess that now that I was looking at a 1^st degree felony, that new offer was supposed to be a good deal. I’ll bet he crossed his little arms too, as he proffered it.

*****************************************************

For the moment Corissa’s mother’s name was Cora Singer. But before that she’d been married to Leon Wilson– the man Corissa had accused of raping her. Before that, she was married to a David Mumford, who was evidently Corissa’s father, and the man from whom she’d gotten her surname. His full name was David Wayne Mumford, which kind of cracked me up. You see, it had often amazed me how often criminals have the middle name of Wayne– just as it always surprised me that so many convicted killers have the middle name of Lee. But David has not been accused of anything untoward, or at least not in this account. Nor do I mean to suggest he should have been. But at some point Corissa said that “David” was in jail. I assumed she meant David Mumford then, but I cannot be sure. Nor do I know why he was there, nor care, at this point.

****************************************************

I just could not believe it! Me: a Sex Offender– the lowest class in our society! And that stigma could only ruin my life. I mean, shit: even convicted killers get more respect! But the registry was what Cora Singer wanted. And I would be walking onto it willingly– if I were to take the deal. But I knew I could not do that. Agree to it, I mean.

All this brings us to another legal boondoggle, called “Megan’s Law”– the justification for the sex offender registry itself. I won’t go into that travesty now- but I will devote a special section to it later.

*******************************************************

The days turned dreary. And the misery that was my life was especially dreadful on those overcast or rainy days. And there were lots of overcast and rainy days that winter. It was a metaphysical twisting of the knife, in that winter of my dismay. It was like a prolonged glimpse of hell. And in that hell, I felt like I had transformed overnight- from an easy-going eternal adolescent– to a dour middle-aged loser!

********************************************************

I complained to Clayton about the new deal. I liked the old one far better. “And don’t we wish that we could have that back”, he lamented. I did too, but at the same time I didn’t– because if I’d had the old deal back, I might have had to take it!

“He cited a new Utah law”, Clayton said, in defense of Eric Lind, “that said he has to pay attention to the wishes of the victim’s family”. Apparently some families had been left feeling ignored, in other prosecutions. They hadn’t been consulted, I guess, or respected in their zeal. But it seemed to me that allowance enabled “Mom” to be the real prosecutor. It enabled malicious prosecution. And it seemed to sanction a sort of vigilantism too…it seemed to me that a part of the reason for a legal process is to ameliorate the persecutorial zeal of familial rage.

But a “new law” was supposedly why the Prosecutor had upped the plea-deal ante so. Okay- but what new law was that?

Cora had further claimed that that family had moved to a place called Hannibal so that Corissa could get some special counseling- related to the abuse. But I thought they had really done that to make me look even worse: because they’d had to uproot themselves like that, I mean.

Another time, Clayton told me that it was both the cop and the mother who were “driving” the Prosecution. That is to say, both Mark Fisher and Cora Singer were pressuring the D.A. So I couldn’t know what was true. Maybe I was supposed to think that Eric Lind was not so utterly rabid after all: that he was just responding to the dictates of the other two players. But I didn’t buy it. And in any event, it seemed to me that the responsibility rested with the D.A. himself: he had to make the decision about what to charge, without passing the buck. He was the one who signed off on the prosecution. He alone had to answer for his acts. And beyond the fact of that hypocrisy it seemed to me that the little law-and-order nazi was breaking laws as well.

Clayton said that part of their collective zeal flowed from the fact that I was “an outsider”. I was “Atticus”, he said, pedantically citing a character from “To Kill a Mockingbird”. But isn’t that exactly what I should have expected from him?

I asked Clayton if it would help if I moved to Kanab: if I’d be an “insider”, then, and not treated so poorly. He said it might help– but that the police would probably harass me all the time.

*****************************************************

I asked Clayton about that new charge again. I was outraged. In the Court House, he’d only said it was “allowed”– of course. But I still couldn’t believe that such a thing was legal in my country. It seemed to put the lie to every ideal of justice I’d ever heard.

On this occasion Clayton answered it a little differently, though. He explained that the Prosecutor can add a new charge for “any reason”. But to me that was not any clearer, so I pressed the point again. So he answered it again: “He can add the charge for any reason”, Clayton enunciated, with a slightly different stress. And the way he said it that time carried the implication that it couldn’t be any clearer. So that was that: the Prosecutor could wake up in the morning and says “I really hate that guy– so I think I’ll add another charge today”. That was all that was needed.

******************************************************

Clayton related that Eric Lind had told him that child abuse was the one thing about his job that he lost sleep over– and that for that reason– because of that issue– he would not seek office again. That passion might have even made Eric Lind seem human, to me– if indeed, I could believe him. But why would I believe him? Hell, I’ll bet any Prosecutor would declaim about his passionate commitment to children. So I figured it was just more phony posturing: that the County Attorney was a slime-ball, who would pretend anything to get his way.

************************************************************

After that new offer came in the anxiety got even worse. The agony engulfed me even before I got out of bed. And getting out of bed itself was n enormous chore, because it meant I’d have to deal with my hopeless life. It meant confronting what I envisioned as my life to come– life as a felon, that is: working some toilsome job, in a place I could not stand- and where I would be treated like shit all day. It meant having myriads of options shut down to me forever too: things I’d wanted to do, like teaching. It meant I’d never be able to teach any class– at any form of school. I probably couldn’t be a river guide either- let alone be entrusted to lead a hike. And it meant much more than that: for it meant that no woman would ever want to get involved with me again. It meant eternal social pariahdom, as a sex-offender, if I were to take his deal.

I figured being a sex-offender in any town would probably include being spat upon and having golf balls thrown at me by disapproving neighbors. And it would mean being unsuitable company at any dinner table. Hell: who would even want to be my housemate anymore? Where would I live? I certainly couldn’t live at the Burton-Wurms’ house anymore. Oh, they probably would have let me stay– but I could not disgrace their home that like. I couldn’t make them a target of abuse.

*********************************************************

Thank God for Melissa. Without her I wouldn’t have made it through this.

Thank God for Leslie, Jeff and Chelsea too. I am certain I would not have survived this without them either. I think they wondered whether I would survive it too: for early on, I suspect I was on a sort of suicide watch there. And such a watch would not have been misplaced. I thought about death on a daily basis. The agony of being had be-come unbearable. And for my future I saw nothing but despair. So I thought about how I might best achieve my end.

There are a lot of ways to go. I couldn’t imagine employing any violent methods, though. I did not have access to a gun, but if I had, I’m sure I couldn’t have ended it that way. Nor could I have hung myself, nor thrown myself from a high place. Or jumped in front of a train…

I did think of gassing myself in the garage. But their old garage was just too full of holes. I thought about drowning myself too. Of course, the prospect of drowning in the hot tub for was too ridiculous for words. Nor did I think I could lie still there long enough to finish it. Of course I could have weighted myself down with stones and gone to the nearby lake…but what if I got down there and then changed my mind? So my options were quite limited.

I narrowed my choice down to a cowardly death by pills. Yes, I would take an overdose– that would be painless, and gradual. But I didn’t have any pills. And in the end, I didn’t really want to do it anyway- or I probably would have.

******************************************************

Convinced of my untenable condition, and sure that they were sending me to hell, I started to think about all the ways to lie– as surely as I’d earlier thought of all the ways to die. But not knowing what was in the rape kit sent a lot of those lies to their own untimely deaths. The possibility of “evidence” in there complicated my every scenario. For if there was any evidence there, then I would have to take the stand to explain it. I would have to testify, I mean, in order to save myself. And to do that, I would surely have to lie. It seemed so unfair, too, that some evidence might have gotten there that way. By Corissa dabbing her own vagina, I mean. It seemed like it had been divine intervention too: that God himself had ordained that circumstance to damn me- and that the rest of my time on earth would be a living hell. That ultimate abandonment by God himself rendered me half-crazy. I think that I was flirting with insanity itself!

Even worse: the law itself seemed to have been written to accommodate this very situation– as though it had been penned with my incident with Corissa in mind. And it had been penned in such a way that there seemed like no way out. My mental state and perceptions under that law didn’t even seem to matter.

Therefore, only some alternative scenario could provide my escape hatch. So I constructed countless variations, countless lies, to attempt to secure deliverance.

Early on, and with the rape-kit notwithstanding, I worked out a couple scenarios that I truly thought would work. But when the video-cassette finally arrived, it upended them too. For on that tape she’d said some stuff I hadn’t heard before. How easily a new claim can queer the whole soup.

As a result of the cassette tape I had to dream up new and more complex scenarios: like that she had in fact driven us up to the tower herself. Like that I had masturbated in the front seat, and that she’d climbed on top of me. Like that I was drugged by her, and was therefore insensate. Like that I had only invited Corissa to sit on the back lawn– or that she’d invited me. In any event, I decided she wasn’t coming with me, so I had started for my car: that she had burst outside, asking if she could drive- and that on that basis I had quickly formulated a change of plan. (So far, so good: that wouldn’t even damn me for responding to the “obvious sexual suggestiveness” of her touches in the library”– as Clayton had asserted that they were)

Yes, that could explain the impetus for our outing. But it still left a lot of my story unexplained. So I hatched more lies: that she tried to start my car, so I had leapt into the passenger seat– where I lightly, inadvertently– touched her breast. Yes, I touched it- the lie-detector is quite correct- but it was an accident. After all that damned lie-detector didn’t say a thing about intent.

But why was I on her side of the car to begin with? Well… because I guess I had just changed my shirt, which was in the back of the car, or because I was coming to get something on that side of the car, or….

Eventually even that scenario got too complicated, and I had to abandon it too. The problem with lies is that you have to remember very complex scenarios.

A variation on that scenario held that as she’d come out from the library she had asked me where I was going: that I’d said a hike, and that she’d asked if she could come too– and that as soon as we got to the trailhead, she’d attacked me. But why would I have driven only a couple hundred yards? Why wouldn’t I have left my car there by the library to take a nearby hike? Well because after the hike I was sure I’d take a nap. Hell: Corissa could walk back to the library…and also because I wanted to change my clothes. I mean, really– would you have me change my clothes on the street, in front of the library? But why would I want to change my clothes in front of her? I didn’t: I had my shorts on beneath my long pants…

In yet another scenario, she had whispered something perplexing in my ear: she wanted to tell me something important: that I had perceived her urgency there– and that once outside she directed me to drive behind the water tower, which I did, to hear her story there. That one didn’t seem very good though.

In another, once we got to the water tower we had immediately gotten out of the car– but that she had changed her mind and said she would walk back– so that I had commenced hiking by myself…that I walked to the water tower and back, and upon my return she was still waiting there: that nothing “bad” had gone on at any time.

*********************************************************

I can’t even remember all the lies I thought I’d have to tell. Nor am I even sure, anymore, of why I thought I had to tell them. Any specific one, I mean. But at one time or another I’d thought of a dozen different versions. And in each of them I got hung up, on one detail or another. There was always a problem: with chronology, or about taking off my shirt, or about where we were– and why, or about who said what, and when, to whom.

It was always in the details. Yes, the details. Truth is in the details, just as God is in the details. And the truth, by God, was that my stories didn’t cohere.

But that truth gave rise to another recognition– one of Biblical proportions too: that “the little ones shall bring down the mighty.” Something like that. And bringing me down was exactly what that little had done. I really had felt mighty, before I’d sinned with Corissa. But maybe in God’s eyes I was merely mighty of hubris: I was too big for my britches, so he’d sent her to bring me down.

As I said, some scenarios were better than others– but none were good enough.

Then I remembered that secret compartment in my dashboard- the one that had been mysteriously revealed in Wasco, when my car had broken down. For in that “revelation” I recognized a cosmic delivery– and I thought another metaphysical dynamic had unfolded there. It was a gift from God, in other words. Yes, just as he had earlier aligned the metaphysical cogs to crush me, now he had similarly sent down my deliverance there!

It meant we had an “understanding” after all– God and I. And he would show me the way out! I was actually being given divine permission to promulgate my lies!

In that God-sent scenario, we had in fact engaged in some “touching”, but it had all occurred in the front seat. Yes, she had initiated it. The way in which she’d done that, though, was that while reaching across my person to grab my cell phone– kept in that newly punched-out recess– that she had lost her balance, and to arrest her fall, had put her hand onto my crotch. Yes, that was it. We would show the jury my car, of course, and I would show them that recess. And Corissa, with her uncongealed alibis– themselves still a hash of her own multifarious intents- might even agree that it had happened just like that…and if it had happened in that way, then there would be no disagreement there– nor any fault, you see: it would have been an accident– and by admitting to that accident, she’d be held blameless, while at the same time not contradicting me– her friend. Yes, I touched his penis, would be her admission there– and initiated the events…but it was not intentional. It was misunderstanding, at best.

Then I’d bring in the mechanic from the shop in Wasco, to swear the punched-out compartment had not been there at that time: that it was created only after the event– and that Corissa, therefore, could not have reached there for my phone. At that point it would be too late for her to take it back. So she would have admitted to the inaugural event, and the subsequent events would appear to have been of her own volition!

Yes, that admission would show that Corissa was willful: that I had not coerced her somehow. She would have been caught in a lie– and then my other assertions might not fall upon deaf ears. It was a brilliant and outlandish plan! But it came from heaven.

Okay, but what other assertions would I make? Well that then she had pulled her own pants down, for starters- and that in response to that, I’d exited the car, and merely masturbated. (Yes, “merely”: on the scale of possibilities there I’d say that was among the tamest) Because she’d unexpectedly excited me, you see- and I thought that the best resolution– to the urges she’d unleashed. Then, unfortunately, after I had cleaned up she’d grabbed one of the napkins– and dabbed herself with it. Yes: that was it!

But why had I thrown the towels in the bushes? (I told you: the area was already a monument to trash) And why hadn’t I driven back to the library, straightaway? (What– with a young women sitting half out of her clothes? Besides, she’d taken my key out of the ignition– yeah, that’s it– and had refused to give it back!)

Even all that would not of itself let me of the hook, though: for there were still questions– about my having taken off my shirt (as she’d claimed on that video-cassette), and about the bicycle coming out of the back seat. The shirt problem was easy, though: I’d taken it off to change it– just as she had said. But when and why had I proceeded to remove my bicycle from the back? Shit.

Well hell: I did remove the bicycle– and why not? At that point I still thought Corissa was eighteen. Why would I have thought it wasn’t okay to let an eighteen year-old woman touch me anyhow? But that question was sticky: if I claimed I thought she was fifteen, and therefore stopped her at once, then that would open an other Pandora’s box. Or I could have said I thought she wasn’t okay in the head, but then the question of our initial motive would be brought back into play. Even saying I thought it was okay, but didn’t welcome it regardless had its own problems too.

************************************************

I still thought the hike itself could be rendered as innocent enough to explain, though. After all, there was another young woman I’d hiked with in Kanab. That was Osha. And Osha could truthfully testify that I’d been a gentleman each time.

But the point was that every scenario got complex beyond recall. And I was sure that a shrewd interrogator would trip me up with it: I’d be nervous, or transpose critical facts. There were far too many minute details involved to subsume with a simple story: for it would have to account for incongruous physical movement, a plethora of physical objects– and a seminal dab as well!

I’m a bad liar anyway. And I hated the very idea of it. I think lies are death.

*****************************************************

Just leaving Leslie’s house after that required a major marshalling of will. (Or was it a marshall majoring of will?) But when I did manage to leave, it was usually to start the day at a local coffee house. That was the Royal Grounds, in Montclair Village– down the street from where we lived. Later I discovered Gaylord’s coffee spot, in another part of town. Then that establishment quickly became my favorite. There were other lovely places to discover in Oakland too: Lake Merritt, for example– or the Observatory on the hill. So I learned that Oakland is a very livable place!

Other times I ventured down to Berkeley, and to Café Strada, by the University, where I would write my poems. Or I’d go to Moe’s Bookstore near there, where I’d get great deals on used books. I bought a lot of books, then. I still couldn’t read them, though.

I took to writing poetry, as I said. After years of being a dabbler, suddenly it was the only outlet I had. Those and my legal arguments, that is. That was a good thing, too, for looking back at some of my output, now, I am pleased with the results. It seems the trauma which had plunged me so deeply within myself also allowed me to dredge some tasty nuggets there. So poems, being my only means of self-expression, fell right off my pen. Here’s a couple of them:

GOD AS AN ADVERB (IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS THE WORD)

“JUST doing my job”

Like patriotism to the scoundrel

Another hideout for cowards

A refuge of nefarious intent

But just what does this “Just” word do?

Does it parlay the ensuing claim

Into some sacred realm

Onto some fawning plateau

Beyond critique?

Beyond reproach?

Does it transform someone’s righteous zeal

Into a moral crusade?

An imperative, perhaps?

Yes, look at him:

He’s “JUST doing his job”

And look at you too-

With your enabler’s chant

As you excuse and immunize him

It’s just his job, you say: Hush hush,

I guess he is appointed by a god.

Oooh.

And you?

You’ve given up on the world

You’ve let the scoundrels slip

Into our exalted chambers

You have enabled their intent

They mean to desecrate our icons

And it is you who have ushered them in,

On the backs of little words

Cancerous words

By which you’ve been seduced

Riding piggy-back

On all-that’s-decent’s DNA?

But take heart, do not cry:

You need no sacred icons now

For you have elevated an adverb

Into your very god

_____________________________________

UNTITLED

I:

My better eye

Tore loose from its mooring

Seeks escape velocity

Adrift and lurching

The optic nerve

Left kicking in its wake

Writhing, and collapsing

It crimps now

Like a tube too long maligned

Starved for beauty

The emaciated eye evokes evil now

And mirrors the opacity

Of the soul it betrays

This too, is upon my face

My cheeks, examined

Drooping and fatigued

Speak quite loudly too

A gooey matrix there

In a guilty configuration

Betray my cowardice

Have they turned to jelly, though?

In another cruel literality

Inscribed upon my face…

(I’m still searching for poetic ironies

As though that quest can even matter)

Even my gait becomes a shuffle

Its easy, carefree command

Yields to the apology

Of an excuse-me carriage

My bounce-step forcibly retired

By coup has been usurped.

II:

Oh that it were just my arrogance nicked:

Only my smug gloatings

weighted down by so much lead

Or by a lead that didn’t efface a window

(And cast it “imaginary”-to reveal myself in)

If only it did not describe that mirror

The jelly isn’t only for the cheeks, though

It’s for the gut as well:

That squiggling mass that heaves and pulses

With turbulence that kneads itself

Like a malevolent sea

Or a plasma of cancer cells

My heart has sickened too

I fear it is besieged

With corporeal decay.

It rasps instead of breathes

Its decline being thus christened

We can witness the descent

Of that betrayed’ vessel

Revealing its falseness, now:

Its inadequacy as the temple

Of who I wanted to be

(And of who I thought

I was destined to become)

Worse than that

It shows who I have become

Instead

What can be done here, Lord?

What can restore the crumpled temple?

Can its grandeur ever be glimpsed, anew?

___________________________________

ALSO UNTITLED:

My levee has surrendered,

Shrugged

(And) Stepped aside

In down-cast (resignation)

It has sundered its last teardrop

Worldweariness seeps in now

Tiredness camps out in my hollowed cheeks

Like a permafrost

(Staking out this new domain- I fear

Never to be relinquished.)

A manacle holds fast my elephant foot

So grievously re-weighted, thus,

I live in my temples now:

A serious mien, descended

Circumscribes my (very) head

Holding course by a single star

My rage is tempered now,

reined into that narrow band

(More Sisyphus than Damocles(?)

For Sisyphus has quit his rolling

sat down, and traded in his rock)

Taut of (resolution)

And long of visage

I am anchored for the long descent

resignation has replaced elation

(endurance has unseated) my joie de vivre

Each smile now

Is just a brief reprieve

A momentary allowance-

To live again-

And to remember having lived

Alas, and at last

I have become a mere spectator

To my own ordained decline

(a journalist)

witnessing my own decay

(Ensconced in a front-porch rocker

I stave off the final portal

in hopes I will be needed one more time)

My poor eyes (much sharper now, but also fuzzy)

Have borne (keen) witness

to the fated accident.

My personal one, that is

(The one which stalks us all

but caters to each one of us)

It’s careless foot has splayed into the aisle

And found my distracted frame

oblivious to its intent

My party tray has been upended

My carefree romp de-railed

And so face down

I recumb upon the path

(The cackling thief came in the night

And bagged what he has sought)

Relentless in my losing cause

It’s finished now- it’s done:

Success goes to the conspirators

Though ever-fiercely fought against

They have won, they have won

******************************************************

I visited the local Catholic Church each morning too. I need that spiritually, but going there also forced me out of the house– even if I didn’t want to go for coffee. There I prayed to God for my deliverance. There I would offer my earnest petitions, and confess my every sin. I vowed to devote my life to the betterment of man. I promised to be good, to be selfless, to be a conduit of mercy. I prayed my heart out. I was humble, and I was contrite. But through it all, I did not understand why God had dealt me such a card. What purpose was I called to? What sin I must remit? And I rued that this trial wasn’t the one that I had offered up, so many times in the past. Not even close. For what I had offered, in my prayers, was that he take my life– so that someone else might live. That had been my wager. this had not been it. Oh why couldn’t he have honored my more exalted offer? Why had I been forsaken? Why was my sincere remorse so meaningless?

I made another promise to God then: That I would not take an oath that invoked his name and then lie– even if it was the only way out. I decided I could lie short of that, should that be necessary– but I would not lie under oath, to God. I figured it was better to rot in prison than to lose my very soul! Next I asked God to help me find another way. But I was certain that lying was to be the only way. So I felt hopeless.

I asked Clayton what the oath is in Utah. He wrote me back and told me: it included “under penalty of perjury” but it ended with “…so help me God”. Darn. A person doesn’t have to take an oath, of course. But who will believe them if they don’t?

***************************************************************

I thought of running off to join a monastery: to devote my life to God, and to doing anonymous good deeds. I even did some on-line research, to find out where monasteries were. I looked for ones in Europe, mainly, because I figured that if I went to a monastery it would be as a fugitive, and I’d have to leave the country. Then after locating a handful of them- in agreeable countries– I even sent them emails. To my surprise I promptly got a response from one of them, but the retired monastic talked me out of it!

I also researched what countries have extradition treaties with the United States, as I further planned my flight. For there was no way I was going to go to prison for this offense– for this felony that can be committed by doing so little. Sure, I could go to prison and rot while on appeal. But in the meantime I’d probably die in there. Or be raped and killed. So it wasn’t going to happen.

In that penitential mood, I even pondered whether it would satisfy the Prosecutor if I were to move to Kanab anyway- but to wear sackcloth and ashes, and go door to door for years– confessing my depravity and begging for forgiveness.

I didn’t even know what sackcloth is– but I sure would have found out!

*********************************************************

CHAPTER NINE

******************************************************

The next court date had been set for October but I requested a delay. I could not make up my mind whether I should take the deal. Fortunately Clayton got the delay for me, and bought me time to think.

October rolled through, and yielded to November. But I was no less incapacitated.

Between the hot tub and the church, and forays to cafes– and to Melissa’s– it was all I could do to pay my bills. And I didn’t even pay those at first. I suppose, though, in retrospect, that when my sister saw me paying them, she was sure the worst was over: that I would not kill myself!

But let us not just so headlong into November. Let in instead hold November in abeyance, and consider these two months as one– October and November. For many important things happened then, for which I do not know the order. You must cut me some slack here, for my mind was near deranged. I think I was on the brink of insanity itself, and mere chronology was fleeting. Besides, every day seemed like every other: miserable. They only brought dark visitations of my life to come in hell.

But I did manage to do several things, important to our story, and all of them in here- in this eight-week corridor: this ——– monument to my bleakest days.

******************************************************

I got a viable copy of the video-cassette, for one thing: the crime-day interview with Corissa. And I watched it several times, of course. Of course I scanned it with a searching eye each time: terrified, amazed and appalled– and searching for new clues. One time it got stuck in the VCR, though, so I had to take it to a repair shop, where a repairman was able to remove it. When I picked the damned thing up, later in the day, he asked “Is that girl okay?” I felt humiliated.

The actual interview had taken place in a room in which I could see some maps upon the wall A video-camera had been set up for the occasion, and pointed at a table. Corissa sat at that table, with Mark Fisher, and another man. That other man was Alan Orton, the ————–(?). So Mark and Alan conducted the interview together.

The first thing I was struck by was Orton’s opening remark. It was “Hello Corissa– it’s been a long time”. So he knew her! I figured he had interviewed her after the incident with her father. What that suggested to me was that the rape had indeed been known about– and had been dealt with legally. And it confirmed that it had all happened a long time ago.

There’s a small point here, but one that I must make: before Alan started the interview he made reference to some of the questions he would ask as being about “bad” stuff that had happened. But I didn’t think that kind of suggestion promoted his neutrality

Early on, just as the interview was starting, Alan asked her to agree to tell the truth. She said she would, and then they shook hands about it. She readily extended her right hand in order to do that. Then she shook hand with Mark Fisher too. She also said that if she did know the answer to anything she was asked, that she would just say “pass”.

They started out asking Corissa to write down the names of her family members, and to draws some circles and some stars. After completely those tasks, Alan gave her some illustrated pictures, and asked her to identify the body parts on there. She did that as well. Alan also asked her to give some alternative names that she might know to any body parts, “so that we can all know we were talking about the same things”. He used an example of the elbow, and said that for example some people might call it a funny bone. She chuckled at that. Then she gave an example of her own, citing “dick” for penis. But she never substituted pussy for vagina, as she had done with me!

Then Alan and Mark moved on to the specific events that concerned them that day. Doing that, they repeatedly queried her, and often backtracked from her replies.

As the interview unfolded, I observed that Corissa seemed quite calm (not the

least bit “traumatized”, as Eric Lind would later have us believe.) She also, unfortunately, came across as more challenged than I recalled: she stuttered at times, and fidgeted, and couldn’t get her story straight. That was obviously bad for me. But I had not seen those behaviors when I was with her– not the stuttering, at least. In retrospect playing with my cell phone might have been fidgeting.

I also noticed that she was wearing a one–piece swimsuit then, under her clothes. That suggested that there was at least one thing I had been correct about: that a family–outing of sort had indeed been afoot– that she’d brought her swimsuit that day so that she could go swimming.

What else? Well, she exhibited that determined sociability that I had never doubted. She seemed to have a real liking for Mark Fisher, too: a crush, you might even say. She referred to him as “my good buddy”, and as she did that she slapped his arm. She also amused me once when she momentarily diverted her attention to him, and asked him “Is there anything else you’d like to say, before we move on?”

Her reporting, in any event, as I said, was confounding, and confused. She seemed to have a hard time pinpointing where we’d been in the car. She kept claiming conflicting locations, I mean, for where all the activity had occurred: now we were in the front seat, now we were in the back. But she made it sound like we’d been mostly in the front. And that made for some rather difficult to comprehend gymnastics.

But even while with me she’d made a bunch of claims that were contradictory.

In addition to being confusing her story was embellished quite a bit. She reported that I had said “Hey, Baby”, for example, and “Come on, baby”, and that I’d called her “gorgeous”, too. Well I don’t believe that I had said any of those things– and they don’t even sound like things I’d say. But when she claimed I’d said she had pretty eyes, I was sure that that was true. She did have pretty eyes– and I’d be surprised if I had not said so.

Along those lines, she asserted, that when I touched her she said “Buddy, you’re going too far!” Hearing that claim there amused me once again.

But in addition to the mere embellishments, there were several obvious lies. But that was no surprise either. For one thing she claimed she’d told the Librarian she was going outside “for fresh air”. She also claimed we’d walked out together– and that I’d told her I wanted to take her picture then. And she claimed I’d said “let’s go” to her, in the library, and that she’d suggested that we go look at books instead. “Let’s go” didn’t sound like me either. I think I would have said something more like “Are you ready?”— which was what I had done. She also claimed she’d recognized Mark Fisher’s car as he drove up, and said to herself “Thank God– Officer Fisher’s here”. Finally she said she’d gone into the Children’s Room, while we were in the Library.

Alan Orton asked her where she thought we were going, as we drove off. There she really threw me for a loop. Her reply was a glib declaration that “I thought he was going to hurt me like Leon did” I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO HURT ME LIKE LEON DID! FUCK! To that, Alan asked how Leon had hurt her, and to that she drew a breath. Then she exhaled. But it didn’t seem so much like pain being revisited as exasperation to have to talk about it again! She never did answer the question, though.

She said that before we got into the car I’d said “Here, let me move some stuff”. That sounded correct to me as well.

But onward now to the more prurient things:

She claimed I had touched her breast and her vagina- but she never said that I had touched her ass. But even those contentions emerged as piecemeal compilation– of activities claimed for different times. I mean that her tale was not linear. It did not cohere.

More specifically, she said I’d touched her breasts with my hands. She repeated that claim several times. But it wasn’t clear whether she’d meant I’d touched her breasts once, or whether several times. It also wasn’t clear whether she meant one breast, or two. Or whether I’d used one hand, or two. For in those oft-repeated contentions was revealed a potpourri of contradictions– rendered even more confounding by the fact that each time she claimed that touching she demonstrated it as well– because each time she demonstrated it she did it differently: now with one hand, now with two; now the left breast, now the right!

Several times she repeated the claim that I had unfastened her bra. Meanwhile she demonstrated that action too– in several different ways. First she reached around her own right side, which would have been the side away from me! Then another time she reached behind her back, and simulated undoing it herself. When she did that one, I exulted: for I saw that her unconscious body language there had finally revealed the truth!

I must tell you– for whatever it’s worth– that I listened to that tape a dozen times before I made out this next part: she said I started “sucking on her boobs”. Then I had to rewind it again to make sure I’d heard that right. SUCKING ON HER BOOBS! But I was sure she’d made that up. I wondered if she’d brought other memories into our encounter.

And she claimed I’d touched her vagina with my penis. First she said I hadn’t done that, though, and then she said I had. And of course that disclosure was the truth. I had indeed contacted her vagina– and with my penis– but it was really she who had touched me like that, when she had tried to straddle me. I’ve told you all this twice. All that had happened with no encouragement from me either. I mean that I did not suggest it to her or even see it coming. And at the time it happened, I was not even wishing for such a thing.

She said that had happened in the front seat too. Asked again, though, she said that it had happened in the back. She said I’d taken the mountain bike out of the car, so we could get in there. Just the mountain bike, though, which helped me, I was sure.

Mark Fisher asked her whether I had attempted to penetrate her vagina with my

penis, and she said that I had not. Thank God for that much! She also claimed– at first–

that all of that had happened in the front seat!

She said she had taken off her shirt, and she claimed I’d taken mine off too. On that point it is odd, though, because I don’t remember doing that either– yet I know I did. That’s because when I left the library I’d had two shirts on, and when I was arrested I was wearing only one. She asserted she’d seen my chest as well. Oh shit! But she demon-strated that maneuver for them too: recreating the way I’d taken off my shirt, I mean. She said that I was wearing two shirts, and that I had complained about the heat as I shed one of them. So she made that shedding seem quite innocent. But when exactly did I do that?

Alan Orton asked if I had any tattoos that she’d seen. She indicated that I did not, which is true. Then she volunteered that I didn’t have any piercings either.

She claimed that I told her to take her pants off, and for them she vocally recreated her response. it was a sort faux-resigned “all right”. No, not like she was resigned to her fate, but more like a concession that of something she’d wanted to do. That was an interesting claim- but it had not happened like that anyway.

Later in the tape she disclosed that her mother had deliberately broken something of hers once, to punish her for lying. Hearing that disclosure evoked two simultaneous thoughts from me. One was a specter of family violence, in her home. It proved nothing, but it sure raised my hackles. The other was that she had given us even more evidence to believe she lies– and that was good for me. I recalled that the librarian, in her statement, had all but said Corissa lies. So I was sure that trait of hers was known to all concerned.

******************************************************

So her testimony was a strange and muddled blend of these different types of representations: of truths, embellishments, inconsistencies, and lies. The problem was in sorting them all out– and in ascribing motives to her efforts. For her inconsistencies did not appear to me to be merely confused.

To the uninitiated, watching that tape– and after seeing all the stuttering too– it might have seemed that it was only because she was challenged that her story lacked coherence: that she was incapable of recreating events, from the stew which was her mind. But I saw something different there, again. In part, I saw a well-intentioned but clumsy effort to maintain the spirit of our agreement– the one she had belatedly proposed, before she ran down the hill… that she was striving for a middle ground, you see… and that that was one of several considerations she wanted to promote, in the telling of her tale.

Another consideration was to deny the idea that she’d taken any initiatives, sexually. Another was to diminish the severity of the situation, so as to show that even though this situation was not to her credit, that it had not been all that bad. Yes, really. I proffer this theory timidly, however, in fear of losing any sympathy I’ve won from you. But I proffer it nonetheless: that she was also posturing, as she testified, to appeal that whatever level of freedom and trust she’d garnered from her guardians– to conduct her own affairs, I suppose– should not be taken away. Something like that: that she’d handled the situation deftly, more or less– and through her eyes– I even dare to say… and that things had not really progressed to the point that she should be in huge trouble. Yes, that was why her story was surrendered only piecemeal as it was. Her account was not muddled because she was… confused!

Yet another consideration of her was an effort to portray me as one who had not done her wrong… so that in that consideration she was trying to protect me too: trying hard to “not tell anybody”, that is, perhaps. Yes, I have the audacity to postulate all this.

Yes, it’s also true that that “rape” cry lent no credence to that theory. But she was pretty agitated when she’d made that claim. And remember that she never repeated it. Maybe she really didn’t want to tell those people anything at all. It’s just that she was a bad liar, and easily tripped up… and she wanted to appease her old friend Mark

Finally, that interview was conspicuous for something else she did not say. For she did not claim that she’d objected to my driving her away. I mean that she did not claim to have cried ”No, no– I don’t want to go!”– or anything else like that!

****************************************************

Clayton alerted me to something I had missed. It was that in relating her tale, on that video-cassette, she claimed she had rolled down my car window. And by way of explaining her reason for rolling down my window, she’d said she felt “dehydrated”. He honed in on that because of her vocabulary usage there: he thought that using such a word showed she was actually quite advanced. And that may even be true– but to me his attention there was just a grappling at straws.

Its real significance for me lay elsewhere, however. But explaining that significance to you, dear reader, I’m afraid will have to wait- and for a very long time.

But I will share this at this time, lest you feel betrayed, by being led down some primrose paths: it was that her claim to having rolled down my window was obviously wrong. My Subaru had electric windows, you see! She could not have rolled it down!

Oh yes: on the video-cassette she also said she’d felt afraid of me– and that her “legs were shaking” Shit! That claim hit me right upside the head. And that claim also came to have greater significance later. But when I first heard it, I wondered whether that was what was happening at the bottom of the hill– whether that was the real reason she could not climb!

I raised the hypothetical issue of Corissa having touched me with her vagina. But

Clayton didn’t think that that situation– if indeed it had happened that way- would make a damned bit of difference. His opinion was that I was splitting hairs. In his mind, it was up to me to make sure Corissa didn‘t do any such thing– and that if she had, I was still to blame: that her touch was equivalent to my touch, in other words!
Great: so just as surely as her invitation was really my coercion, now her touch was really my touch.

************************************************

I thought about that tape obsessively. I was still aghast in thinking about the implications of what she might have said. If she had repeated that “rape” accusation, for example- or if she’d claimed I had attempted penetration– then I would have been facing

another very serious charge. If she had done that, I suspect, I’d still be in jail!

And I figured I was lucky that that interview had been conducted so soon after the

fact, before anyone had had a chance to coach her– before anyone thought of things to tell her she should say: like that I had had intercourse with her, for example. Can you imagine the legal charges then? …Or what the bail would have been? On the other hand, coached lies could be double-edged sword too, because if she lied badly after being coached, well, we’d have those on tape too!

In any event, Corissa had not come across as angry, in the interview. In fact, she had not seemed very upset at all- with anyone. She was pretty matter-of-fact, really: not even marginally disturbed. And all that suggested that her reportage was not maliciously intended. The stuff Corissa embellished in the tale did not seem designed to hurt me.

But if she was not inventing, then why did she say that I had touched her breast?

Had I? And why did she say she’d taken her shirt off? Had she? Or had she brought that detail in from some other encounter?

Obviously just because I didn’t remember doing something doesn’t mean I didn’t do it: and she wouldn’t have to have had her shirt off for me to have touched her breast. Nor would I have had to see them– bare or clothed– in order to have touched them.

Later I realized it wouldn’t have been a problem to my defense if I’d taken my shirt off at any time. But why would she have seen my chest– if I’d only removed my outer shirt? Well perhaps I’d taken them both off, and put the thinner one back on. Or maybe I’d pulled the lower up while taking off the outer? …

Or maybe I did take my shirt off too– at the same time as she– but don’t remember either of those events: which is odd, because that means I clearly remembered taking off my pants– but once again couldn’t remember a more benign act– like taking off my shirt.

*************************************************

Clayton implored Eric Lind not to make me have to face prison over this thing. He pled with him not to destroy my life– and to keep me off the sex-offender list.

So Eric Lind agreed to put together another deal that would keep me off the list. Then Clayton phoned me to tell me about it: he said they were putting together a new deal that he thought I would like. Then he added that I would not have to be on the sex-offender registry unless I caused “any other problems”.

But his voice dripped with faux exasperation as he said that phrase. He drew the words out: separating each of them and letting them expand in his mouth. And he accented them with a poetic diction too: a (trochaic bimeter?), I suppose– stressing the first syllable of every word. But the accent on “prob” was especially heavy– and especially drawn out. So the phrase sounded like either a paean to irony or an existential lament. The effect was as if to paint me as having some sort of history of trouble-making: like I have repeatedly tried everyone’s patience– and that I were somehow– by the grace of God– getting yet another chance. And I resented that– coming from my own attorney.

Then he told me what the offer was. But it was another terrible offer, from that vindictive son-of-a-bitch. It called for a second-degree felony settlement to replace the AK charge, and for another second-degree felony– but in abeyance– to keep me off the offender list. So now he wanted two felonies! Well at least the one in abeyance would turn into an A misdemeanor– after three years. But the other would remain a felony. So I’d have a felony on my record, at the end of all of this– and a misdemeanor too.

In addition, I would have to undergo three months of Psychosexual evaluation, in a Utah State facility. But aside from that stint, he would agree to stipulate “no prison”.

Oh: there could be fines too, of course: up to $10,000 worth. And there could be a year in jail– or maybe less. But maybe I’d just be able to get electronic bracelets, instead, Clayton said– and do my time at home.

ELECTRONIC FUCKING BRACELETS? Was he out of his mind?

Clayton clarified that part would be up to the Judge.

Then there was the fact that I could still get sued…

Not that I had anything left to take, that is. But I still thought that I would some-day. Getting sued meant my whole life would be screwed until the furthest reach of time.

*****************************************************

The rape-kit posed a very nagging problem. I kept agonizing about it too, of course. Wondering what was in it. Well it was standard procedure to do a rape-kit, of course, for any circumstance involving rape accusations. I knew that already– so it didn’t surprise me that they’d done one. But it ate at me that nothing had been said about it yet. Nothing had been claimed, I mean– about what was found inside. So I was scared to death.

At first I thought it was just more of their deviousness, that they had made no claim about it: that they were just delaying things again. But the fact was that they hadn’t opened it yet. I learned that from Clayton. You see, in order to find out what clues it might yield, someone would have to pay to process it. And processing it was expensive.

Since then, I have learned even more. Like that most rape-kits never get opened: that they are powerful weapons for a Prosecutor to wield– even while still sealed. That’s because the fear of what the kit might yield often drives accused men to take a plea– lest opening it becomes necessary, and their guilt established! So the guilty man sweats and worries and then generally folds. On the other hand if Prosecution opens the kit and there is nothing damning in it– then a big part of their case gets shot to hell! And then Prosecution would have to “fess up” about that finding too, because of that obligation to turn over exculpatory evidence: they would have to admit that nothing was revealed!

Well Eric Lind was all about bluffing and fucking around anyway. So he wasn’t gonna’ open it. He would never risk it– especially since no claim of penetration had been made. In other words, whatever evidence was in there would stay there, unless one of us paid to see it.

Not that Eric Lind needed to prove that particular contact anyway, as I have said. But obviously, if they found my fluids in there, then that would be quite damning: It would show a more egregious contact than just touching her breast would be. And it would be a “proven“ contact too, instead of an alleged one. Or that was how a jury would see it, anyway. But that tormented me, because she’d dabbed her own vagina. If there was any evidence of my fluids there, it was because she’d put it there herself. My fluids wouldn’t prove a contact at all. But who would believe that? And who would even care?

********************************************************

Eventually I asked Clayton to ask the Prosecutor what was in the kit. So he did- albeit reluctantly. His reluctance had shown itself correct, however, for doing that was a mistake. “I’d like to know what’s in there too”, the dick-head Prosecutor said. And I’ll bet he smirked as he said that. Our mistake was that just by asking we’d showed that we had fear.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapters 10 thru 12

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER TEN

***************************************************

I asked Melissa to watch the video with me, so she did– to my humiliation. But since she was so smart and insightful, I couldn’t exclude her point of view. And I didn’t want to shut her off from my pain. She was the best friend I had.

Letting her in on it was a brilliant idea, it turned out, because she illuminated many things. For one, she said “I could see why you thought she was eighteen”. Phew! That was the keenest thing she could have said. For I had started wondering how I could have possibly thought Corissa was an adult. I’d become too polluted with the video version of Corissa, and it was crowding out my own memories!

She also said that at first glance, she’d thought Corissa was a prostitute. Wow! I still don’ know why she thought that. Perhaps it was because of a hardness in her face. Corissa’s face, I mean. And Corissa did have a hardness in her face– it was true. She was cute, but the hardness was present too. I had thought that was explained by the rage of her situation. But Melissa thought she saw something else. I still think Melissa was wrong about that, though. But it got my paranoia working again. It provoked anew the suspicion of substrata there that I couldn’t know… But how could she have been a prostitute? No, it simply didn’t make sense. And the fact that she’d never seen ejaculate before killed that idea for good. But with that assertion the idea of a set-up could not completely go away.

She pointed out several other things– though I don’t know how she knew them: like that the mores of a mentally-challenged person are different, for one thing: that they lack in shame and guilt… Like that a sexually abused girl becomes “sexualized” as a result of the abuse: by having that “knowledge” thrust upon her before she’s ready– and that as a result she often becomes promiscuous. That’s obvious stuff, really– but I’d never thought about it.

Then she opined that Corissa really had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome! Wow! And wouldn’t that fit in oh so very well– to the family dynamics I had already postulated?

Melissa told me that when she was fourteen she’d gotten into a car with an older man and that he had tried to fondle her.

I asked her why she’d gotten into the car at all.

“Because when you’re that age you do things you’re not supposed to!”

That seemed to me to be a pretty good answer.

And she agreed with me that they were persecuting me out of all proportion to reason. She agreed that they were evil too.

***************************************************

One day while we were discussing my case Melissa stopped in mid-sentence. She paused and looked off, as though tuning into something in the air. It was just like what E.K. had done that time in Flagstaff. When she re-engaged with me, a moment later, she had reached the same conclusion that EK. had: “I think that this will be okay”, she said. Man, that was great! It was strange, though, that with E.K. that psychic revelation had happened immediately, whereas with Melissa it took a lot of time. Nevertheless, I had two judgments, then, drawn from “woman’s intuitions”–and the verdict was good for me.

But neither of them said exactly what “okay” would mean. And I, of course– just like me– didn’t think to ask.

*********************************************************

Later, despite what Melissa said, I convinced myself anew that I’d been full of shit to think Corissa was eighteen. Or that she was not severely retarded. And so I concluded that I had concocted this whole version of events that I told you about: that I was a schizophrenic, who has conveniently forgotten not just that, but whole violent episodes of my life– and who has substituted innocent tales in their place– so that other criminal episodes were therefore buried in my past. From there, it did not take me long to convince myself that I was some kind of psychopath. I even started wondering where I’d buried all my victims– and how many molested children I’d left in my immoral wake.

That new self-assessment was triggered by a dream. But I’m not sure whether it was a real dream, or just an early morning delusion. In either case, the image was the same: it was the truth being revealed to me- the truth I’d not dared face: that I ordered Corissa to get into the car, and I drove away despite her pitiful screams… I told her to shut up, and in a rage I scratched her belly– as a warning of what I might do… I told her that I would have my way with her, and I cackled as I whisked her, terrified, away. Yes, that was it. That was how it had really happened. And my version of events was just a schizophrenic invention! It was just a brilliant cover story, from my fecund imagination!

That revelation possessed my mind, and paralyzed my self-justification.

But not for long, Thank god. For it did not hold up either– any better than my lies had. Contradictions kept getting in the way, so in the end, I couldn’t buy it. I was too sure Corissa had caught up to me, outside the Library, and had requested the ride. And why on earth would she have done that then immediately protested that she didn’t want to go?! No, my half-asleep psychopathic scenario just did not compute.

Besides, if a person really objected, while I was driving, I think I know what I would do: I would stop the car, or turn around, or ask if she was sure. So my delusion kept revealing itself as exactly that. Phew! Shit: unless– of course– even the events outside the library had been my invention too… And that would mean my version of events inside the library would be suspect too.

Fortunately, the events outside the Library held firm– like a dam against the perpetuation of my own psychotic illusion… Because I couldn’t get past that barrier, to persuade myself that I was wrong. Even Dickie Robinson had confirmed that I’d left the Library before Corissa had. Phew! And I could not doubt that she had asked me for the ride– nor that she later defended me as her friend. So the barrier held. Try as I might, I couldn’t push my psychopathic delusion back beyond that threshold. It kept snaring on the facts.

I couldn’t convince myself that everything I remembered from the library and outside was just a figment of my criminal imagination. Thus, I remained sane… And if I was sane, then that meant I was right: Corissa did not cry out like that.

Thank God for Dickie Robinson: her statement may have saved my very sanity!

But no sooner did I think I had that settled than on another day I had another psychic visitation. Another nightmare conquered me, and it too commandeered my mind. It was that while Corissa and I were on that hillside that she had made that protest there. So I succumbed anew.

I hadn’t thought of that! I had only heard the claim of what Corissa cried– and all along I’d assumed it was supposed to have happened during our departure from the library. But in this new version I saw that it was while I was bounding ahead of her on the hillside that she had cried out like that. Yes– it was while hiking to those water towers that she had objected– in the moments just before I came back down to take her by the hand! Her shriek had been no mere shriek at all. It had been that cry, that “No, no–I don’t want to go”… but in my distance, and in my deafness, I had not understood her! Oh God: she really was a terrified victim. And I really did drag her screaming up the hill!

In time I realized that that didn’t make sense either. For Corissa had smiled at me, and beamed, before we climbed up that hill. Besides, I was only in front of her for a few seconds, so there would not have been time for her to have uttered it even once. No, I was wrong again.

Besides, it was after that that she’d told me not to tell anybody. Phew! And it was also after that that she’d defended me as her friend! Phew!

Again the facts had delivered me from a very good delusion– and the resolution of that had erected a barrier at that end of the encounter too. So my delusion was hemmed in then: jailed, that is, between the dam at the Library, and the obstruction on the hill! My psychotic alter-ego was thoroughly reined in, then: squeezed, he could neither breach the library barrier nor survive the pilgrimage up the hill!

The fear I had of a multiple personality got “arrested”, while going up that hill. The things Dickie said saved me by the library, and the things Corissa had said and done had saved me on the hill! I hadn’t made any of it up!

***********************************************************

But there was still a huge problem, because Mark Fisher had omitted a crucial claim from his report. Or more accurately, I think, he had conveniently omitted it, inasmuch as it would not support his un-abating zeal.

I am talking, of course, about Corissa having defended me as her friend. And unfortunately, not only had he not reported it, but she had not claimed it either– on the video-cassette. Uh oh! That meant that an enormous piece of exculpatory evidence was missing from my deck!

I trembled for another reason too: because what if I had never thought of that scenario, and been blindsided by it at trial? I mean, what if I had not been warned that Corissa would say something of the magnitude of that “No, no” claim, and I had never thought of such a thing either, to refute… and that she claimed it for the first time there, only to find me defenseless, because I could not refute the claim. What if I hadn’t had that eerie visitation, and hadn’t had time to think…and had been caught with my pants down there? Shit! Then I realized that there were lots of other such possibilities out there too: lots of other lies they might make up. So I had to think of everything: to figure out how to defend against any fantasy they might claim.

That was a daunting prospect, too, given the slowness of my mind: given that my every important insight through all this had had to incubate for months! And given that there was still that block of time about which I remembered nothing at all: the drive itself–from the library to the water tower: the block of amnesia that still perched like a minefield between the bookends– of those psychotic scenarios I had managed to dismiss.

It meant that erecting those bookend barricades had not put the matter to rest: even though I had blocked both avenues of escape– for my psychotic alter-ego– his tendencies might still have found reign somewhere in between. How the hell could I say that they had not?

That meant that Corissa alone held the key. Only sweet Corissa could set me free, by revealing what had happened. She was indeed, the only other person who’d been there. But there was no saying what she might claim!

******************************************************

I e-mailed several other friends that I hadn’t contacted yet, to tell them I was in trouble. I asked them to pray for me, and to know I was in pain. I got some touching responses too. I especially remember the one I got from Cathy, who I’d worked with in Lake Tahoe. She had been the girlfriend of my first housemate there, and we’d become friends too. And like all the women that I am very fond of, she was very smart.

By this time of which I write, she’d left Tahoe, and was living in Colorado. But we had kept in touch. Mostly it was to swap email jokes and stuff, but with occasional genuine exchanges thrown in. Anyway, I told her about my circumstance, and said I feared that I would “never be the same”. Well she emailed me back, full of sorrow for my plight. Much to my surprise, she divulged that she had spent several months in jail– a couple years before. She had been caught with a controlled substance, it seemed, and now she was a Felon! And she said that she too feared that she would never be the same!

But why, I wondered, had she not told me that that was going on at the time? Well hell: I knew the answer, without having to be told. It was because she was ashamed. Cathy was just like me.

*******************************************************

There is no interstate extradition for a misdemeanor charge. That means that if Eric Lind had charged a misdemeanor– and I had left the state– that he could not compel me to return there, from any other state. But this is all information learned much later: I did not know that then. And that knowledge wouldn’t have kept me out of Utah anyway, if it had been a factor. For the idea that I would choose to never return to that red-rock wonderland would draw an incredulous guffaw from anyone who knew me.

Besides, I would have returned to face a misdemeanor, with the lesser stakes it held. It did not seem worth it to be a fugitive for that.

So it was ironic that a misdemeanor wouldn’t have kept me out of Utah, but that a felony would. Or at least the AK one would. Because if that felony stuck at “prelim” it would have sent me on the lam… And if I had gone on the lam, I would have done that overseas. Then I’d probably never see those magnificent slot canyons again. And that’s what would have killed me. Isn’t that delicious? The kind of scenery down there is repeated nowhere else on earth. Those sheer walls, those tamarisk-lined banks, those sub-lime arches, and those natural mazes had possessed me far too long. It had become part of my blood, by then: a vital fluid. And without occasionally fresh infusions of it I’d surely wither up and die!

And when the Glen Canyon Dam gets decommissioned, no force on earth will keep me away from the treasures it will reveal: those treasures falsely imprisoned, and too long hidden from our view.

*********************************************************

I knew that I’d committed an offense, of course, and I understood that I would have to pay a price for it: to be punished, I mean. And I felt genuine and deep remorse. Perhaps I still have not made that clear. But I believed in proportion too, and that meant that a punishment should fit a crime. Since I could not believe a felony had been com-mitted in my case, then as long as they were pushing for a felony, my heels were dug in.

Had they started out by charging this as a misdemeanor, well I probably would have squawked at that as well. I think most anyone faced with a crime wants to fight it. But they did not charge that: so I was compelled to fight. And in that fight I encountered such enormous evil that I even came to think I was fighting evil itself. So I don’t want you to interpret my recalcitrance as a lack of remorse.

Besides, we must not think that extradition concerns had anything to do with Eric Lind’s zeal anyway. If it had, then that’s a problem in itself. It would mean that he was persecuting me beyond what even he thought was warranted- just because I lived out of the state. And if extradition had been his main concern, he could have offered a plea-in-abeyance at any time. A plea-in-abeyance to a felony, I mean. That way he still could have “controlled” me. He could have even asked for the Sex Offender registry, as part of that deal. It doesn’t mean I would have accepted that offer, but the point is he could have offered it, but didn’t. So he wasn’t pushing this thing so hard because of extradition.

********************************************************

What if I had gone on the lam? I’ve tried to imagine that life for myself. What would I do? Where would I go? Well, to the Monastery, I suppose. But for how long could that be an answer? And what would happen as my parents got old? Or what if they should die?- as they surely will one day. And what about my friends? Well perhaps they would come to visit. But what of my inheritance? Yes, of course I thought of that. How would I even take possession it? I guess that in a monastery I wouldn’t need it anyhow.

But if I fled, I might still be able to fight this thing, from afar. How? In epistolary fashion, perhaps: through letters, that is. By writing to Senators, Congressmen, Governors, and assorted organizations. By doing those I might make some inroads– upon this parallel Utah geology: this convoluted landscape of un-American laws.

********************************************************

As I said, I never lied to Clayton. I did, however, send him letters full of hypothetical situations. They were of the nature of “what if this had happened, or what if it had been that instead”. That was because I wanted to tell him the entire story, while preserving deniability for him at the same time. See, all along I’d been willing to tell him anything he wanted to know. But he’d warned me at our very first meeting that if I should say something had really happened in a certain way then he could not let me say anything else– if I should ever testify.

I would not perjure myself anyway– having made that vow to God. So anything I said on the stand would have to be the truth. I could dissimulate until that point, though– and I could still help Clayton make for me the best case that he could.

So I sent letters full of truthful revelations, but I couched them in dreams. I’d say “Clayton, last night I had a dream”, and then I’d use the device of relating that dream to divulge the facts. There I also suggested plausible alternative explanations, to account for my behavior- that Clayton could then use to bluff that bastard Lind.

The plausible scenarios were culled from my sack of lies: that I’d merely invited Corissa to sit outside; that I had never intended to take the car; that behind the tower I’d merely masturbated– and that she’d jumped on top of me: or that at the water-tower I’d gotten out and left the car right away.

At the same time, in those appeals, I was trying to imbue him with my point of view. I wanted him to see this event through my eyes: to understand my mind-set, and why I did the things I had done. I wanted him to understand that I was a good and sympathetic person too– and that my behavior displayed laudable motives too.

But not a one of my arguments or appeals seemed to reach him- to penetrate his brain. Clayton was of the opinion that Corissa could not consent. And once he had concluded that, it did not matter what I believed. Or who I was. And he was sure the law– and a jury– would not care either. He was convinced that a jury would crucify me– if they thought I had so much as touched her.

He dug in hard on that point of view, and barraged me with it mercilessly. “I am not going to tell you what you want to hear”, he said, urgently. “She cannot consent: there is strict liability on that point”.

“She cannot consent. She cannot consent”. It sounded like a mantra. But there was no question in his mind about it. “Maybe if she was sixteen”, he said…”or fifteen and not handicapped…” But she was neither, or both, and so she could not consent. In addition, he asserted, I was “in denial” to believe anything else. But I kept believing– so he thought me thick, and stupid, that I could so not hear.

********************************************************

“The Prosecutor will claim that just by having opened the door for Corissa that you were enticing her”, Clayton said. Incredible! If I had enticed Corissa, then the “lack of consent” element would have been satisfied. But I didn’t know what was more incredible: that they would even argue such an absurd thing– or that he thought they might be right.

He said that if I were his own son he’d advise me to take the deal. And I did actually like that about him: that he thought along those lines, I mean. “But if you insist on fighting this thing”, he said, “I’ll give you the best defense I can”. Unfortunately his voice did not exude confidence, as he said that. Instead he exhaled as he said that, and it sounded like resigned defeat. “But it’s at your own peril”, he added.

He hammered me with the merits of taking the deal: because no prison was assured. “Of course, there’s no saying whether the judge would throw you in jail”, he said. I didn’t know then that Lind could have also asked for no jail too. It just never occurred to me. For some reason I still assumed that jail was entirely in the Judge’s hands. Nor did it occur to me that I might counter-bargain. I assumed all of that was in my Attorney’s hands.

I kept arguing. And Clayton kept rebutting. He seemed exasperated with me.

In one of his rebuttals Clayton admonished me that “juries distrust sophistry… convoluted or intellectually rationalized positions that defy common sense.” In another exchange Clayton told me that I was “too smart– by half”. His voice changed as he said that last word too: It came out as though it had been ushered out– by a gush of air. But his meaning was lost on me. It was he who did not get it, I was sure. And I thought some of his arguments defied common sense too… Like that one about opening the car door being “enticement” had been.

Later he argued that “enticement” could be construed if “you did not oppose a young and obviously impaired girl’s enthusiasm to go along with you”. But to me that interpretation was even more tortured than the first. It had become absurd: first I was guilty because I’d lured her, now I was guilty because I’d failed to oppose her. Bah!

He said it was up to me to have prevented her from jumping on top of me, behind the water tower. But that was tortured too. Was it his argument– or theirs? It seemed like instead of arguing that I was guilty of restraint now they were complaining that I had not restrained her. That omission, apparently, made me guilty of…well, a restraint, I guess.

I remember another exchange that took place in his presence. But it’s hard to figure out when that exchange took place. We’d only been together three times, at that point, and since I don’t think it occurred in his office, then it must have occurred after the aborted PH. But that doesn’t seem right either. It doesn’t “fit” there, I mean. It’s an enigma.

But the exchange is still quite clear. For Clayton abruptly started an interrogation about the events of the crime. He asked “Okay, so you were on Corissa’s left side?” But because of the suddenness of his shift of direction, I assumed Clayton had meant to take things from the top. I assumed, I mean, that he was asking about the events in the library. So I said. “No, I was on her right”. Clayton raised his eyebrows at that, and challenged “I thought you said that you were on her left?” So I assured him that I’d been on her right. And at that, Clayton sputtered. He was flustered. I think he must have thought I was lying– because he had really been asking me about the events in the car!

So my appeals to Clayton were agonizing, and futile, and misunderstood. They consisted largely of trying to make inroads against his timid final judgment– while also steeling myself against his unyielding poor advice.

He was sure I did not understand how serious this was.

And I could not get him to see how misunderstood it had been.

**************************************************************

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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I called Michael Shaw, at his number in St. George. Michael was that other Attorney that Michael Gentle had suggested to me that morning in Kanab: the one who had been too busy to talk to me the day I’d first met with Clayton. But this time I reached him easily– being patched on through directly. We talked for the better part of an hour.

He was 41 years old, and loquacious. He interjected about his girlfriend quite a bit. Then he segued into the topic of young women. He said that sometimes when he sees some particularly stunning teenaged girl, he says to himself “My God– she’s got no business being so sexy, at so young an age”. His point was not confessional, but intended just to underscore a larger truth; that some girls as young as about thirteen are really very pretty, and that for an older man to notice that is not at all unusual. I was really glad he said that, too. Until then, I wouldn’t have dared say it out loud. Certainly not during this ordeal, anyway.

Then we moved on to other things:

I suggested that the prosecutors should have taken some sort of scraping sample from Corissa’s scratches, to check for my DNA. So he educated me about that, telling me that the most likely place for any kind of evidence there would have been under my own fingernails– and not on her belly at all.

But he agreed with me that the lie-detector business seemed dodgy.

I asked him about Clayton Huntsman: whether I could place my confidence in him. To that he just said “I haven’t seen Clayton do anything in years”. And in his words I sensed the hollow din of a truth, again putting into words something I had suspected. My suspicion was that before the cancer that Clayton had been formidable, but that now, in his remission, he had lost something off his fastball. I could understood how that might result, of course, but that did not help me any.

Then I asked if he might take my case, because he seemed so much more responsive. I mean that he seemed to already have a keener and more intuitive understanding of my case than Clayton had. But he would not take it on: he said he wasn’t sure he’d be the best person for the job. Instead he suggested some other lawyers: some heavy-hitters– all of them in Salt Lake City. One was Brad Rich. He named one of Rich’s partners too, whose name I have forgotten. But above even those he exalted the name of Walter Bugden, and his voice even rose in homage as he unfurled that name.

Before he hung up, Michael gave me some very good advice: “Trust your instincts”, he said– but he didn’t mean about Clayton. He meant in proceeding with my case. Then he said- and to my great relief: “Usually these things get resolved in a way that everyone can live with”. I certainly hoped that was true.

But something about the name of Walter Bugden rubbed me wrong. Just hearing it, I imagined someone who wore a bow-tie, and effected a phony country-lawyer sort of mien. Even though Michael recommended him most highly, he did not sound like the person I needed.

So I called Brad Rich.

********************************************************

To this day I have I have never seen Brad Rich, so I can only tell you about his voice. It was deep and resonant, and conveyed masculine authority. We spoke only briefly, though. He kept the conversation short. He told me he would take a look at my case, but that he’d need a thousand dollars just to do it. I had to think about that.

I asked Melissa what she thought– not just about the thousand, but about bringing in a “heavy hitter”. I explained that it might cost me $30,000: whereas “taking the deal” might only cost me 10. Ten thousand, that is, and that would be for fines. I was loathe to bring it down to money, but what can a person do?

She said that I should do it: bring in a heavy hitter. After all, she reminded me, some people will spend $30,000 on a car. Besides, she said, I only seem to be at all myself when I am up and fighting.

There was another problem concerning money too: for Clayton had taken my money with the understanding that he was defending me against a single felony. Then he threw the misdemeanor in for free, after Eric Lind had added it. But now, he told me, if I should fight the higher charge– he’d need another $8500!

So it could easily reach $10,000 either way. Fighting or folding, I mean.

***************************************************

I thought it was shitty that the Prosecution could force me to spend so much more money– those dirty-dealing bastards. Well Clayton addressed that matter too: “When they find out someone has a private Attorney, they pile on the charges”, he said. “Or at least it used to be that way”, he added– “until I made a stink about it”. He was tooting his own horn. But hearing that I said to myself “So perhaps he was effective….once”.

“Now they just add one charge”, he said. “And the judges will allow it”. There was that word again– that blanket moniker for all the crap they foisted. So I asked about the threatened perjured claim. They had invented that “No no” claim, I protested. Wasn’t that threatening perjury, I asked? And he answered that one for me too. Believe it or not, such behavior is allowed. “And they have decided that it is ethical”, he added. He was talking about the Prosecutors. Apparently they had gotten together and decided that that tactic was okay. Yes, of course they did, I thought! Ethical means they all agreed to do it!

*******************************************************

I sent Brad Rich the Discovery packet, and a letter, and a check for a thousand dollars. But I don’t know whether I’d told Clayton I was doing that– or whether I’d just told Brad that it was okay to call him. But a few days later I got a call from the two of them. They’d had a little consultation, and decided to bring me in on their conversation at that time. I wished Brad had called me alone though, for I already knew what Clayton thought. Now I was anxious to hear what Brad thought of my case. He said was that “It isn’t the worst case I’ve seen”– but he added that the Aggravated Kidnapping charge made it not worth it for me to go to trial. The stakes were too high, he said, so I should take the deal. Then he said that statewide the conviction rate on “this sort of thing’ was at “about 90%”- and that it was “50% out of this (his own) office”. So my odds were very poor– just as Clayton had said.

Brad said two other things, though, which rang into my ears. First, in talking about Corissa herself, he said “I could see why you thought she was eighteen”. That was huge– and he was the second person who had told me that. Melissa had been the first. Unfortunately, he too thought Corissa seemed pretty challenged, though. But again, he was likely judging that by her stammering episode on the video-cassette.

The second thing he said that was so memorable was when he talked about the Aggravated Kidnapping statute itself: “It’s a poorly written law”, he said, adding “The Utah court has not ruled on it yet”. As usual, I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask him what he meant. That’s typical of me. But just hearing his booming voice, and his delivery, I supposed that he could sway a jury, by saying a thing like that. Anyway, Brad bowed out then, and left Clayton alone with me on the phone.

The consultation with Brad had been much too brief, though, for my thousand dollars. More than half of it had been taken up by Clayton unnecessarily talking: agreeing with Brad, and stressing that the things Brad said were the things he’d already said to me. I formed the impression that Clayton flattered himself to be in exalted company there, and was relishing the consultation. But it was Brad Rich I had really wanted to hear.

Anyway, alone on the phone with Clayton, then, I discovered he was upset. He said that Brad had said I’d all but admitted to the charges: that I had put the two of them in a bad situation, by doing that. He reminded me that he had his own ethical obligation: to not allow me to say anything that he knew was a lie– if should I go to trial.

So we were at loggerheads again. The truth was that I had only admitted to Brad that which I believed I didn’t have to deny. But Clayton couldn’t see that. He just would not understand. Clearly, in Corissa, we were seeing two completely different girls.

*********************************************************

Yes, I was one of these fools who knew better than my Lawyer. But it seemed to me that in several key ways Bradley Rich had known better than my lawyer too.

A “poorly written law”, he’d said. But why? But how? Whatever could he mean? Those words stayed in my head. I’d read that AK law several times, since that day in court with Clayton. But perhaps I had not analyzed it carefully enough. Likewise with the other two laws they’d already charged me with. I had merely perused them all, it seemed– but I had not really read any of them with a cool discerning eye.

That meant that once again I believed myself strictly guilty of transgressions of laws I had not carefully parsed. So it was a repeat of what I had done with that CK charge– which they had started with then dropped. I had believed that they were right, at first. I’d taken their word for it– until I’d read the statute!

Reading all of this you might be amazed by how slowly I reacted to these things: by how long it took me to do the basic things– the obvious things, I suppose. But I do notthink quickly on my feet. And in my state of mind I was much too crippled to think with a clear head, so every new insight required months to coalesce. If you’ve ever been in a similar state, you’ll know what I mean by that. And if you haven’t, then I hope you never are. Unless you are Eric Lind, that is– in which case I hope you scald in hell.

******************************************************

I barraged Clayton with questions, every time we spoke. But I seldom got satisfactory answers. It seemed like he wasn’t even talking to me when he answered them. It was as if he anticipated what other people might have meant if they had asked that question. And then he’d answer it that way. It was as if he was used to dealing with younger men than I: less educated, perhaps, and with less developed intellects. So he was constantly answering questions other than those I’d asked. Then I’d ask again and he’d tell me we’ve been over this before. It was very frustrating.

Or only piecemeal did he reveal things that I needed to know. But that, I finally decided, was because he didn’t know a lot. Yes, law is big and quite complex. But it also seemed to me that he did not know even some of the really important things– until after I’d prodded him repeatedly, or even told him about them myself: peas-in-abeyance, for example- or the ages of consent: like the circumstances under which a Prosecutor is allowed to add a charge. Or even like– God Almighty– the definition of entice.

***********************************************************

According to Clayton, the D.A. was particularly interested in knowing where Corissa and I were going when we’d ventured up the hill. So I told him once again: that she told me she’d been raped by her father and that I wanted to ask her more questions there. And I related that she’d told me she loves me.

“And did you tell her you love her back?”, he asked me.

“Of course not”, I replied.

But Clayton did not seem to want to know any more. And he did not seem to find any value in my explanations when he asked for them. To him it was clear that I should have rushed her back to the Library: that any other course was foolish. The result was that even though he had asked, he did not seem interested in understanding my motives. At the same time, though, I couldn’t understand why– if my answer was so unimportant– the Prosecutor was supposedly so interested in it.

Maybe he would have had more respect for my motives, though– or would have listened to them, anyway– had I not taken her on a hike. After all, I could have dealt with all those swirling issues– and picked her little brain– in the car. Or back in the library, for that matter. Or on the lawn, in front of the library. But since my motives did not mandate that particular relocation, in his mind, he just shut the discussion down.

And for my part, if that was indeed how that happened, I was disadvantaged by not knowing that that part of the episode was what was being most misunderstood. The true importance of that wrinkle occurred to me only much later, though– after it was already too late. But if indeed the most important question was “why did those motives require relocation?” then I earnestly wished it had been asked of me specifically– so I could have elaborated, without being shut down.

The answer, of course– in case it is not clear– is manifold: that in and around the car Corissa had become a handful– with her pestering and relentless effort to let me drive the car– so I wanted to get away; that before her mother arrived we had an hour to kill– to talk; because I wanted our… penumbra of confidence to be maintained– until I’d picked her brain; because I wanted to be sensitive to her professed feelings– to not discount her profession of love; and because the idea of a hike still seemed like a fun idea– despite the urgency of my resolve. Because I still enjoyed her effervescent company nonetheless.

In retrospect, it seems that for having asked the question, that Eric Lind really was interested in understanding the circumstances more fully. On the other hand, why would Lind have cared where we were going– if the “touching” that so terrified Clayton so was all that could possibly matter? Yeah: maybe he was just looking for more fodder for his persecution.

Nor had Clayton cared about my suicidal musing, penned the morning of the crime. So both ends of my story were cut off from proper consideration. Neither circum-stance was deemed important, I mean– to him. All that Clayton wanted to look at was a truncated transgression. But it seemed that the Prosecutor wanted to see more of the loaf. So it seemed like Clayton was playing Prosecutor, to me then– instead of Lawyer.

**************************************************************

Clayton asked me repeatedly what a 45-year old man and a handicapped 15 year-old girl could possibly have in common? But just in asking that question he kept missing the point. The question could not be answered, according to that paradigm: I wasn’t trying to base my defense on a claim of friendship. And the issue would not revolve around that question anyway, if it went to a jury. It would be decided on the law.

************************************************************

I have included all these laws, of which I speak, in the Appendix of this work.

That way, I will not have to rewrite them, and ask you to reread them, each time that they are referenced. Okay: with the Appendices you might have to flip back and forth, and for that I am quite sorry. But it’s for the best. And it’s a bit more elegant too: for if this treatment can’t be art, at least it can be professional and dignified.

And if that is not enough, I’ll also employ abbreviations, when referring to the laws. I have employed some already– but for reference sake, it behooves us all for me to have them all in one place.

I must stress these are my abbreviations, and have no legal currency:

AK= Aggravated Kidnapping: a 1st degree felony, with a “minimum mandatory” sentence- of 6, 10, or 15 years to life.

UD=Unlawful Detention: a b misdemeanor, with a maximum of six months in jail

FSA=Forcible Sexual Abuse: a 2nd degree felony with a sentence of 1 to 15 years

Those were the charges I was looking at. But there are other laws that will be cited here as well, and I am included them here too, to save you extra flipping back and forth time:

CK=Child kidnapping, another first-degree felony, for which the “perpetrator” gets 6, 10, or 15 years to life. Those figures are minimum and mandatory, once again.

K= simple Kidnapping, a second-degree felony, with a sentence of 1 to 15 years.

SAM= Sexual Abuse of a Minor: an A misdemeanor, warranting up to one year.

I won’t abbreviate the word “Attempted”, however, as it would quickly get too confusing. That’s because “A” is already a class of misdemeanor, and I have used A to stand for two other words too: Aggravated and Abuse. But you should know that any “attempted” offense is one degree less severe than the corresponding crime would be if it were actually committed. For example, “Attempted FSA” is a third degree felony, since “FSA” is one of the second-degree. And “Attempted SAM” is a b misdemeanor, since “SAM” itself is an A misdemeanor”. Do you see?

Also, the penalties for Attempted crimes are correspondingly lighter too– as they should be– since they are off a lesser degree.

And I call upon you, dear reader, to let me know if this abbreviation stuff is just too tedious of a road to hoe. It wouldn’t be too hard to substitute the longer forms back in

Finally, on this, you should know that for a sentence of one year or less, the convicted perpetrator goes to the County jail. But for anything over a year, he goes to the Big House. That’s prison.

They don’t like child molesters in the Big House. But it’s not like I’d want to go otherwise.

Those are just abbreviations, as I said. The texts of the actual statutes are reprinted in Appendix I. I’ve also included a table of legal definitions, under Appendix II.

*************************************************************

I approached that AK law with the discerning eye of a detective. I had to see what made it tick: to understand what Brad Rich might have meant when he said that it was “poorly written”. And lo and behold, I think I unearthed it!

I saw it as a statute that had two legs, so to speak, supporting a vast table. One leg specified the K “element”, and the other dealt with the aggravating factors. For simplicity, I’ll refer to the K leg the “left side” of the statute, just because we read it first.

And the first odd thing I noticed was that the law enables an AK to occur without a true kidnapping: without an actual K, I mean. For the statute clearly reads “…in the process of kidnapping or Unlawful detention” (italics mine). Furthermore, the UD statute itself include the phrase “…under circumstances not amounting to a Kidnap” (italics mine again). So all that meant that a Prosecutor could construe an AK offense from either a K itself, or from a far lesser charge which, by its own specification falls short of a K. And that state of affairs in itself seemed muddled to me– and inconsistent too.

But that was not the worst of it. For I looked at all the aggravating factors too: those listed on what will heretofore be referred to as the “right side” of the statute.

I saw there a list of acts there were felonious in themselves, or which at least suggested that some of violence was afoot: “hindering the reporting of a felony”; “holding a person for ransom”; “terrorizing the victim”; and “interfering with political rallies”… In other words, they were things which spoke to egregious circumstances in their own right– or to things which might at least supported a perception of Kidnapping.

In any event, the idea of considering one felony as aggravated by another felony didn’t strike me as in any way outrageous- from a legal standpoint, I mean. Nor did it seem unfair to aggravate a felony with a lesser charge. But to construe an AK from a b misdemeanor just threw me for a loop. Especially since it was the offense on the left side of the statute that was supposedly being aggravated– and not the one on the right.

But there was more:

For returning to the “right side”, I saw a category of elements there that specified “…any of the Sexual Offenses … under Title 76, Chapter 5, Part 4”. Those are basically the sex crimes. That list included all the sex crimes ranging from a 1^st degree felony rape down to SAM- the A misdemeanor. Once again, that sub-list included several acts that are felonious even in their own right. But it also included the lesser sexual offenses: the A misdemeanors. So the total effect of that was that in order to make the case for an AK– via a sex crime– those bastards could pull the b misdemeanor from the left side– and aggravate it with an A misdemeanor from the right! I was astounded. And I was appalled!

But we aren’t finished yet: for the statute specifies that the actor must be “acting with intent”, to commit whatever offense is on the “right”. And in my layman’s mind, ac-ting with “intent” includes making an “attempt”. For does not attempt implicate intent? It does! (Or does intent mean merely thinking about it? No, I do not think so.) And since an “attempt”, as I have told you, reduces the corresponding crime by one degree of severity, then that meant that even a b misdemeanor– “Attempted SAM”– could be promoted from the “right”. Thus, a “b misdemeanor” plus a “b misdemeanor’ can equal a “1^st degree felony”!

Discovering all that, I understood what Brad Rich had said: it was indeed a poorly written law. I wasn’t sure if that particular analysis was what his thinking had been, though. But I couldn’t believe my eyes! It meant that in the state of Utah, two misdemeanors can be parlayed into a first degree felony– and thus command a minimum mandatory prison term of up to life, to boot!! “Poorly written”, hell– it was out and out draconian!

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It’s true that that was not how they applying the law to me. But by the time I was done scouring the statutes, I came to believe that my crime had only been a misdemeanor anyway. And I came to believe that even if everything Corissa had said on the video-cassette had occurred that it still should only have been charged that way: as the SAM!

That faux claim of her “no, no…”protest complicated the picture, of course. But I didn’t believe she’d really made it. (I neither believed that she’d made the actual protest, nor that she’d ever claimed she had) But that fact notwithstanding: when they’d charged me with FSA, her claim to that protest hadn’t even been made! (It wasn’t on the video-cassette) So what was their goddam problem?

I was confused about another seeming inconsistency too. Because it was clear that their zeal to screw me was ravenous: that they were determined to prosecute me out of all proportion to reason. Given that, then I wondered– if they really believed that she had protested “No no” like that, wouldn’t they have charged that AK already– and zealously prosecuted it– instead of merely threatened to?

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I have another point on this, but on this I am repeating myself again. It’s that it struck me incongruous that even in an AK, that the kidnapping side of the equation– the left side, you’ll remember– could be the less serious charge. I mean that I could under-stand- in general terms– that for any hypothetical serious crime that a misdemeanor can be rightly called an aggravating factor. But it seems logical that the most serious crime should be the one that’s being aggravated. Yet in my case, it was the less serious charge being aggravated– and by something way out of its league: a UD was being aggravated by an FSA. So shouldn’t it have been in fact called an Aggravated FSA?”

But ah, you say: rectifying such problems would be quite an unwieldy chore, because it would require rewriting– or adding– several laws. But that’s not the case, because rectifying the problem arising from the two misdemeanors would not be so difficult. The State of Utah would only have to change a couple laws.

I have one last point to make on this, before I move on: it’s a response to someone who might say: ”Yes, I see your point about the misdemeanors, but no prosecutor would actually use the law that that– to parlay two b misdemeanors into 1^st degree felonies”. And to that, I can only tell you to look again– and to wake up too. Sorry, but you’re living in la la land if you believe that. And you’re allowing too much unaccountable power to be put in the hands of one person.

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Moving along to the FSA charge, I made some interesting discoveries there too. First was that there was nothing automatically “forcible”, if the “victim” was older than thirteen. But did Clayton even know that? Yes, fourteen is the age of limited consent, in Utah (that’s my terminology). And should we really be surprised by that? There are other tiers in their sex laws there too, pertaining to various forms of activity: penetration, oral copulation, and the like. Those tiers lie at sixteen, or seventeen years old, depending on the activity. But the one that concerns us here is just the FSA– the crime that I was charged with. And the activity that it concerns is merely “touching” anyway: illegal touching, that is.

The Utah laws specify when any such sexual behavior is “without consent”.

None of these specifications, by the way, hold that if the actor is thirty years older than the victim that it’s automatically a forcible act. I just had to include that here. Especially for those of you appalled by the age difference, I want to make that clear. Remember I did say I had an agenda. No, not to tell you that such things should be okay– as some people will surely try to torture my message into– but to imbue you with my outrage– to get you to see why I felt so unjustly persecuted.

I didn’t expect the laws to hold such a thing, either– about the age difference, I mean– although there is at least one stipulation about age difference in their sex laws, as you will see. But a number of people with whom I spoke about this matter seemed to think that that the age difference was all that really mattered. To many people, apparently, that is all that matters– irrespective of the facts.

I still get angry about that too, after all that I’ve been through. I’ve been through the remorse and I’ve been through anger: and that persecutorial attitude still provokes my anger. On the other hand, such people who hold such a view would not sit upon my jury anyway. That’s all that I can say to them.

Anyway– returning to the statutes– from that lengthy list of consent elements, I honed in on three: numbers 1, 6, and 11. They were the only ones I deemed pertinent to my situation. You will find this statute in the Appendix too– reproduced there “in toto”.

1) The victim expresses lack of consent through words or conduct.

I was sure I was all right there. For when Corissa had said to stop, I stopped.

And when her conduct showed that she was less than cognizant, I had stopped again! Besides, on the video-cassette, Corissa hadn’t claimed anything different than that.

6) The actor knows that as a result of mental disease or defect, the victim is at the time of the act incapable either of assessing the nature of the act or of resisting it.

And I was all right there, too. For even in believing she had some sort of mental issue, I believed she was capable of assessing the nature of the act– and of resisting it as well: she had already done by saying no! And it was what I knew which was being held important here! So ha! Besides– and all that being said– her “mental defect” had not seemed severe to me. Finally, remember that the “act” here must refer to the “act” that I was accused of. The “act” in this case was not intercourse. The “act” was touching here.

(11) the victim is 14 years of age or older, but younger than 18 years of age, and the actor is more than three years older than the victim and entices or coerces the victim to submit or participate, under circumstances not amounting to the force or threat required under Subsection (2) or (4)…

I was nervous there: afraid it would be the bubble-burster. Especially after what Clayton had said, about just “opening the door” as their argument for my enticement.

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So I looked up the definition of “entice”. The Utah statutes do not define “entice”, though (and again, how unremarkable!) But several legal dictionaries did define it. The consensus there was that enticement pertained to such things as plying the victim with gifts. It’s a sort of luring of the victim over time, basically. But I had not done that either! Had I let Corissa drive my car in exchange for sex, that might have been an enticement, I speculated. But that did not happen anyway. Nor, thank God, had Corissa said it had- on that video-cassette! The only reason I pondered that scenario was that Eric Lind might think of it too and tell Corissa to claim it.

It meant that opening a car door was not an act of enticement. Not even close. But why hadn’t Clayton known that? For the love of God, had he even read the laws? Had he opened a dictionary?

I thought I knew what coercion was, but I looked that word up too. It means the use of force, threat, or intimidation– exactly what I thought it meant. Therefore it didn’t seem to be an issue either. I had not coerced her. And she hadn’t claimed that I had. So I was fine there too!

The age difference, of course, was indisputable. But by my reckoning, at that point, it was also quite irrelevant. The lack of coercion or enticement made the age element moot.

So all of those were in my favor. And that meant something else, enormously important: it meant that even by her own testimony– on the video-cassette– everything that had happened between us had been legally “with consent”! I didn’t have to contradict a thing that she had said!

And it meant much more, in toto: I mean that the picture was even rosier: for it seemed to me that circumstances even more egregious would still only amount to the lesser charge: that even if, for example, Corissa and I had explicitly agreed to drive up to the water towers for sex- and had done everything there she claimed we had done– that that would still be an A misdemeanor!… As long as I had not enticed her, that is- and as long as I had not believed she was incompetent. If we could argue that far more prurient circumstances would still amount to far less than the Prosecutor was charging, that could only help me, it seemed. And it meant that even Prosecution’s possible future claims to that chain of events need not hurt me either!

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Excitedly I wrote a letter to Clayton, expostulating all that I’ve just said about the elements of consent. I faxed it to him, on the same afternoon.

Within an hour I got a faxed response. But it was an exasperated response, which included his own Xeroxed enclosure. It was a reproduction from a law books– but of the very tenets I’d just sent to him. He sent me the whole list, though, rather than just the three I’d so brilliantly parsed for him. And on that list he had highlighted three tenets of his own- which he told me I must read…

They were numbers 1, and 6, and 11. The same goddam ones I’d singled out for him! So he hadn’t paid attention to my letter. He hadn’t heard a word I said.

But along with that compilation there were two other sheets of paper. Most of the text of them was irrelevant, though, except for a citation in one of its sub-sections, which Clayton had apparently not bothered to observe. It was a Utah citation, called “State vs. Gibson”, decided in 1995. That ruling held that enticement occurs when “…the adult uses psychological manipulation to instill improper sexual desires that would not otherwise have occurred”. I supposed Clayton thought that citation hurt me. But “Bingo!” was what I said. Yes, I exulted in what that citation meant to me– because even leaving aside the question of what sexual desires would be “proper”, It meant that even from the point of view of Utah case law I had not enticed Corissa! Not by opening a car door!

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Clayton’s view was that Corissa’s contacts in the library had signaled an unmistakable sexual intent: not just the rubbing of my shoulders, but the touching on the knee! But I had never heard of a knee-touch being any such thing!

Of course he thought that touch damned me too: that it should have put me even more so on my guard. Obviously, then, he didn’t believe that I thought she was an adult. He didn’t seem to get that had believing her to be an adult—as I did– that it would be defensible behavior to have encouraged that– if indeed, that had been what I’d done.

But don’t get excited: I only mean to point out that even acknowledging that fact– that she had rubbed my shoulders– had its benefits for me. One was that in terms of the “enticement” element I thought it played quite well for me- because if by touching me she had signaled her own sexual intent, then I had not enticed her– not by that case law– because I wouldn’t have implanted desires that weren’t otherwise there. Another was that in going with me after signaling her already extant desires she would have shown her consent. Finally, it might increase the credibility of the claim that the initial “touching” behind the water tower had indeed come from her!

But each of those things had yet to be admitted to—by the prosecution. And for their lack it was still my word against hers.

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I found yet another problem with this confounding quagmire of laws: with this synergy, so much greater than the sum of its parts. Because it contained a conundrum within its own expressions. It was that the AK statute employed completely different concepts of “consent’ on each side of the equation– for the applicable constituent laws, that is, that of either supporting leg. On the right side, the rules were those that I’ve expressed, and as I parsed in the foregoing analyses about “consent”. Those consent tenets, as I’ve shown, intrinsically took accounting of the things I– “the actor”– “knew”.

But on the left side the rules were more vague: citing only the victim’s “mental incompetence”. And there were no guidelines for what that phrasing meant. That meant that- unlike with the allowances explicated for the sex offenses– there were no allowances made here for what I did not “know”. It read as though Strict Liability was circumscribed there. In other words, apparently it did not matter what I knew!

My head spun with all these facets of this law. I couldn’t believe that the Legislature had even considered what they’d done when they had passed that AK law. The goddam thing was convoluted beyond all reason! Now this first degree felony was could be a composite of “b plus b”– with strict liability too!

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen; it would seem that in the state of Utah, even the most benign set of circumstances can lock you up forever: that if you pick up an underage hitch-hiker, for example– not knowing her age– and try to touch her breast– at her invitation– and believing that act consensual…that if she had any form of mental impairment, then you’re a violent felon. Yes, violent: you’re an Aggravated Kidnapper, and a predator to boot.

No, no, no: I’m not saying that attempting to touch a breast is utterly benign. But such a prosecution would be enormously out of all proportion…Isn’t that clear yet?

All that being said and done, I was still convinced there was a saving grace for me: that was that I had not detained Corissa in any way. I had not pinned her, or pulled her, or told her what to do.

She had come with me by choice, and she’d been free to leave at any time. And we were close enough to the Library that she could have easily gotten out and walked back. It meant I wasn’t guilty of that necessary element of the crime either. Realizing that, I was tremendously relieved.

Since that element was missing, then the question of her “competence” should be rendered a moot point– right? Yes, you may be able to build an AK utterly without a K, in the State of Utah but you surely cannot have an UD without a “D”! I exhaled again!

But wait: Oh shit! What about the protest Lind guaranteed she’d say she made? What if Corissa really does testify that she had said “No, no– I don’t want to go!”?

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I decided not to engage Brad Rich. It was another gut instinct. I think it was because in his great booming masculine authority, I thought he’d run me over. Yeah, I think that was it: I thought he’d intimidate me, and take over every aspect of my case. In other words, I was afraid I’d be crowded out of the decision making process, and would give up the fight too easily. But more than that, a booming masculine authority just didn’t match my style. I envisioned beating this thing on merits alone. So Brad was not my man.

I was still in search of outside counsel, though, and since my sister taught at a Law School, she was able to help. I had resisted her help to a large degree, until then, because she’s my sister and she loves me, and she thought that I should take the deal, as I’ve said. But since I was reluctant to take a deal (as you know) I felt I had to resist her advice, lest I be unduly influenced. But when she suggested I go consult with one of her co-workers, who had agreed to see me, I jumped at the opportunity.

Her name was Ruth Shapiro. A former Defense Attorney, she had even been involved in a famous Utah case. If she ever gives me permission I will divulge which one it was, but for now you should know that—just as with Sammy Cargo’s most famous case —her claim to fame was high profile too. And our idea was that Ruth might have some advice for me, and perhaps dig up some useful “info”– through old contacts in that state.

I brought my papers and the video-cassette to her in her office, at the college, one afternoon. In addition to all that Discovery stuff, I included my long letter to Clayton, explaining my point of view. But she was meeting with someone else as I arrived, so I just presented all that stuff to her, and quickly withdrew. She’d need some time to look at it all, anyway.

I heard from her by telephone after a couple days. “You were only trying to help that girl!” she hollered emphatically. And that was music to my ears. That was what I had wanted Clayton to understand. Then she admonished that I had to face this thing: I could not run away. So she must have understood how I felt. Then she gave me a golden piece of advice: “Don’t plead guilty to anything that has sex in it”, she said: “It’ll haunt you for the rest of your life!” I knew that she was right, and I knew I mustn’t do that. A sex-crime plea would be a deal-breaker: I would not deal for a sex crime on my résumé– nor an offender list to boot.

Later Ruth got some information, and passed in on via Leslie. Apparently she called someone she knew in Utah, who knew something about Eric Lind. And he told her– and she told Leslie– that Eric Lind is “a total asshole”. But I knew that already.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

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I found a web-site of Judge David L. Mower. It amused me that a Judge would have a web-site. And the site was itself amusing. Apparently the judge had a sense-of-humor. There was a joke on his site about Gandhi, for example. It said he was a “Super-fragile-calloused-mystic-hexed-with-halitosis”! I liked that. I also learned that he was a Scout-Master. Judge Mower, I mean– not Gandhi. And that seemed good for me. I had, after all, been an Eagle Scout!

So I asked Clayton about the Judge. Clayton assured me that “A more fair-minded man could not be found.” All that was very good news, and none too soon. Nothing else had gone my way, through this whole mess of shit. Maybe Judge Mower was to be my salvation.

I asked Clayton if we could have a bench trial, which means a trial without a jury. I was of the mind that a fair-minded judge would be ideal: that he would be able to put his emotions aside, and rule just on the law. I was sure that by law I was not guilty. But in the hearts and minds of Kanab-area jurors, I feared I might be guilty anyway: guilty via age difference. Guilty via being an outsider. Guilty via outrage.

And Clayton said that we should think about that, but that we’d need Eric Lind’s approval to do that. I did not understand. He explained that in Utah it has already been decided that the Prosecution has as much right to a jury trial as the Accused does. That meant that in order to waive that right, I would need the little prick’s approval. Amazing! Fuck me, that I needed his slimy approval for anything.

I found Eric Lind on some web-site too. I learned that he was married, to a woman named Emily. I liked the name Emily. But I wondered how she could stand him.

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Another of Leslie’s co-workers agreed to see me about my case. His name was Sammy Cargo. All I can tell you about him is that around the College he was a well-loved Elder Statesman.

I went to see him on a Saturday, in his office at the College. The meeting lasted a long time, as he was generous with his time. And I told him the whole story: omitting no-thing- and trusting his discretion. For there were things I had not ever said to Leslie, nor to Jeff. Details I really didn’t want to tell them. It’s embarrassing. But you know what they were.

While I told my story Sammy fixed his glassy eyes hard upon me. I think he meant to simulate the probing eyes of a jury– to see how I’d react.

One of the first things he wanted to know about was the scratch– or scratches. Of course I said I didn’t know anything about them. I said that I was sure the prosecution had made them.

I also told him about the journal entry I’d made that morning of the crime- about contemplating suicide. But he stopped me there, and waved me down. “One thing no judge or jury wants to hear you say is that you used bad judgment”, he admonished.

And when I got to the part about the girl wanting to drive my car he stopped me again. “You should have been alerted then”, he said, ‘that this woman was a minor”. So I explained the surrounding circumstances, but I wasn’t sure he understood. And when I told him why we climbed the hill, he pursed his lips, and paused.

“I’m not sure the young lady knew where you were going then– or why”, he said. And I said “I’m not either”. But for me that was a retrospect. At the time I was sure that she’d wanted to come with me. And I thought my motives had been noble nonetheless.

He listened to the plea bargain I’d been offered. Then he pondered it, and said “It’s not a great deal– but its not a terrible deal either”. I still thought it was an awful deal, though. He explained that as far as they were concerned– down there in Kanab, I mean– that I was some guy who’d come into town to deflower their youth. I’d thought of that too, of course, but it wasn’t true- nor did even that explain their un-abating zeal.

And he advised me to take the deal.

“But I didn’t commit a felony”, I protested. “It didn’t feel like a felony”.

“They all feel alike”, he objected. “And besides- ten years from now you will have forgotten this whole thing”. But I did not believe that.

He asked about my Lawyer, and he offered to talk with him. But he wanted to have Clayton be the one to call him. So I said I’d ask.

Then Sammy told me that he had a former student who was now a Judge in Utah. (Oh, what a piece of luck!) He said he’d call him up, and see what he might learn. I figured he meant that he’d ask his Judge to talk to my Judge, though once again I am not sure that’s what he meant. But he said that it might take some time.

He kept the video too, and said he’d take a look at it.

So I went home, and dug in for another goddam wait: another endless purgatory!

The whole experience was a roller-coaster ride anyway– though the general trend was down. It was as though every small respite– every nugget of hope– was just a precursor to the next demoralizing plunge. It was like my life was obeying the swirling graph that my stomach was describing. Like life was following art, and my stomach was the erratic pencil.

Eventually I heard from Sammy. He had two things to tell me. One was that he’d watched the video. His opinion was that Corissa was more savvy than they let on. I could have kissed him.

He said he had been in touch with his former student- the Judge– and that this is what he learned: that the Prosecutor was aware of “the reputation” of the girl (HER “REPUTATION”?!) , which was why he was not pushing the case too hard. (He wasn’t pushing it hard? Hell: it seemed to me that he was pushing ridiculously hard. In fact I thought he was persecuting me out of all proportion to reason.)

That was all he had to say. I thanked Sammy very much.

I should say, though, that through it all, Sammy had an excellent bedside manner. But Sammy’s disclosure raised new questions too. One was why that SOB Lind was being so recalcitrant: if Corissa had a “reputation”, why would they continue to pretend that she was this naïve young thing– who’d been lured into the bushes? It sounded to me like their problem with the girl extended way beyond me. So what was their freaking problem? The other question was how Sammy’s former student– presumably just by talking to my Judge– would have learned what the Prosecutor knew of Corissa’s reputation. So I wondered who had really talked to whom.

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I left a message on Clayton’s phone, asking him to call Sammy Cargo. But what I got instead was an angry call from Clayton. “Goddam it, Royce– why don’t you just fire me?” he screamed. “You’ve got so little confidence in me…” He went on and on: “I’m not gonna’ phone another Lawyer”; and “Is he even licensed to practice in the State of Utah?” I finally calmed him down. But he never did talk to Sammy.

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I still thought those suicidal scribblings I’d made the morning of the crime should have counted for something. But I wasn’t planning to use them to claim “bad judgment”. Better than that, I wanted to claim “diminished capacity”. For I still had the notebook, in which I’d written my lament. And it did not appear that I had cleverly penned it only after the fact– as indeed, I had not. So my jurors would believe me, I thought, and feel sympathy for me too! But both Clayton and Sammy had already said no to that. And on that point, I was not about to know better than them: I had another concern.

That sprang from something I remembered from an old sexual harassment case, involving Sen. Bob Packwood, of Oregon. During his trial he had tried to make some point or other by presenting one of his own journal entries. As a result, the Prosecution was then able to subpoena all his journals–going back for all the years he’d kept them. At the time I’d thought that that was self-incrimination, but such was not the case. Jeff had explained it to me at the time. It was because the Senator had “opened the door” himself that that subpoena had been allowed: that by volunteering that journal he had entered it into evidence, and thus enabled Prosecution to look at that whole body of evidence. So I figured they could do that to me too: ask for all my journals back to 1981, that is.

Thus, the conflict of presenting my journal became a moot point–and not because of self-incrimination. It’s just that I have too much important stuff in there: creative writings, and a lot of good ideas. Stuff I’d be afraid that scum like Eric Lind would steal.

I know now that agreements can be struck upon such points: that the prosecution can stipulate that they won’t try to subpoena every journal, for example, if for some reason they too want to see just one. But this whole discussion is moot now anyway.

And Utah does not have a “diminished capacity” defense anyway, I learned.

(How unremarkable is that?! I mean, hell: why would they have that defense, in such a fortress of law and order? I mean, why would they have a law that might allow someone to go free?)

And not only do they not have that defense, but they have a very low threshold for competence itself… A low level for the competence of the accused, that is. But is that threshold also low for the victims, I wondered?

They don’t have twelve jurors in Utah either. They use eight. So it seemed like everything was skewed in Prosecutions favor.

“It’s a law and order state”, Clayton told me. And that did not surprise me.

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What else did Utah do differently?, I wondered. Besides using eight jurors, that is, denying bench trials, and parlaying minor sins into 1^st degree offenses? Shit! Do they still use the firing squad, too? I know they did in ’77. Ask Gary Gilmore. Ask Norman Mailer.

Norman Mailer, of course, is the famous novelist. And Gary Gilmore was the subject of a Pulitzer Prize winning book that Mr. Mailer wrote. Entitled “The Executioner’s Song”, it was written about the Mr. Gilmore’s famous Utah murder case, conviction, and death by firing squad there, in 1977.

Well as a matter of fact, they still did use the firing squad, in Utah, at the time of my transgression. And though they do not use it any more, two other states still do, as of this writing (July 2005) Technically they use it, I mean. It is still on the books in Idaho and Oklahoma. But they don’t really use it.

(Poor Eric Lind hadn’t figured out a way to make that one of the stakes, for me.)

And several other states now use juries smaller than twelve. But it gets complicated here, because in those states the jury size can vary, depending on several factors. Those include the degree of the offense (felony vs. misdemeanor), whether it is a criminal or a civil trial, and even the level at which the case is being tried. (State vs. Appellate, I suppose)

In fairness to Utah, though, I must point out that at least it still requires unanimity for its verdicts. Believe it or not, not every state does. But the huge majority of states do require it for felony convictions. And all require it for a capital offense.

On the other hand, (almost) every state that uses fewer than twelve jurors still require twelve jurors for a capital offense. But Utah stays with eight.

So aside from that last disturbing revelation, I’d say that Utah’s jury system is not particularly suspect. Furthermore, that that state’s right to refuse to waive a jury trial is probably widespread. I could look it and tell you, but that would take us even farther a field from my story– and I think my points are made.

Well what about teen-aged marriages? I looked into that too. And I learned that in Utah, a girl can marry at 14- with parental consent. Perhaps that should surprise no one! But there a little prejudice leaks out: a little bias against Mormonism. I’ve said enough.

But I learned that there are a number of other states in which a girl can marry at fourteen– also with parental consent. And they aren’t all in the deep south, either, if that’s what you just quipped!

But in all that research and rumination something else unexpected surprised me. And like so many other insights I have had, through all of this, it came to me in a flash. That was that in order to accommodate that sort of marriage age, that it is necessary to legislate a correspondingly low age of consent for all sexual activities. Or that was my hypothesis, at least.

So I looked into that, too. And that does actually seem to be the case.

Ha! Until then I’d thought that Utah would be stricter than almost any other state. Not that I’d ever given it a thought, before I was arrested. But after that- after hearing about their “law and order” mania, I jumped to that conclusion. But I was being naïve– because everything is relative. For example, you could certainly call Nevada a “law-and-order state”, but it has gambling and legal prostitution. So as I thought about it, the whole idea of “law and order” lost meaning. It’s just something that lives in the mindscape—but not to be belabored here.

So Utah is a “law and order state”, Clayton? Of course it is. But that doesn’t mean the laws they make and enforce aren’t convenient to their “culture”.

My point is that at first I said “I’m screwed: why did this have to have happened in Utah?” I wished it could have happened in almost any other state. But when I looked into the comparative sex laws, I saw that they were actually milder in Utah than in neighboring Arizona, or Nevada, or—especially—in nearby California. If I had been merely accused of a sex crime, in one of those states— without this kidnapping complication– then I would have been really screwed. So it was actually better to be accused of a sex crime in Utah. That’s as far as the written law goes. And that’s the theory, anyway. But the proof is in the pudding.

But that AK law complication rendered all that theorizing moot. Oh, I could defend Utah’s sexual consent laws as somehow consistent with their culture, or some such thing– but when they have a law like that AK one that allows them to remove the whole issue from any discussion about sexual consent regardless then it similarly renders any pretense to fairness about their sexual consent laws moot. Sure, they could say: “Look, our sexual consent laws are actually more lenient than most other state”– but that would be a misleading paradigm, wouldn’t it? Because if you’re not an actual Utahan they have ways to make those laws far more restrictive! Perhaps that was the whole point.

I do not endeavor to criticize the dominant religion, though it’s true that I’ve al-ready taken my digs. But in my experience, all Christian sects have their hypocrisies. My own Catholicism, for starters, has an immense amount of blood and politics on its hands. So I’ll leave this one alone. Besides, I have found the Mormons to be warm and helpful people. And yes, I have met them en masse.

But it is a religion of repression, and that’s my germane point. And repression discourages independent thinking, to make my point complete.

So having touched upon that theme, I come full circle… and all of that digression leads me back to saying this: that Mormonism has been known to embrace many otherwise unpopular things, in the sexual arena: things like plural marriages, teen-aged brides and incestuous unions too. And often times those teen-aged brides were younger than sixteen. They still are. It’s part of their history. And that tendency being so well established– so ingrained in the cultural milieu– it has had to be codified– in the legal milieu. Yes, I used that word again. Milieu. Sorry.

Finally there are the politics, woven in with that stuff. For Utah is the most Republican state in the union. And though I’ve seen some amazing artwork there, if art is equated with liberalism, then you will understand what I am saying: that Utah is not a mecca of creative self-expression. And if it were not for the outdoor attractions there, I’d have no cause to go.

NABBED IN KANAB Chapters 13 thru 16

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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We are still inside that endless month, sandwiched between September and December: the month that takes so long to tell about, even though at the time it felt like a wasteland of inactivity. It was not a wasteland for Mother Nature, though, as sunspots besieged old Sol, and wildfires ravaged southern California once again. In my insanity I fancied that my repressed rage had lit those fires from afar.

And here I am: reliving this era again– in my masochistic writer’s need to render. But I’m pleased to report it’s not so hard the second time around. If it were, I wouldn’t be doing it– for I will never go through this kind of pain again: not by chance nor choice. And it would be hard to imagine anything that could make me suffer so much again anyway. I like to think I’m stronger now, too, for having survived it. But you never know what life might hold, and I will not ask God or fate to test me on this point. I only know that I could not survive it again.

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I phoned some mental health establishments, in search of information. But it was not to seek relief for my own pain that I did that. It was because I wanted to understand what “mental incompetence” meant. I spoke to half a dozen associations, foundations, and the like, inquiring what it was. Well fortunately the people in those places were very willing to help me. But unfortunately there didn’t seem to be an actual definition that anyone could point to. One woman faxed me some guidelines for that affliction according the California courts, and those were very helpful. And applying them to what I thought I knew of Corissa, I did not think they painted her as incompetent at all.

The guidelines identified a number of diagnostic factors of mental incompetence. Those included such things as alertness and attention; level of arousal or consciousness; orientation to place, time and situation; concentration; short and long-term memory; ability to communicate with others; recognition of familiar objects; and ability to reason logically. It also stipulated that “the mere diagnosis of a mental or physical disorder shall not be sufficient in and of itself to support a determination that a person is of unsound mind or lacks the capacity to do certain acts.” Wow! That was right on the money!

Another woman, at another place– as I told her about the mentally retarded teen, with whom I was accused—was uttered emphatically: “But mental retardation and mental incompetence aren’t at all the same thing”, she urged: “They’re on completely different trees!”. The mellifluous voice of truth had sung a tune into my ear, and as I heard that I knew it must be right. I thanked her very much, and hung up.

At still another place, after hearing my plea, a woman said to me “Who knows– you might be innocent.” I didn’t know why she said that, though, and in my stunned excitement I did not ask. But it was eerily like she’d encountered this sort of before.

Oh, why didn’t I write down who these women were, or what organizations they were with? I can’t understand myself sometimes.

I got on-line too, and looked for definitions there. I found a lot of information, which was no surprise, but even there it was a hodge-podge, and didn’t address it definitively. There was nothing clear-cut, in other words– but there were lots of nebulous definitions such as this:

“An individual is defined as mentally incompetent if he is manifestly psychotic or otherwise of unsound mind, either consistently or sporadically, by reason of mental defect, among which are retardation, schizophrenia or other acute hallucinatory and delusory defects of mind, certain types of epilepsy and other seizure disorders which render the individual coordinated and mobile but of unsound mind, bipolar disorder which results in sporadic psychosis (but not simply mild or moderate bipolar disorder), and other disorders which consistently or sporadically render the individual starkly incapable of maintaining an awareness of and responsibility for his actions.”

A mouthful, yes: but if you think that said that mental retardation is identical with mental incompetence then please read it again. “Among which” does not mean all examples of, for one thing, and in any event, the important reference is to “maintaining awareness of and responsibility for his actions”. That’s what I see there.

Another site featured this choice nugget: “competent decision making may differ between life domains”. That sounded like the nail hit on the head, to my layman’s ear.

By any of these definitions, in any event, I still thought what I had thought before: that Corissa Mumford was mentally competent.

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I learned about something called jury nullification. That refers to a jury’s right to find a defendant not guilty in spite of his actual technical guilt– if they believe either that the applicable law itself is unjust or that the law is being applied unjustly in a particular case. That right was a fundamental one, too, supported by the Founding Fathers. In fact, both Jefferson and Adams had written in defense of it. After all, the purpose of the jury is to protect the defendant against the tyranny of the state!

The tradition in America long preceded even them. For in 1734, a jury acquitted John Peter Zenger of seditious libel against “Her majesty’s” government, even though he had clearly broken the law. Those early colonist’s frequently invalidated laws sent over from Mother England.

Too few people have ever heard of that power though: most citizens still believe a jury’s obligation is to decide guilt or innocence purely on the merits of the law. That’s because these prosecutorial types have succeeded in squelching a jury’s right to even hear about their right of nullification: these cancers who think convictions are their birthright had forced the issue to be fought out in the courts.

In 1972 the Washington D.C Circuit Court of Appeals (US v Dougherty) held that the power of jury nullification is indeed fundamental, and even eloquently said, in its defense: “The pages of history shine on instances of the jury’s exercise of its prerogative to disregard instructions of the judge; for example, acquittals under the fugitive slave law”. Nevertheless, that same ruling held that there is no necessity for the juries to know about it. They don’t have to be told about that power of nullification, in other words!

Learning that, I supposed that any lawyer trying to tell a jury about that right would be sanctioned, or silenced, or held in contempt of court. That is indeed the case. And if my jury could not know they were empowered to do that– then that discovery didn’t do me a hell of a lot of good.

Nevertheless, I believed that if they thought about it, a jury would be appalled by that AK law– and by the way it was being applied to me. That meant I might have to tell the jury myself. And to do that, I might have to defend myself: to act as my own attorney.
When Leslie told Sammy I was researching jury nullification he rolled his eyes.

I didn’t tell her about my plan to defend myself, however– and I’m glad that I did not. It was a hair-brained scheme, I finally decided.* It was hair-brained because I just didn’t know enough– and because I would probably get too nervous to do a creditable job anyway. I was afraid I’d lose my composure and call the prosecutor a piece-of-shit.

*No, not because “a person who defends himself has a fool for a client”—because that isn’t even how that old adage reads. That adage really holds that “a lawyer who defends himself has a fool for a client”– and that wisdom is correct. That’s because a lawyer’s behavior is carefully circumscribed: he can’t say a lot of things in court that he might have to say in order to defend himself well.

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Most of the time talking to Clayton was like talking to a wall. A talking wall, perhaps, with a built-in tape recorder. I found it increasingly difficult to get him to answer my questions meaningfully. I’d ask him a question and he’d answer a different question. Then I’d ask it again and he’d answer the different one again. Then I’d ask one more time and he’d tell me “we’ve been over this”. And too many of my questions got answered with “I don’t know”. At those times I couldn’t be sure whether it was just him not knowing important things, or whether the laws and rules were too unclear. Finally I decided it was both. For this must have been uncharted territory, this schizophrenia of conflicting laws. And nobody really knew a damned thing about the rules.

One thing that was clear was that Clayton was quite concerned. He had met the girl, he told me– after that aborted Preliminary Hearing– and she had impressed him as quite impaired. So he was of the mind that a jury would convict me. “They only have to believe you touched her breast”, he said. But I have already said that to you many times– just as he said it to me many times.

Yes, I understood that he was afraid for me. But I believed his fear had shown all too well– and that the D.A. had perceived that fear as well as I– and that as a result the D.A. thought he had us by the balls!

Then Clayton said something that caught me by surprise. He said it in passing, though, like I had already known it. It was something about Corissa’s “ambulatory problem”. I was taken aback. HER AMBULATORY PROBLEM? Yes, he claimed she badly limped. I gasped! And the roller coaster that was my stomach plunged.

How the devil could that be true, I wondered. How could I possibly have failed to notice that? She had had trouble walking up the hill with me, that’s true– but I had seen that as just a climbing problem. And there I wasn’t even sure she had not been faking it.

Oh, would these new revelations never cease? Was I insane or something? I didn’t think I was– but each time I thought I’d put the matter to rest, it popped its ugly head out at me again. I’m talking about the truth, of course, that kept getting revealed: that I was a psychopath, and I was a liar: that my version of events was just a tissue of psychotic inventions, and that I had deceived myself about her walking problem too. It meant that the truth was that my screaming victim could not have escaped from me after all– and that I had conveniently buried that perception too– deep in my subconscious.

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Melissa had some extended family in Texas. Some distant relatives– or cousins, I think. And one of the girls in that clan was starting to get into trouble. She was sixteen, and had had some sort of sexual abuse issue of her own.

So Melissa offered to take her in for awhile, which I thought was very generous. She thought she could show the young lady a different part of the country, and expose her to some different ways of life: to enlighten her to different possibilities, that is– to the arts, and sciences. And to meet some professional type people.

So the young lady flew to San Francisco, where Melissa picked her up. Melissa wanted me to meet her too. I thought that would be a very strange position for Melissa though: to be amidst a victim of sexual abuse and a person accused of the same. But I did want to meet her relative– and I knew that I didn’t pose any threat.

But I had thought– about the issue a lot. I’d wondered, as I’ve told you, if I was a molester: some self-denied closet predator on kids. That I’d even considered such a thing attested to the general upheaval of my mind. Ultimately I decided that I was not a molester, but the matter of finding some degree of attraction to young woman was still somewhat on my mind. What I mean to say is that I’d asked the question and answered it. And from there I’d moved on to the acknowledgement that some young women really are attractive. Hell: that was no surprise– it’s obvious. But I still haven’t gotten to what I’m trying to say. Let me try again:

A man knows that a lot of teen-aged girls are pretty- and that they have bodies that are sexually matured…And that some of them are sexy too. Damned sexy, occasion-ally. But if he’s healthy, and “normal’, then once he is confronted with that attraction he looks the other way. That’s not just to get her out of his mind either– that isn’t what I mean. It’s because the idea of a sexual liaison with such a young woman just is not especially appealing. That is what I mean to say. It’s not just that it’s “inappropriate” (that much overused word), but that it seems like a completely missed connection anyway: that even as a fantasy such a thing would seem empty, because in such a union there could be no chance for a meeting of the minds. That’s getting closer.

But at the same time, if a man espies a sexy woman from behind, and does not yet realize her age– if her age is not betrayed by something in her carriage, for example– then he might leer for longer than he otherwise would. I’m getting a lot closer here to what I want to say: for when that happens, and then the young woman turns around, for example, and he realizes how young she is, there’s sometimes a moment of discomfort: a little embarrassment, I mean. And then he looks away.

And if he is among friends, he might even make a comment. But it’s “guy stuff’: nothing to worry about– as long as he doesn’t act on that momentary attraction. Okay– now I’ve said pretty much what I was trying to say. I apologize for my long-windedness!

Anyway that very ethos was on my mind as I went to meet Melissa and her cousin on that day. I was by the BART station, in Rockridge, if it matters. That’s in Oakland too. Anyway, as I was looking for a parking spot, I saw two youngish women walking up the street. Both of them had nice figures, and observing them, I thought to myself exactly what I’ve been saying: that looking at those women, a man can not tell whether they are fifteen or forty five years old. And right then, as if on cue, they turned around, to change direction, and I got a look at them. It was Melissa and her cousin: sixteen and forty-one years old!

It proves nothing. But it made me laugh, and it does illustrate a point: that a man likes to look…and most men do have moments of excitement, looking at a young woman. In the presence of an attractive women, most men think of pleasure. Yes we do. That’s definitely a part of it– and don’t let anybody tell you that’s not true. It’s nature very design, fercrissake. Nor does that tendency make us predators, or weirdoes– and it certainly does not make us molesters either. So any “psychology” that pretends that it does needs to back way the fuck off.

I remember reading a “Dear Abby” column once. Or perhaps it was her sister Anne. Either way, a woman wrote in to confess that she found some of her teen-aged son’s friends looking quite delicious. Okay– delicious was my word, but I’m sure you get the point. The woman wanted to know if that attraction was a problem. And Anne– or Abby– said that it was not: that it’s only a problem if she does something about it– if she acts on it, that is. And that’s the way I’ve always felt about this issue too.

I’m going to linger on this issue for another page or so. That’s because I have just found a journal entry of mine that I think speaks to it well. I’ll reproduce it here:

“What do I think when I see attractive underage women? I see lovely blooms: flowers on the verge of young womanhood. I see them as young people moving through a position on a spectrum. I see them as just, perhaps, past infatuation with horses and not terribly beyond playing with dolls– with grown-up bodies besieged with torrents and torments of hormones, yes– but also with sparkling eyes and an endless panorama of dreams. I see them living and laughing and learning to love, aware, certainly of their own new-found powers, borne of their newly-formed breasts, for instance– and aware no doubt as well, of the attentions of the opposite sex: whether those be the languid leers of young boys, the lustful looks of older ones, or the appreciative but diverted glance of still older ones– men now, like myself. (Oh, there are certainly the leering and creepy looks in that litany too, but those just spoil the picture.) I see them as spectacles to behold. I am aware of their physically matured bodies, of course, but I do not desire them like that. It is true that I don’t want to damage them– but more than that is that such a thing strikes me as an unsatisfactory exchange. It lacks connection. It fails to enrich either party”.

But that’s not spoken from direct experience. It’s a speculation, and it will stay that way.

Still unable to put this matter to rest here, and since suspicion about this thing might always fall on me, I want to offer this additional quick observations about the matter– not even specific to this issue, but worth mentioning nonetheless:

Wanting is sometimes much better than having, and merely looking can be satisfying too. There: now I’m done with it!

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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Talking to my brother-in-law Jeff, on the other hand (unlike Clayton), was usually an education. And if it wasn’t that then there was usually at least a good quip. Either way, I always appreciated his perspective.

One day he joined me in the hot tub, and we talked about the law. Law in general, I mean– with a capital L– as opposed to the specific laws pertaining to my case.

I said I was astounded that the State of Utah was able to compel a jury trial. It seemed to me that if the right to a trial by jury was our constitutional right, that we should also have the right to waive it. It seemed to me that a right we could not waive was not necessarily a right at all: that it was really an obligation– and that having become an obligation it remained an obligation even where it became a liability.

What about our other rights, I wondered: what about our right to representation by an attorney, for example? Can’t a person represent himself? Or does the state have the right to block that waiver too?

Well Jeff explained that indeed that right is not necessarily ours to waive either: that we were not granted the right to waive our right to counsel– but only the right to have one. If the Court deemed a person unfit to represent himself, for example, then the Court might demand he have a lawyer. And I could see his point there.

Sorry, but having led you to the hot tub, to look in on our discussion, I now con-fess that Jeff will be just a foil here– for my own ruminations. But he did start me on this.

That discussion got me thinking. It made me wonder how that state of affairs might affect all our other rights: whether those other rights are equally provisional, that is. The idea deeply disturbed me, for I had never thought of it all in quite that way.

What of our right to free speech, for example? Could that become construed– in other circumstances– as a mandate to free speech? Could it become a directive, in other words, that we publicly avow our position on every issue? What about our freedom of religion? Could that be twisted into the lack of freedom from religion? Could that putative “right” become a tenet that each one of us have to declare some religious affiliation– as long as the government didn’t favor any particular one…? What about the right to a speedy trial? By reasoning similar to the convoluted reasoning the State of Utah had employed in the jury trial issue, shouldn’t the Prosecutor be enabled to require a speedy trial as well– and even if that course was to the detriment of the Accused?

Think about the right to bear arms: could that become a requirement to bear arms: that everybody must carry them, that is? Think about our right peaceably to assemble too: now imagine being rousted from your sleep, to go the mandatory assembly in the public square. Think of some rabid Eric Lind type nazi enforcing your right there.

Now lets return to that “right to representation” issue- and take it a step further. For the potential twist put on all our rights by such things as that tortured Utah finding could come to mean that you won’t get to represent yourself regardless: even if you are fully competent. And even if you’re the best person for the job.

The implications boggled my mind.

So I cracked open my Constitution. And there I read:

ARTICLE III, Section 2:

“The trial of all crimes, except in cases of impeachment, shall be by jury;…”

I was stopped in my tracks at that since it was different than I thought. Damn! It did not express trial by jury as a right, as I had thought it did. It only said that that was how it was gonna’ be. The wind was out of my sails.

But wait: if that’s how it’s supposed to be, then why would anybody get to waive that proviso– under any circumstances? After all, not all trials are by jury– in spite of that stipulation. Why would that be so– unless it has come to be recognized as a “right”, and given a status of something that might be waived…That’s a good question, for which I do not have an answer.

But I did find answers to some of my other posers. That’s because all those other rights I ruminated upon are in the “Bill of Rights”. You remember: the first ten amendments to the Constitution. Apparently for their different placement there they are quite unlike that trial by jury thing. They are more or less a different and more respected category of rights– and as such they cannot be strictly compared. So maybe I was all up in arms for nothing.

But wait again: for the “right to representation” is in the Bill of Rights– and that cannot necessarily be waived, as Jeff pointed out. So if that right cannot necessarily be waived then none of the other rights in the Bill can be considered sacrosanct either. Circumscribed, yes– but sacrosanct, no: you still can’t shout fire in a movie theater.

We have other rights too, besides all those I’ve mentioned: there are Miranda Rights, for example. I remembered that the US Supreme Court had decided that in Miranda vs. Arizona. I was not so smart, though, to know that that was in 1966. In any event, the Miranda Warning– which is recited to us at the time of our arrest—encapsu-lates a host of rights. It summarizes the rights of the criminally accused, that is– like this:

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an Attorney, and to have an Attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you at government expense.”

(Do they really switch language like that in mid-stream: from “Attorney” to “Lawyer”?)

Aha! Now the question is whether those Supreme Court sanctioned Miranda Rights more secure than those in the Bill of Rights itself? Are they just an extension of those rights, I mean: just a rewording, I mean? Or are they less secure than those in the Bill of Rights? Perhaps they are on equal par. Or perhaps they only pertain to the criminally accused. Yes, that must be it: they’re special rights- applicable only to the criminally accused– for they’re the ones who need them!

But that is true of jury trials too. So does that mean the Miranda Rights are on par with the constitution, but not with the Bill of Rights?

Finally, can those Miranda rights be twisted into special obligations too? Consider, for example, the right to remain silent being twisted into the compulsion to remain silent…

(I know what the cop-think answer would be. It would be a mid-throated utterance that “Well remaining silent is the smart thing to do.” delivered amidst condescending chuckles. And indeed that is the smart thing to do. But that utterly skirts the point, doesn’t it?)

In any event it seemed to me that turning rights into compulsions only opened up Pandora’s Box. So my legal education continued.

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At one point during this endless ordeal someone close to me said to me that I could not fault the Prosecutor: that he was “just doing his job”. Who it was that said that is not important here. Nor is it important here to say I was appalled. What was important was my response to that disclaimer. (And yes, I was appalled.)

I suspect that attitude is a common ethos. Most of us are used to thinking that the “D.A.” is one of the “good guys”: that he stands up for us against a tidal wave of evil… That he represents things that we admire: truth, integrity, and great American ideals… That he has a hard job that somebody’s gotta’ do… And that he does the best he can, against a thankless system– riddled with escape hatches for the godless criminals and their cackling Lawyers. We can imagine the Prosecutor against that backdrop: valiantly doing his job.

And that was how I looked upon it too, I confess, before all of this happened.

But that piece of shit in Kanab was not “doing his job”– unless his job included subornation of perjury, filing charges on faulty premises, manufacturing evidence, and parlaying his prosecution beyond every bound of reason. No, that son-of-a-bitch may have been doing many things– but “his job” wasn’t one of them!

His job was to prosecute in proportion to what the evidence suggested: the bona-fide evidence–and to pursue charges in line with what the evidence showed had occurred.

So I wondered what sort of disease had corrupted his young head. And for lack of a better answer, I decided he must be ambitious: I figured that he wanted to claim “tough on crime”, while he ran for Governor one day– and that in pursuit of that ambition he’d decided it was okay to destroy my life along the way.

Oh yes– and that for all of that, he’s “not responsible” anyway.

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Just what exactly is a “loophole” anyway? Have you ever thought about that question? I think of it as an escape hatch deliberately built into laws– tax laws, mainly– that people seeking to avoid paying high taxes might exploit, for example. In other words, they are politically-motivated oversights built in to certain laws: clever wordings of laws that benefit certain interests.

But why would escape-hatches be built into laws affecting “crimes against the person”? Why would the state legislature have an interest in effecting loopholes that allow what might be called “common criminals” to escape?

My answer is that “criminals” who get off the hook probably aren’t getting off because of some “loophole”: that they’re more likely getting of because they have not committed some necessary element of the crime. If criminal X is found not guilty of breaking and entering because he was never anywhere near the property supposedly broken into, then that is not a loophole. That is an example of a necessary element of the law failing to be established. It’s called innocence– not “loophole”.

There’s another attitude I want to lambaste right now. It concerns a type of argu-ment introduced by: “Well some people might say”. As in “well some people would say tat any adult who touches a minor should be locked away for years.” That sort of thing. But that sort of argument presupposes that everybody is entitled to equal consideration in any disagreement– and that just is not so. Some people are extremists. And some people strongly hold opinions that are simply way out of the box. So what do I say to someone who holds such an opinion? I say their persecutorial zeal and inability to judge degree is deeply un-American, for starters– and that such a zealot wouldn’t sit on my jury anyhow.

All that said, it annoyed me that some people seemed to think that the prosecutor was entitled to some sort of benefit of the doubt: that his behavior could not be harshly judged— even while his attitude towards me was one of assuming the worst about me— while apparently being shielded in that behavior. The double standard rankled me.

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Oakland and San Francisco are separated by a bridge: the Bay Bridge, of course– the one Dustin Hoffman drove across the wrong way in “The Graduate”: the one that partially collapsed during the Quake of ’89. Perhaps you remember that. I sure do! I was in Candlestick Park that day, for an aborted World Series game between the Giants and the “A’s”. But this is not my story.

I already told you that I liked living in Oakland: a lovely city that gets a lot of bad press. But that is not my story either.

I only interject those things to lend my tale a sense of time and place. Perhaps you hadn’t known where Oakland is, but I’ll bet you knew S.F. And now you know that it’s not a very long drive between the two of them.

You already know as well that when I “came home” from Kanab in disgrace that Melissa still lived in San Francisco. So did my friend Steve Doane.

Steve had been the Cook at the New Pisa, during my final tenure there. We were the only denizens of the building. He lived in the basement, though- while I lived on the third floor.

He was 50 years old: a brilliant man, who had lived quite fully, though he’d been in an alcoholic decline for many years. So even during our New Pisa era, he’d been barely hanging on. Then, after I left town and the restaurant closed, he moved into a residential hotel, in the same Italian neighborhood. That’s where I found him, upon my return: barely hanging on.

I told him my story, with some the most explicit details left out: basically the same story I’d told almost everyone else. Then I asked what he thought I should do. He didn’t have a clue. So he suggested that I talk to Vince, the Cop. Well I knew who Vince was, but I hardly knew him at all. He used to hang out at the restaurant, though, and we’d chatted a few times. But Steve knew him a little better– and even happened to have his phone number too! So he gave it to me.

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I called Vince and asked if I could see him. He said sure, so we arranged to meet, at a coffee house in the old neighborhood. When we met I told him I was very impressed that he had agreed to meet me like that, since he hardly knew me. Then I told him what my legal problem was. He listened to me raptly, although I wasn’t even sure what it was I wanted him to do.

“I’d like you to call Mark Fisher”, I said. He did not know Mark Fisher, of course, but I thought there was a chance that one Cop talking to another might make a good impression. I wanted him to try to talk Fisher “down”– from his ferocious determination to screw me. That strategy, of course, presupposed that it was Mark who was “driving” the prosecution– and of that, of course, I couldn’t be sure. But Vince said he couldn’t do that. “For one thing, he probably wouldn’t talk to me”, he said. Yeah, it had been a stupid idea. Another of my grand schemes had come to naught!

But something important did emerge from that meeting. That was that I told him about the threatened new charge, and asked whether that was really permissible. “No, he’s got to have new evidence”, he said. “Otherwise it’s just blackmail”. Wow! So the slimy cocksucker Lind did have to have new evidence to add on a new charge! At least he would have to in the State of California. So I was encouraged again. But was that also the case in Utah, I wondered? Probably not, from what I’d seen.

So Vince was the first person I talked to who knew something about all this business who had agreed with me that adding that new charge seemed improper: that if Eric Lind really had new evidence– to support a new charge– well that was one thing. But if he didn’t … or if he had made it up… Well I would have to check into that further. Maybe I could still get that rodent by the by balls.

******************************************************

Walking through San Francisco in search of a burrito, I happened upon the office of a Spiritualist. I paused there for a minute, pondering going in. I decided that listening to her couldn’t do me any harm. After all, all other avenues had failed me, so opening myself to a new dimension might benefit me somehow.

Anyway, we sat in her big plush chairs and I told her about my situation. And in response to it, she asked: “Have you thought about paying the girl’s family off?” Yikes: that suggestion hit me on the side of the head. The truth was that I had thought of doing that– of course: in fact I would have pledged them every goddam thing I’d earn for years to come. But how would I have even gone about that? Would I have gotten a friend of a friend to contact them clandestinely? Even then, the prospects for that going wrong and getting me into even more trouble had stopped that idea in its tracks. Nor had anybody from the Mumford camp approached me for money either. It seemed to me that if they’d wanted to they could have approached me in the same way.

Thus far there had been no apparent financial motive. But hearing that suggestion from a Spiritualist reopened that can of worms. It seemed like far too late, though– at that point. Okay: maybe I could have hired a local P.I. to do that bidding for me, even at that point. But I said no to the idea once again. The idea retreated into limbo– from which I thought it would not matriculate.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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Bret and his Rosaleen came to visit for Thanksgiving. So my endless month was punctuated after all– by that precisely dated memory. They were my friends from Portland, you might remember, who I had snuck past after visiting my grandmother in Seattle. I had been the best man at their wedding, several years before.

I first met Bret in Mexico around 1993. That was at an Archaeological garden in Chiapas, where I was traveling with a beautiful young woman named Natalie. He thought she was my girl, then, but the truth was that I was not so lucky. But she’s not important here anyway– I only mentioned her out of misplaced vanity. Anyway Bret came with us to Palenque, and soon he and I were good friends.

On the same trip we also went to a place called Agua Azul, where we swam in the waters, and later he left for Tikal– while I returned to San Francisco to work. I did finally get to see Tikal years later, by the way– but that is not my story either.

Over the years I visited Bret in Portland a couple times– where he worked as a Professional clown– and I even took as road trip with him through the Cascades. He visited me in Tahoe too, on a couple of occasions– once with Rosaleen, his new fiancée.

Bret is a very good man: informed and sensitive, and possessed of a good mind. He’s a very good friend too. In fact, often times I’ve thought he’s a better friend than I deserve. So when he asked me to be the Best Man at his wedding, I was delighted. Unfortunately I was not the world’s best Best Man– and I think my comportment proved my point– that I didn’t deserve him. Basically I wasn’t willing to take an extra day off of work, and so arrived the night after the Bachelor Party. Part of that was that I do not drink, but in retrospect that was a poor excuse. I’ve spent a lot more time thinking about such things since these events in Kanab unfolded.

Rosaleen is a lovely person too. I’m glad they found each other.

The Burton-Wurmses were away that weekend, so the Christies stayed with me in their house. There Bret and I got in the hot tub, where I told him my story. Most of the story, that is, again– for I omitted the usual facts. I told him I was doing that too, so do not think I lied. I still had not had to lie to anybody but my cellmate– and I still believed I did not have to lie to win. But I understood that anybody I told my story to could in theory be subpoenaed.

After telling him my story, he asked me this:

“So are you saying that there was no touching?”

“No,” I said, ”I’m not saying that there was no touching”. And that was the end of that. And then he put his head back, and thought a minute. Then he asked me:

“Could this have been a set-up?”

I had thought of that before too, as I have said– but only briefly. That’s because the idea that it was a set-up had not made much sense. But again it was a matter of hearing someone else address a question– somebody with intuition- that led me to consider it anew. I dismissed it again, though, for the same old reasons: because in order to have set me up, they would have needed a lot of information they could not have had. And there were too many variables there that they could not control. All that being said and done they would have had to have a motive.

They would have had to know that I’d be going to the library that day…and that I’d be

there earlier than usual… and they’d have had to know I knew about that water tower: that I slept there, even, I suppose… and that I’d take Corissa there, given half a chance…Even then they would have had to let her out of their sight for a while– and that was the biggest problem. I don’t believe they would have risked that, for want of knowing me.

But another new question impressed itself upon me then that I hadn’t given enough consideration to before. It was “Where was Corissa’s stepfather George, during all of this?” Corissa said he had driven them all down from Cedar City on the morning of the crime. So where was he-- while “Mom” was working, and Corissa was in the library with me? Why wasn’t he with his “incompetent” stepdaughter?… Could it be that he was out “in the field”: scouting me?

But it still did not make sense. I couldn’t make it work. I was just being paranoid.

*********************************************************************

Sean and E.K’s wedding took place in Mexico in late November, as planned. But I was not there. I was too much a basket case to be social like that– or to fly all that way. And my money was running low. So I stayed home and brooded. It killed me not to go.

******************************************************

I kept thinking about that “No, no….” claim. I finally decided that Prosecution had made a strategic mistake. For I thought about the cadences of everything Corissa had uttered: everything I had heard her say, I mean. And as I thought about those other things, I realized that the “No, no…” claim would not have fit her pattern. Three times I heard her get excited, on that morning that we met. First I’d heard her exclaim about her father. “He RAAAPED me– MY FATHER RAPED ME”, she had said. Then after we’d come down to meet Mark Fisher, she’d demanded “What did you do– WHAT DID YOU DO?”. Finally, on the heels of that outburst, she’d said: “He Raped me– HE RAPED ME!”– that time about me. And each of those exclamations had evinced very nearly the same pattern: they were blurted in two complete parts, with each second part either a repetition, or a near repetition of the first. And each time she had been more emphatic during the second part of the cry. Her voice had gone up, I mean, for added emphasis.

So the claim that she’d said “No, no, I don’t want to go” rang false. And the idea that she’d said it three times rang especially false: for it would have fit her pattern better to have said something like “I don’t wanna’ go– I DON’T WANNA’ GO”. Or “No, no– NO NO”. I was sure of it. So sure, in fact, that if they’d claimed she’d said that sentence only once it would have still rung false. It would have been more believable if they’d claimed she said it exactly twice– and even then, that it was either “No no” or “I don’t wanna’ go”. But not both. No other pattern fit!

But who thought up that lie? And why did they claim she said it “three times”? Surely two would have been sufficient.

My explanation was that three was some sort of magic number to them: that while two cries might not be taken seriously, that three would be unmistakable. Something like that. It’s not a great explanation, but it’s the best one that I’ve got. Or maybe it was a claim catered specifically to me, because of my hearing: that being deaf in my left ear I might credibly deny having heard her say it even twice– but who would believe it if I denied having heard it three times. In any event, it was an over-kill, and might end up costing them dearly: because if she went on to testify she’d really made that claim– and in that way– a good Lawyer could debunk it.

Therefore– Aha!–I perceived an advantage for myself if she did go on to claim it!

And the truth is that I wouldn’t have failed to hear her saying it if she’d said it even once. If she’d said it in the car, that is: because in the car Corissa sat on my right side, (Clayton)– next to my good ear!

In any event, the lie didn’t strike me as the product of Corissa. I guessed it sprang from a conspiracy, for which they could all point to each other, saying “I really believed”.

*******************************************************

Later, another realization seized me. It was that the “No, no” claim didn’t support an AK at all. That’s because Eric Lind already had the constituents of AK without any claim being necessary at all! He had the UD on the left, and the FSA on the right. Therefore that false claim of protest added nothing to his requirements. In fact, the only thing it supported was a charge of simple Kidnapping– which he wasn’t even charging!

Moreover, it seemed to me that by claiming that “..No, no…” that they were really conceding that without it they might not have enough: that they themselves didn’t believe their charges were really warranted. Yet they pursued the damned thing anyway! It was unbelievable, the inhumanity of it all.

***********************************************************

It occurred to me that the “No no” claim would be a mistake for another reason, too. It was that by making it, they would have been conceding that Corissa was not incompetent. That’s because such a declaration would have been an admission that she recognized a dangerous situation– and that she resisted it too. So it seemed to me that Prosecution had to make up their minds too. Did they mean to say that this was a Kidnapping– in which I had taken her away, despite her express desire not to be taken anywhere– or did they want to say that I was culpable because of her incompetence, owing to which she didn‘t have the wherewithal to either assess danger, or resist it? Ha! So the damn law was double-edged for them as well. And I believed that that by making that “No no” claim they’d be sacrificing their “incompetence” position.

********************************************************

I kept thinking about that “ambulatory problem” too. I was sure I had not seen it. So how bad could it be? Then my dimming bulb flared again: “Wait”, I cried- ha ha- she had run down from the hill! And Mark Fisher had confirmed that fact in his report! She had run out of the Library, too– to catch up to me by my car. So I’d seen Corissa running twice. And if she could run, then how bad could her ambulatory problem be? Or perhaps it was akin to a stutter– that disappears when its possessor sings?

I searched my mind’s eye again. I went back in time, to the Computer room, to the first time I had seen her. But I had not seen her enter! Nor did she stroll around the room. Okay– she had stood behind me, hadn’t she– to rub me on the shoulders? Yes, but that was only two steps away. And she had been behind me then. Then– My God: she’d trailed behind me, too, when I went up to the front desk. Then she ran outside to meet me! Aha!

But surely I’d seen her walking out by the tower- when she had come around the car, or approached with my cell-phone? Or how about on the fateful hill– when she had shrieked because she could not climb? In any event, at least one thing got confirmed for me by that ambulatory disclosure: Corissa really could not climb– at least not unassisted.

It seems like I should have seen her problem, though. But I am sure that I did not. Later a hypothesis for that occurred to me as well: it was that I had not seen it because she’d deliberately kept it hidden– that she had let me think she wasn’t coming with me, but then had followed me to the desk. Yes: that was it! That was why she ran to catch up to me outside too. It hadn’t been excitement at all: it was just a way to hide the problem.

But I couldn’t buy that myself: because surely I would have seen something– if only for a second. But more than that was that there was just too much I was trying to deny: like that I didn’t know she was so challenged; like that I didn’t know she was fifteen. And now it was that I didn’t even know she couldn’t walk right. It was just too many things. And it took me back to being a psychopath. In my imagination.

As always, deciding I was just a psychopath didn’t resolve the issue: I couldn’t just let my mind slip away like that. There were too many unanswered things piling up, for which other people held the only key. And I required answers, just to keep me sane. It meant I had to go to Prelim. I had to go and see what all the witnesses would say. It was imperative to my mental health, to find out what those people would affirm. Equally important was to find out what those people would deny… about the “No, no …”, and about the “He’s my friend”. I also had to hear what those people would say about the scratches. And I had to see for myself whether Corissa really limped!

Above all those, I needed the answer for which only Corissa held the key. It was about the missing block of time. Only Corissa knew what had happened there. I had to hear what she would say!

*********************************************************

Prosecution made a lot of interesting claims along the way. I heard about these via Clayton, of course. One was that to Corissa’s understanding, “all sex is rape”. Later that claim was expressed to me as that Corissa “does not what rape is”. And that was very interesting news to me. Apparently their claim was that though she cried it out while I was being nabbed that she can’t be taken to task for it.

Clayton was as usual deeply concerned. He thought they had me there!

So of course I gave that claim a lot of thought– and before long I identified some potential problems with it too. The first was that she’d also made that claim to me about her father: that he’d raped her, I mean. So it seemed to me that we’d justified in looking into the legal case about her father. We had a right to see what abuse had really occurred there– and to find out what she’d claimed. Their claim that she “doesn’t know what rape is” might be contradicted by disclosures from that case. And we could freely investigate that case, right? And we could introduce it into evidence, right? Well, not necessarily, was the answer. Not if Corissa denies she ever made that claim to me. That was how I saw it: that if I was the only person making that claim it would appear I was making something up to force them to let me pry into that other case. Thus, I suspected that that “gambit” would not be “allowed”.

But wait: we still had Alan Orton! Hadn’t he said “It’s been a long time” when he interviewed Corissa on the video-cassette? Couldn’t that passing comment “open the door” to inquiring about their previous interview– to see if it pointed to a rape?

But what if it was really true– that she didn’t know what rape is? What if it turns out that her father didn’t really rape her at all? Shit! Well it would mean that the one thing that I had believed unequivocably from Corissa’s mouth had also not been true! It would mean that the good motive that led to my arrest had been based on something false. It was as if Judgment Day had come for me– and that I had been caught napping.

**********************************************************

Enter December. I can demarcate December because I know what happened then. I have touchstones to remind me: holidays and stuff. But do not think my mood was any better. No, that is not the salient feature here, to usher this new month. I had not ascended from my existential despair yet. And I was still afraid I never would.

But I decided to get some support– I’d been isolated for too long. Yes, it was a self-imposed isolation, that is true, but I hadn’t felt at liberty to talk about this thing. And I hadn’t felt worthy of most my friends– or even able to go see them. But the isolation had to end, or I would lose my mind.

I looked up my old therapist, Ron Rohlfes, whose patient I had been in San Francisco. That was for a two-year period, in ‘95 and ’96. I had sought him out for issues about my inability to get the relationships I sought. That was a condition that had plagued me. I had been in some sort of therapy several times over the years, with several different therapists– but Ron was the best one I’d seen, and he had helped me a lot.

This time it was group therapy I was seeking. I was in luck, too, because he led one of his own, every Wednesday night. It was a Men’s Group, too, so it sounded perfect. I joined it.

My first night in attendance, I was one of two new members, joining the core group of four others, who had been there for some time. But that count excludes Ron.

In any event, after six weeks the other new guy dropped out, but he’s not important here. What matters is that I felt embraced again, and vital, and had hope again. The support there was quite touching. And I felt valuable to other people, again, because my contributions were appreciated. I thank God for those guys, in that era of my life.

When I talked about my feelings, I felt that they were understood. And I described the disconnectedness: feeling like a phantom– drifting lifeless amongst still vital people. I told them I was sure that I would never be okay again: that God himself had rejected me, and that my life had been exposed as a lie. I said that all the metaphysical cogs had lined up on that day, to crush me: that just when I had found the confidence I’d always sought, I’d had the rug pulled out.

And while I rued my powerlessness, I cursed the dogs who oppressed me. I ex-pressing those angry feelings too: feelings I had too long bottled up.

I also told them that I wanted to be dead: that I wished someone would shoot me- to make it quick, and final. I didn’t mean I wanted any of them to do it though– I meant some stranger on the street.

I wasn’t threatening suicide, though: I made that very clear. I confessed that I’d thought about it, but couldn’t do it, and didn’t plan to anymore. They were glad to hear it.

*****************************************************

The guys in my Men’s group encouraged me to get a job again, and to get some medication. I’d wanted to do both those things anyway. I needed to do them too. So I did. I went to my old family doctor in Belmont, to get the medication. Dr. Buckley had been practicing there since I was a kid. I’d even been to see him several times as an adult– most recently for the Guillain-Barre’.

I told him my sad tale. When I was done, he shook his head, and said: “That seems to be all the rage in the mountain states”. He was talking about sex crime prosecutions, because the Kobe Bryant case was going on at the same time. Then he gave me a bunch of Zoloft, and a prescription to refill them.

***********************************************************

Kobe Bryant wasn’t the only famous person in legal trouble at that time: several other celebrities going through the wringer then. Their names were Michael Jackson; Martha Stewart; Phil Spectre; and Robert Blake.

I’m sure there were others too– as if that wasn’t company enough. But the most famous case of them all, at that time, and perhaps until Michael eclipsed him, was not a celebrity at all– until he got into legal trouble, that is. But once his crime was uncovered, the media elevated him to front-page news. That was Scot Peterson: on trial for the first degree murder of his lovely pregnant wife. And where did that media circus take place? Why, in Redwood city, California, of course: the city of my birth!

********************************************************

The job was harder to get than the prescription. I knew I wanted to do something undemanding, though, because I was so hugely distracted all the time. So I filled out a bunch of applications at coffee house and bookstores. But nothing came my way– again. During that process, though, I became aware of how many applications ask about felony convictions. It was depressing. And I thought that question would come to dominate my life.

Finally I got a job at a Bakery, down on College Avenue. It was by the corner where I had seen Melissa and her Cousin, that time I’d gawked at their butts. I was a clerk there now, and I worked with people who were mostly half my age: people who still had futures, that is. But I didn’t have a future– all I saw for my life anymore was drudgery and counters to stand behind all day, selling pastries. I could hardly even stretch my legs doing that– and when I did step outside to stretch my legs I always heard about it.

One day a man came in whom I had worked with in a restaurant in San Francisco almost twenty years before. I had been the Waiter there, and he had been the Cook. But I had not liked him, then. I remembered that he was planning to be some sort of Psychologist– and that he swaggered, and wore long overcoats– so I thought he was very phony.

I couldn’t recall his name, but I said hi anyway, and reminded him where we’d met. He said he vaguely remembered it, and was impressed that I’d remembered him– and his professional aspirations. In fact, he said, he was indeed a Psychologist now, and had established a practice not very far away.

As he left, I remember thinking that he had realized his dream– and that it had not made a bit of difference whether I had thought of him as phony. I was confronted with all my dashed dreams then: by the bliss I had not followed, and the talents I had not trained. So I was depressed anew, reviewing my wasteland of potentials. My life seemed over.

********************************************************

They were all quite proud of me back in my Men’s group, because it took great “courage” for me just to have gone out looking for a job. They were right, and I appreciated the notice. It had indeed felt like great courage. But the Zoloft helped a lot.

*********************************************************

Unfortunately, one night while I was at work, a tour bus crashed into my Subaru. It sustained a lot of damage. The Subaru, I mean. It was a mess. The insurance company wanted to total it, but I would not hear of it– because it still ran well. It was true that it had a badly crumpled door, though: it barely closed anymore, and when it was closed it couldn’t hide an enormous gap between the door and the frame. But as long as it could move, I was determined to keep it.

They offered me a ridiculously low compensation for it, so I vigorously argued. Finally they offered $1950. That was more like it! I said that I would take that only if they would let me keep the car. So they gave me $1900 and let me keep the car. Ha! The money went right into my pocket, for my funds were drying up.

A few days after that I was fired from the Bakery. I had stepped outside during a rush because I had to talk to Clayton. He had called me, and we talked for a long time. My boss took great exception to that move, however, and she cut me a check on the spot.

She didn’t know what was going on with me anyway- because I hadn’t told her. So I don’t fault her. I hated the job anyway.

********************************************************

I kept asking Clayton about the new charge. I still thought it was bullshit. And I still wasn’t satisfied with his answer. At first all he’d said was that it was “allowed”– as you already know. Then he clarified the matter (in his mind, I suppose) by telling me that a prosecutor could add a charge “for any reason”. I thought that meant the Prosecutor could get out of bed in the morning, and say “I really, really hate that guy: I think I’ll add another charge”. You see, I thought that hatred would qualify as a “reason”.

I labored under that illusion for a good six weeks. Meanwhile I grew to disdain the whole legal system, and to abhor the lies that posed for ideals of Justice. Vince the Cop had called it right: it was just legalized blackmail.

It seemed to me that if a charge could be added for “any reason” that it meant the prosecution’s chicanery could not be impeached. It meant it did not matter that the “No no” claim had been pulled out of thin air– because “for any reason” meant they didn’t even need that claim to level a new charge. Nor did they need any claim at all in order to wreck my life. For them, that claim was just a bonus!

Then, much later in the game Clayton gave a still different response. He said that the Prosecutor could file a new charge for one of two reasons: one was based on new evidence– of course. And that had made sense all along. But he said that he could also add it based on a “new understanding” of the evidence. Well it turns out that that was what he’d meant by “any reason” He’d meant any reason that had something to do with the actual charges. Jesus Christ– the chubby son-of-a-bitch. All that time he’d let me think “any reason” meant no reason at all. But this newer standard meant that Prosecution’s mere whim was not a proper reason! Shit!

That sort of misunderstanding had come to be typical, with Clayton. And that much belated explanation certainly seemed like a better answer to my question– though I’d had to wrest it from him like sorely extracted teeth.

*******************************************************

I gave that new guideline a lot of consideration. At first blush, it had sounded fair and reasonable. But upon further reflection, what the fuck did that guideline really mean? Did it mean that if the D.A. could look in his book of statutes and say “Hey– there’s one that I haven’t thought of!”– and that he can add that too?…Could he then defend that new charge by saying “I did not realize– hence I have a new understanding”? Listening to Clayton, that sounded like the case. He may have even been right about that, too. But why hadn’t he known it sooner?

Clayton notwithstanding, I was still appalled by that “allowance”: for how can anybody challenge the contention that someone else has had “a new understanding”? It seemed to me about as worthless of a guideline as you can get. All that standard really does is enable sleazy Prosecutors to blackmail people. What a crock of shit!

Hence the UD charge, I finally understood. I’d wondered why they’d bothered with that minor charge. Well the answer was that they had added it to set up the AK. Later they could claim the AK was a “new understanding”– though they’d erect it on the latticework they’d put in place from the start! It meant they’d planned it all along! I was sure: from day one they had planned to parlay this misdemeanor into a first-degree felony, if I would not take their deal. yes: they would do that via the UD, already in place– and justify it with their claim to a new “understanding”. They would try their damnedest to lock me up for life!

***********************************************************

My next appointment in Kanab was on an early December date: around the 7^th, . I believe. Hell, since I was arrested on D-day then it seemed fitting that I get shot all to hell on Pearl Harbor day! On that date, I was expected to either take the deal or reschedule a Preliminary Hearing. Either way, it meant I would have to drive out to Kanab yet again.

I couldn’t stand it. And as that date approached, I felt violence in my stomach.

My confidence in Clayton was unsalvageable by then. Or it was hanging on by threads, at best. And I just could not take the deal– so I called Walter Bugden, at last.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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Wally, as he’s known, was willing to take a look at my case. But since my car had that gaping hole in it, I didn’t want to drive it to Salt Lake City. Not in December, in any event. I could have rented a car, of course, but for the sake of time I decided it was better to take a Greyhound bus anyway. I figured out that I could take an overnight one, see Wally in the afternoon, then get on a return bus that same night. So that is what I did.

I didn’t tell Clayton I was doing that, of course- seeing yet another Lawyer. He would have had a fit. I didn’t even tell him where I was. But before I went in to see Wally, I called him on my cell, from Salt Lake City. It was a Tuesday, and just about the time I was supposed to be thinking about going to Kanab again– so I had to talk to him about that anyway.

I asked Clayton to arrange another delay. I cited car troubles, which was more or les the truth. So he said he’d see what he could do. Well a while later he called back, and said that he had arranged it. So the next Court date was rescheduled for sometime in January. That was one good thing about Clayton: he got me lots of delays.

Wally worked for a Law Firm that sported his name in the title: Bugden and Isaacson. He had a beautiful Receptionist, too, who I assumed was not his wife. The insides of his offices were modern, too, and light: not oppressed with dark and stuffy panels. After all that time under Clayton’s gloomy umbrella, I was relieved to see such comfort.

Wally was probably not quite fifty. He was almost as tall as I am, and he sported a moustache. He was of medium build, too, though I think he had a slight belly. He had dark hair and eyes (?).

We sat down and discussed my case. He told me he could tell on the phone that I was a very intelligent person. And I could tell by the questions he asked that he too– like Michael Shaw– had a quick and intuitive grasp of the nuances of my case.

Early on I asked him what he knew about Clayton Huntsman. Well he told me that he and Clayton had gone to Law School together. “So we’re sort of soul mates”, he said. Something like that. But when I’d asked him if Clayton was the best man for the job, he indicated that he wasn’t sure. So I thought I was right. Clayton’s era had passed.

Eventually we made our way upstairs, where watched the video-cassette together. I explained that they were trying to paint her as mentally incompetent. “Well she doesn’t come across that way”, he said, quite early in the session. I could have kissed him then. That meant I’d not been mired in self-deception.

But when Corissa stammered, Wally looked hard at me and said “That’s not good” And no it wasn’t good, I agreed– “but she never did that while with me”.

He expressed a concern about me too: that I seemed too much like a “scientist”. He thought I came across as too analytical: like a nerd, or something. He said a jury might not like that.

We talked about the specific charges. He was impressed that I could rattle them off from memory while he was still looking for them in the books. At last I told him about the AK threat. At that– realizing the stakes– he shook his head, and said “It’s just not worth the risk”. He too thought that I should take the deal. I said I could not do that.

That’s what those minimum mandatory sentences do: they make the stakes for defending ourselves too great.

So Wally said he’d take the case: he’d take me “through to Prelim”, that is– for $7500. And if we went to trial after that it would cost $10,000 more.

I didn’t hire Wally on the spot, though, as I had done with Clayton, for I needed time to think. Besides, I had another month before the next Court Hearing, and anything might happen in the interim.

*********************************************************

That made the score 6-1-0: of the eight Lawyers I had spoken to– my family included- six said I must take the deal. Ruth had just admonished me not to plead guilty to anything with sex in it– so I’m not really sure how to score her. The final one– Michael Shaw– had demurred, and sent me looking elsewhere. So he’s the zero, in that score. But it wouldn’t have mattered if twenty lawyers told me to take the deal—because I simply could not take it. I had to go through a Preliminary hearing no matter what. If I lost there I’d flee the country– then I’d probably kill myself one day, for that’s what usually happens– to the ones who don’t get caught.

******************************************************

I got back to San Francisco Wednesday night and proceeded to my Men’s Group. I told the other men what I’d done. I divulged that it was eerie, in a way: for I had been anticipating that the internal pressure would double if I decided to face that charge– and yet, having done so, I felt strangely calm instead– like I was resigned to my fate.

The group didn’t meet for two of the next three weeks, because of the holidays. But one of the members there suggested that we each write a letter– or a poem– over the holidays to share with the group when we got back. I for one thought that was a wonderful idea– especially since I’d written so much poetry lately.

***********************************************************

So Christmas was upon us. I always did like Christmas, but this one was devoid of joy, for me. Even the Midnight Mass I went to was a bust: for it had started at 10:30– for some reason– and I missed it. And when my old friend Ed Chainey called, all full of Christmas cheer, I was dour, and dragged him down as well.

We celebrated Christmas Day at Leslie’s house. My parents came up from Belmont in the morning. It’s all a blur, though, but I suspect they knew that something was really wrong. They’d suspected that anyway, I’m sure, just because I was living at Leslie’s house, jobless, and nearly incommunicado– and because I hadn’t gone to visit them, for a while.

In fact I’d only seen them once since this misfortunate episode had started. That was in June, when I was on my way back to CRT to go down the river. I remember that well because my Mother had looked at me then, with my crew cut, and exclaimed “You look like a convict”. She had no idea how right she might become.

*************************************************************

When the group met again after Christmas we all read our offerings. Mine was a poem called “Responsibility”:

Responsibility:

An enabler’s mantra

A tautology for the obtuse

Cop-think, basically

A rigid faux decree

They display like merit badges

Or dangle from their porches

And from their participles too.

Eternally laced into each oration

Amongst “but”s and “judgments

And smug declarations

Like rites-of-passage

To adulthood, it.

As though its very utterance-

Its echoed evocation-

Causes secret doors to slide

Heads to nod

Invisible forces to align.

As if its very enunciation

Is the handshake of the initiated

And that for being memorized, uttered,

Cadenced, and pronounced

Needs no further elaboration

(That) for its proper nuance and delivery

They are enshrined’ in the club.

But they don’t know what they mean. Ask them.

Perhaps they mean nothing at all

It’s a game to them, amongst other games

A touchstone, only

A false God, propitiated with a word

If it isn’t obvious what I mean then I’ve at least partly failed. But I was talking about the phony posturings of people who use the word responsibility as a cudgel: people who recognize its utility in their ambitions, but which is a concept they don’t have any real connection with. It’s about people that use the word to divert attention from the hypocritical enablings of their own agendas. That’s it.

I was thinking, of course, of Eric Lind.

When I was finished reading the group asked me to read it again. They liked it.

***********************************************************

I kept on doing research. And I kept on writing letters. I usually finished the letters on the weekends. That meant that almost every Monday morning Clayton had a correspondence from me waiting on his fax machine. I wonder if he started dreading Monday mornings, for that reason.

Some of the letters were long and some were short. But regardless of their length, they all seemed to fall on deaf ears anyway– and they were probably driving Clayton nuts. But I didn’t care. In me he probably thought he’d gotten far more than he’d bargained for. And in him, I felt like I’d gotten far less.

I asked him why Cora Singer hadn’t been prosecuted too. After all, they were claiming that Corissa was incompetence. Surely they didn’t mean to say that her mother had abandoned an incompetent girl? Wouldn’t that be Reckless Endangerment? And what about the fact that when Corissa got in trouble, “Mom” was nowhere to be found?

His answer was that the Librarian’s considered themselves Corissa’s “Caretakers” when her mother wasn’t there. They all watched out for her, that is. So then I wondered if the Librarian’s could themselves be held responsible– and also the City of Kanab– under whose auspices they work!

So I faxed him a short note telling him that I should sue the Library. I said that they should have protected me from Corissa. After all, she had some sort of “history”, and they were claiming she was incompetent as well. Thus, they should have foreseen that something like that would occur. But he blew another fuse over that. He sent a curt note back to me, dripping with exasperation. He said that that suing them would make me look even worse.

At least that disclosure answered another question for me, that I’d started to wonder about: it informed me that Corissa did go to the library regularly. That meant that yet another of my assumptions of the 6^th of June had come up short: the idea that nobody in the Library knew her, I mean. God, how I wished that when Dickie Robinson had asked her “So how’s it going in there?” she’d added the name Corissa!

I shared with him my thoughts about something I digressed upon earlier: that it would be stupid of Prosecution to claim that Corissa didn’t know what rape is. After all, she’d accuse her father of it, then she’d claimed it about me. So wouldn’t such an excuse throw into doubt a whole host of things? About the disposition of the case against her father, for one thing. And about what, exactly, she does understand, with respect to all her claims. On that point, he finally agreed with me! That was fairly staggering, because early on he’d been particularly terrified of that putative claim.

Speaking of the disposition of her father’s case, he disclosed that both Corissa and Leon were in counseling, as a result of that old situation. So apparently the disposition of that case was not a factor, anymore. But when I said we should get the files on that case anyway, he pooh-poohed the idea. “It hasn’t got a thing to do with this case”, was all that he could say. Aaaargh! He still just didn’t get it. Or maybe it was me!

I asked Clayton about every possibility that I could think of: about using a Public Defender, (not Hummel) in conjunction with his service; about getting separate trials, for all the different counts; about asking some of the questions at the trial myself…

But none of my ideas impressed him. Nothing registered a blip.

*********************************************************

I decided that Utah’s low threshold of competence could work to my advantage. For if the threshold of competence is low, then wouldn’t that mean that Corissa herself could be held accountable—if she should commit a crime? And if she can be competent enough to be culpable for criminal activity, then surely she could be competent enough to consent to having sex! Ha, ha, I chuckled: I thought I had them hoist by their petard! But it was just more nervous laughter.

Clayton was unmoved by that thinking too.

*****************************************************

I wasn’t sure at what point I was being said to have detained Corissa: whether our whole outing was considered a detention, or just a part of it. But I suspected that Sammy had correctly laid his finger on that nerve. It was that by taking her up that hill I had arguably detained her: that at that point she might not have known “where we were going– or why”. Thus, she must have accompanied me by some force of authority then: I must have made her think she had no choice.

Well there they might have had a valid point. Valid, that is, if it had actually happened that way. But I had not urged her on against her will. Nor had she seemed opposed to the whole idea of the hike. I’d recalled her being enthusiastic, even– and smiling and beaming as I took her hand.

So I sent Clayton another missive. I argued that when Corissa and I had gone up that hill, that I was acting “in loco parentis”: that I was acting as a responsible guardian would have. I averred that I believed that my conduct was necessary to protect her from bodily harm. No, not “imminent” bodily harm, it’s true– but bodily harm nonetheless– from Leon.

He was left cold by that one too.

He said that if I did go to a Bench trial, and tried to in any way blame Corissa, that I would surely antagonize that Judge. In other words, I couldn’t risk telling him my story either. His view was that if I told the judge exactly what had happened, that I’d be “blaming” Corissa– and that my head would surely roll.

Talking to Clayton, of course, one would think that Judges are irascible despots, ever poised for antagonism by the slightest provocation. And I’d seen Clayton cringing before the Judge– so I suspect that he believed that himself. But maybe the Judge was not really such a curmudgeon, I thought. Maybe he just feels antagonized by Clayton. So I grew tired of the admonishment that I’d antagonize the Judge.

Still talking about Corissa, he said that we could hire an Expert Witness. But to do that, he said I should be prepared to spend at least $6000. He mentioned a couple of them he had worked with in the past. Then he said “We might be able to get one who will testify that Corissa is capable of forming some kind of intent”. His voice betrayed him there, for as he said those last four words it gushed with sympathy for the poor pathetic victim. That felt like another knife in my gut.

For the love of God, Clayton: “FORMING SOME KIND OF INTENT”? What was wrong with him?

But the answer was already clear: that Clayton and I had seen two entirely different people, in Corissa Mumford! Where he had seen a pathetic incompetent victim, I’d seen a spirited young woman! Where he was looked for capability to form intent, I saw strong-willed determination. Where he thought we needed to hire cringing mercenaries, I didn’t think we needed an Expert Witness at all. What I needed was an advocate– someone who passionately believed in my case! And Clayton was not it.

I needed a Lawyer.

*********************************************************

Days before leaving for our January appointment in Kanab, Clayton and I discussed Lind’s new deal again. But this time he denied that there was anything in it about a misdemeanor. I was sure that had been in there, though, so I asked him to check again. Well he did so, and then said nope again. So I was encouraged– and perplexed. Had there been a misunderstanding? Another misunderstanding, that is? Or had Lind come down again– but Clayton had forgotten to tell me?

We continued talking about my case for 45 more minutes. I became tempted by the new deal then– for I was close to cracking. But suddenly Clayton stopped and said “Oh wait– you were right”. He meant about the misdemeanor. Oh God almighty, Clayton– it had been in front of him all along! Utterly disgusted, I asked him “How could we have come this far in this conversation without you knowing that?”

His answer was “Well you have it written down too”

******************************************************

Quite possibly Clayton thought I was insane. Maybe he wouldn’t have been far off either, if he had. But I was also determined: I still knew better than everybody about the merits of my case- and I refused to roll. That’s probably obvious by now. Besides, after having exhaustively researched the statutes, I knew that I was right. You know that too. But I needed to be represented by someone who understood the merits of my case. Out of options, I had to go with Wally.

In January I called Wally again to see if he was still available. He was. So I approached my sister for the $7500 loan. I explained that there might be more.

She loaned it to me, and I straightaway paid Wally.

And then I read a whole book through– for the first time in months. Hallelujah!

NABBED IN KANAB Chapters 17 & 18

Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

*************************************************

I drove out to Kanab again on January ——. The next appearance was set for the—, and I needed the usual two days to get there. It was, after all, 750 miles, and I didn’t want to attempt it in a day. I went ahead and drove the Subaru this time— gaping wound and all. I felt like I had a gaping wound in my side too.

The first night on the road, I stayed in a hotel. From there, I called Clayton in the evening, and reached his answering machine. I told him of my plan to bring Wally in on the case. I also told him what my thinking was about the manufactured “No, no” claim: I averred that if Corissa doesn’t claim she’d said that, at the Prelim, that prosecution might be able to get me convicted for SAM: but that if she does claim it, they’d lose the whole damned thing. It would blow up on them, I asserted. So that was that.

I’m sure he didn’t agree with me, of course. But I still believed I knew better than everybody else.

************************************************

When I arrived in Kanab I went straight to the Vermillion Cafe’. Harold, the owner, remembered me. He asked what brought me back to town, so I gave him a synopsis. “It should have been charged as an A misdemeanor”, I averred, at the end of my account: “But Eric Lind has managed to parlay it into a first-degree felony”.

Harold shook his head at that. “I hear it all the time”, he said. “They manufacture evidence…” But even as he trailed off I was astounded by that revelation. To me it was not as surprising that “they” do that as that the practice was widely known. “Eric Lind comes in here sometimes”, he continued, “and we let him know how we feel about it”.

But Harold was far from finished. “There was a Sixty Minutes segment done on us”, he said, and then he trailed off again. I figured that by “us”, he meant the town of Kanab, so I urged him to go on. At that he broadened his dissertation, even though his tale was no longer relevant to my situation. He said that the sheriffs had been caught removing signs from the Escalante National Monument, or something along those lines.

The nearby Escalante-Grand Staircase National Monument was only a few years old as my story unfolded. I knew the place well, however, having hiked there several times— including once with Osha. But established by Bill Clinton, late in his admini-stration, it was an unpopular protectorate around those parts. Many local people considered it just another federal “land grab”, which is an attitude I actually understand. But it was also loathed in part I’m sure, because of who it was that had proclaimed it… Hell: Clinton didn’t even venture into the state Utah to proclaim it.

Harold went on to tell me about a woman who once practiced law in Kanab— by the name of Cathy Johnston. He alluded to a litany of abuses the Prosecutor’s had perpe-trated, during her tenure there. “She had to call the ACLU down here several times”, he reported. “She eventually had to move away” he added— citing her utter disgust with the place as her reason.

Wow! By that disclosure I was elevated again, because it meant that knowledge of a pattern of abuse down there was known even beyond the locals, and I thought that information might come to help me, somehow. Then I decided that no matter how things turned out for me, that I was obligated to expose the corruption of Kanab.

After that I decided that this rabid Prosecution was not only about me: that many people had been railroaded by these people— and that some of them were probably in prison. So I decided that my fight had to be for them as well… That resolve became another thing that sustained me, through this draconian travail. For what would happen, I wondered, to someone who was accused of the same thing that I was, but who did not have as much confidence in their own intellect?… Or to someone just like me, but who could not come up with the money? Oh, sure, they could get a Public Defender: some John Hummel type, who’d arrange two years in prison- and tell them it’s a wonderful deal, with a wink. Or perhaps if they were “insiders” they’d get a milder sentence. But if they were both poor and from out of state, the smart money says they’d be locked away!

That night I slept in my car— behind the water tower. So I had returned to the scene of the crime again! I chose that spot because I wanted to be near the courthouse, inasmuch as the hearing was to start at 9:00 in the morning. Have I told you the courthouse is near the library too? Perfect, huh? The library, the quarry, the water-towers, the jail, the courthouse— even the Vermillion Café’: they’re all in a row.

But there was another advantage to having chosen that place to sleep this night. I told you I couldn’t get radio reception at my preferred creek-side site. But by the tower it came in loud and clear. So I curled up with my sleeping bag and was regaled with some of the best jazz I’ve ever heard! I even copied down the station’s call-letters, so I could call it and ask them what I’d heard— but I didn’t get it right. Hell!

Maybe that music was sent from beyond— just for me that night.

*******************************************************

At 9AM I was in the Courtroom, as Clayton and Bonnie came on in. I hadn’t actually fired Clayton yet, but he took what I had said on the phone for his being fired, and manipulated me into affirming it, by pretending it was a done deal. I could see that he was delighted to be finished with this business too. He was tired of me and my recalci-trance and didn’t want to preside over my journey to the State Pen.

Again we kept the judge waiting while he and I adjourned to a side room. There I thanked him sincerely for his services— and I thanked him for his caution. I noted that he’d represented me zealously, and that if he’d erred he’d erred on the right side: in favor of conservativism, that is. And he was very gracious.

And as we talked more, in greater depth, I learned that he’d come to agree with me about a couple things: about the flaw in the AK law, for example— and about the question of consent. I like to think that I’d finally nuzzled him from his un-yielding position. And if I could move that immovable mound then my thinking must be good.

He said he would go through the morning’s hearing with me, and then quietly withdraw— and that he would bring Wally up to speed on the complexities of my case.

Then we returned to the Court Room.

We stood by the table on the right side this time: in the excitement, we hadn’t arranged to use the one on the left. I wasn’t about to request anything of that piece of shit D.A. anyway. But I did keep my eye on him the whole time Clayton was talking to the Judge. I actually stood half turned towards him, so I could study every move.

Most of his moves, unsurprisingly, were of the cross-armed self-hugging variety he had evinced at the aborted hearing in September. But as I watched him do those this time I chuckled to myself, thinking what I’d like to say to him: that he could stop trying to squeeze himself into a dense little mass now— because he was already a dense little mass.

The other thing he often did was tightly squeeze his lips, like he was pondering.

So there was Clayton, taking his last at-bat for me, although there was nothing he could really do for me. But maybe he did something that helped me anyway. For after he asked for permission to withdraw— invoking the name of “Bugden”—he remarked that he knew there would be another charge added against me. As I write these words I still have not asked anyone in the know if that was a strategic move. But I’m thinking that by doing that, he clued the Judge to the chicanery the Prosecutor was up to.

And there was Lind, the stubborn child, playing big time Lawyer, with his tissue of phony talk. I can still picture him and hear his voice, like a tape that won’t erase. I can dredge up his memory, and watch him, after Clayton says that I’ll need time to get my new Lawyer aboard. Yes, I see him cross his little arms at that, and reply “Sometimes it takes a while to get the new Attorney up to speed”.

Like the little shit had any idea.

And he squeezed his little lips.

********************************************************

Outside the courthouse I said goodbye to Clayton and Bonnie. But while we stood there a woman came up and tried to give me something. I knew what it was, too, without previously having had cause to even expect it. It was no doubt from CPS (Child Protec-tive Services). They had brought some official notice there, to serve me with, to notify me that I’d been listed, or black-listed, or somehow targeted for shame. Something like that. Something that would no doubt haunt me, and destroy a plethora of options for me: like teaching, for example. Like being a camp counselor— or a river-guide…

But I didn’t accept the paperwork from her. Instead, with a nod of the head, I directed it to Clayton, and she handed it to him. And that might have been a good move, without my even planning it. For if I’m right about what it was— and I’m sure I’ll find out some day— it was not served to me, as I’m sure it should have been… Nor was it served to my Attorney, you see, since he had already withdrawn. Hah! So that will be my defense against that entanglement when I have to go and fight it!

Nevertheless, I was astounded that Clayton hadn’t seen that coming. Shouldn’t he have known to expect it? Why hadn’t his last act on my behalf been to warn me: to tell me to hasten far away— before those people found me? It was just so goddam typical— and it spoiled a sweet goodbye.

****************************************************

I drove all the way to Oakland that same day. That was the furthest I’d ever driven in a day. I told you it’s 750 miles— and I can hardly believe I did it. But the last couple hours of the drive were fueled by an unexpected boost. It occurred near Hollister, California, as I pulled off the road to get some food. My cell phone rang, and I answered it. It was Clayton, back at home in St. George.

He said he had some very good news. Corissa’s mother Cora had left a message on his phone. She had said something about me on the message— so that Clayton thought it was a shakedown, you see. Well I was thrilled, because if it was a shakedown then there was a way out! I would have gladly paid to get out of this thing— I told you that. I would have begged, borrowed, and stolen, to make this thing go away.

Clayton said he would not attempt to call her, though, because it could also be a trap. Instead he’d wait for her to call him back— and that might take some time.

For my part, I wondered what kind of a trap it might be— and I was afraid that in his delay he’d ruin the opportunity. But it re-energized me nonetheless, and I hastened back to Oakland.

That night I slept like a log.

*******************************************************

The next day I called Wally and told him the news. “That’s a good thing”, he said. He was not afraid of a trap, as Clayton had seemed to be. He even said that he wanted to attack it head on— by contacting the woman.

But a few days later, having heard nothing, and champing at the bit, I called Clayton one more time. I had to see if there had been any more developments.

But “Oh, I was wrong”, was what he revealed. “The message was garbled so I hadn’t understood it”, he said. The message hadn’t been from the girl’s mother at all. “I thought she called herself Mumford”, he continued. “But it was from a “Mumm”… Nor had she hadn’t been inquiring about me at all, he revealed, but about a “Mr. Burt”. Unh!

Okay: Mumm is close to Mumford, just as Burton’s close to Burt— so it was close enough to be eerily coincidental. But on second thought it wasn’t coincidental at all. Because while Corissa’s surname was Mumford, her mother’s was Singer. So even if the woman had identified herself as Mumford it still would have been wrong. Clayton should have known that. But even more importantly: How could he have done that to me? It was utterly Claytonian.

So it was just another primrose path. Another plunge of the roller-coaster. And my reckless stomach, as always, led the way.

I told my comrades in the Men’s Group about that gaff, and they were, to a man, pissed off. So was I. But at least it under-scored that firing Clayton had been correct!

When I told Wally what had happened I added that that was typical, with Clayton. I think he understood.

***********************************************************

I see I have been quite hard on Clayton. Clayton was a good man, though— and a decent man. I do not want this fact to get lost in all my complaints about him. And for many entanglements, I’m sure that he’s a competent Attorney. I have learned since then that he has defended three Capital murder cases— and that he has argued before the Supreme Court. So I’m certain he was a formidable Attorney— once. But it seemed to me that the game had passed him by. Perhaps that happened while he was dealing with the cancer, as I said. Perhaps his priorities had changed as a result. Or perhaps the laws had changed too much— while he was away.

In fairness, I should say that maybe— having met Corissa— Clayton really did believe her to be severely damaged. I’ll say more on that anon. But all that being said, I had seen that ambush in the court, and from that I could not recover. I saw that he was overmatched by this whole affair, and was way out of his league. And I had beat my head against his obtuse wall far too many times, trying to provoke something in him that never came along. Moreover, I had seen him fumble far too much, wiggling his fingers, while grappling for clues— as though imploring the very air for some elusive synthesis. That never came either.

Thus it wasn’t the case that he knew how it all worked better than I did, and so refused to waste excitement. It wasn’t that he avoided the avenues that were loathe to produce fruit. It was that he “didn’t get it” at all. He could not even hear my questions to him—while he was eternally answering something else. So I wondered if he had a deaf ear too, because even long before he tired of me, he could no longer hear my voice.

And in the end, I could no longer even stand the sound of his voice. The way he’d say “CLAY-ton HUNTS-man”, in that trochaic bi-meter of his had come to make me cringe. But it wasn’t just the meter: it was the veneer of pathetic pleading that seeped out from behind it. It was in his appeals that sounded simpering, and damp. At first it had sounded magisterial— and practiced and refined. But at the end it sounded like a pitiful lament, pleading from the bottom of a sack of prunes. Like he’s fallen, and could not get up. But to his credit he had represented me like a father would: he had erred on the side of caution. So when I thanked him, at the end, it was from the bottom of my heart.

********************************************************

I have been hard on Mark Fisher too. But then, our relationship was supposed to be adversarial— and he did some ugly things. Yet all that being said, I still don’t believe that Mark Fisher is a bad man. Even on the day of my arrest, I sensed some humanity in him. And if he was truly motivated by a drive to protect Corissa, then there’s something good to be said for him. What father wouldn’t do the same thing for his daughter? Or a mother, for her child? But all that now being said as well, he did not have the right to pervert the process for that self-righteous end: he was supposed to be a Policeman first.

Besides, a big part of his prosecution was just wholly unfounded. Assumptions were pretended to that didn’t do me justice. And forces were employed there that had no rightful place. Sure, maybe they’d argue that those assumptions were necessary. But I say that’s confused thinking.

Did I say confused thinking? I’m being kind and diplomatic there. What I really mean is corrupted thinking. Evil.

Finally, a lot of Mark’s involvement seemed motivated by ego. Like I had so offended some control dynamic in him that he had seethed to pay me back. So evidence was manufactured— at least it seems to me. And sleazy practices were given the wink— at least it seemed to me. And evil was done against me. At least, it seems to me.

**************************************************

By this time I had transferred all my rage and vituperation— my abhorrence and contempt— to Eric Lind, the Prosecutor. For whatever else the other players were doing, in the end it really all came down to him. It was up to him to stand for truth, and justice— not to mention fair play. But in his cowardice, or in his vindictiveness, his ignorance or zeal, he just enabled the evil orchestrations of the other people on his team— and then he tried to distance himself from the blame. He trampled on my civil liberties, in trying to prevent me from going before a jury of my peers—where we could allow the people to decide what this transgression came to. And he cited false pretenses toward that end.

As I try to imagine how he must see himself, I picture him posing on a wind-swept promontory. His arms are wrapped tightly around his body— and his little cape is flapping in the breeze. He hears the imaginary voices of the people of Kanab, then, descending from the clouds— whispering his name in muted tones. “He’s young, but he’s tough”, is what he thinks he hears them say.

Was he ambitious? I don’t know. But he was a man without integrity— loosed in a position where he could destroy lives. And if mine is a typical example then destroy them he did— without compunction, reflection, or remorse. And without a whit of truth or fair play. Or at least, it seemed to me!

In anger I have sad that he is garbage. But in calmer moments I don’t believe that. I don’t really even want him to die. I just want him to suffer for a while— a long while— just as surely as he caused me to do. But unlike with my case, in this karmic equalization, I want his suffering to be about what he really did, rather than about what his persecutor (me) is pretending that he did. If it were up to me, that is how it would be. After that, he could resume his life again one day— presumably as an avowedly better person.

You see, I’m sure that even Eric Lind has his redeeming qualities. I have to believe that. I even like to think I’ll be able to forgive him one day.

****************************************************

In late January I ran out of pills. But by then I was convinced that I was right. I was sure that I was innocent of FSA, I mean. And I was sure I didn’t have to contradict a single thing Corissa said on that video-cassette— in order to make my case for the SAM!

Not that that would necessarily help me very much, because even if the Judge dropped the FSA down to the SAM, it could still support AK. (And I do hope you’ve got the hang of this abbreviation-fest.) But if the Judge did do that, then I’d stay and fight it out. In other words, I’d face the music then. For if I were convicted of AK— but via two misdemeanors— I’d fight it on appeal: in a higher court, I was surely bound to win.

But if he allowed the FSA, and allowed the AK too, I’d have to leave the country.Either way, I had to go as far as preliminary hearing. Only after the prelim would I know what I’d have to do.

But my certainty about my innocence, plus my decision about my options, calmed me down a lot. So I didn’t try to refill my subscription. I didn’t need Zoloft anymore.

***************************************************

Other events in January are my mother’s and niece’s birthdays. Chelsea turned thirteen then— already, wow!— and was in the seventh grade. To celebrate that special day somebody gifted her a wooden dollhouse, of the assemble-yourself-from-a-kit variety. So all the little pieces had to be punched out and glued together. I was honored to help her build it. It got my mind off my anguish, for one thing, and it was fun, for another— even though several times we really annoyed each other.

The guys in my Men’s Group thought that it was really neat that I had done that.

Me too! Thank God Leslie and Jeff trusted me too, because if they’d believed I was some kind of pervert, who shouldn’t be near their daughter— I surely would have died.

*****************************************************

Mine was a fascinating progression: the progression from the guilty, damned and ashamed mien that I’d been wearing, on through the “well there were mitigating factors” phase, and then on to the “I’ll get through this, and people will forgive me” hope.

Equally poignant was the change from my penitential vow to wear sackcloth and ashes, through the position of perceiving myself to be a victim of enormous injustice, and then through the process of becoming belligerently myself.

No, I’m not belligerent: that is not what I mean. But I could see myself moving in that direction. I not only vowed that from that point on I would assertively stand up for myself, but I vowed that from then on out I would be on crusade in the cause of other people too— and loudly so— and that I would oppose injustice wherever it would reign. I would become a force to be reckoned with— and particularly in the cause of legislative reform. Oh how the pendulum doth swing!

*************************************************

Leslie belonged to a writing group that met one night a week. It was led by a woman named Charlotte Hill. Well Charlotte was going to start teaching a writing class at a community college, and she needed an Assistant. Leslie suggested me. So Charlotte and I met, and talked, and she agreed to take me on. I was excited about it too, because that task would surely take me out of my self-absorption, and allow me to contribute something worthwhile to the world.

Note that all of Leslie’s contacts were a goldmine to me!

But the first time I arrived at Charlotte’s house— so that she could take us to the College— I was having a bad day. And though I hardly knew her, I already trusted her enough to blab to her my story.

She was very sympathetic. And she said she’d understand if I didn’t want to go to the class. But I wanted to go, so I went, and did my part. After that we talked some more. She was quite insightful, too.

“So you want to know if you’re a molester”, she blurted, at one point. She’d hit the nail on the head. She did not have an answer for me, though, but it helped just to hear the right question being posed. No one had said anything like that to me before. Nor had I dared to ask it out loud.

She told me she had been molested as a girl. Then she told me how the experience can affect a young girl— or a young woman, I mean. She said it teaches them that that is the way to get love: that sex is a commodity. The truth of her words rang in my ears.

Melissa had used different words to express her understanding. She said that sex abuse “sexualizes” a young woman: that it turns them into sexual beings before they are ready. And I knew instinctively that that was exactly right, when she had said it. She had given me a new word too. But hearing those other words from Charlotte had rounded out the picture. Perhaps it was because she’d been through it herself, that when she said it I understood it as I did.

So it was Charlotte that I received some answers I had sought! She hadn’t told me I’m not a molester, but she had redirected the matter to another realm.

“Don’t let this finish you!”, she warned, before we were done. I promised I would not.

I didn’t go back to the Creative Writing class, though. I’d become a total flake.

******************************************************

That Men’s group was another thing that saved my life during this tumultuous era. I owe them all a debt of gratitude. They were Michael, Chris, James, and Dan. Thank you, you guys! And thank you Ron Rohlfes, too: you were the best!

Late in my brief tenure there I divulged to the others that there was something I was deeply afraid of. Something still to come, as I surveyed the landscape before me. I wasn’t talking about the legal process, though, or even about the loss of freedom— because they all knew all that, by then. This was something even bigger than those: and though I was working through all that shame and guilt, insecurity and devastation, I sensed the ebb of that other thing behind those consuming emotions. It was the thing I had to deal with once I had worked through all those other feelings: the immense tsunami of rage out there, patiently waiting: cresting to pour forth!

**********************************************************

The new preliminary hearing was scheduled for Tuesday, March the 22^nd: —almost six months to the day after the aborted one, where Eric Lind had threatened to add the extra charge. And in those intervening months, he had made good on his threat too. He had added the AK felony. The diseased piece of shit meant to destroy my life.

So in early March I left the Men’s group. It was not quite time for me to go back to Kanab yet, so I could have stayed there a few more weeks. But it was the start of a new six-week “commitment”, there— and I could not commit to it. Instead I took my leave, said goodbye, and thanked them for the lovin’. They all gave me hugs as we broke up, and I was very touched.

***********************************************************

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

************************************************

On Sunday the 20^th I arrived in Kanab for the big event, and slept in my car behind the water tower.

On Monday morning I went to Willow Creek. I hoped to see Amanda there, and also Michael Gentle. I was in luck on the Amanda part, for she was working that day. So I bought a Latte, and I visited with her awhile. Eventually I asked her where I might find Michael. At that her face grew pained, and long, and she told me he was dead. He’d had a heart attack during the winter, she revealed. So the end had been sudden, and at just 52 years-old, Michael G. was gone forever. I was very sad.

Later I found a flyer that had advertised his funeral. I took it down and kept it.

Then I went to the Vermillion, where I saw Harold Brain.

“What brings you back?”, he asked me, surprised.

“I’ve got the preliminary hearing tomorrow”, I replied.

“I thought you were done with all that”, he said. I told him that I wasn’t. He shook his head. Then I asked him to repeat the name of that woman Lawyer who’d left town in disgust. So he told me again. That time I wrote it down. I intended to call her about all the bullshit in Kanab.

From there I drove down to St. George. Leslie would be flying out to be with me for the hearing, and that was where the airport was.

She had already paid for our motel, so when I got into town in the afternoon I checked in and took a nap. That night, when her plane arrived, I picked her up and drove her back to the hotel.

In the morning I drove us the eighty miles to Kanab. It was a lovely day and she enjoyed the scenery along the way.

The Hearing was to be at 1:00 PM, which was very much to my liking. I never did like early appointments. The later hour would give us time to get there from St. George, and I could meet with Wally in the hour before the Hearing. Wally said that the Hearing itself was likely to last two hours. That was good, because I knew he planned to challenge the evidence there, and not to meekly wave it through. That was what I was afraid that Clayton would have done. To meekly wave it through, I mean. For Clayton had said the PH would only last “45 minutes”— and would be “a rubber stamp”.

*************************************************************

Wally had flown into St. George for the hearing too. But he had rented his own car there, and driven to Kanab.

An hour before the hearing, I met him at the Vermillion Café. We sat on the patio, at a table near the street, while Leslie sat at another one nearby. I actually felt confident. I had no reservations about Wally: he had read all my letters, and he seemed well prepared. But there was one last sticky point, which I had forgotten to mention.

It was about the shoulder massage in the Library— when Corissa stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders. I was aware that Wally was reluctant to bring it up. His opinion was that the less “touching” that was revealed the better.

But there was a window in the Computer Room, I’d belatedly realized. It was an indoor window, which made the Computer Room visible from the front desk. It meant that the Librarian might have seen Corissa standing behind me, when she’d rubbed me like that. It was a potentially damaging wrinkle I’d thought of only very late.

I still thought there was no reason to deny the touching, but I didn’t want Wally to be ambushed either, by what Dickie Robinson might say— if the prosecutor should bring it up, that is!

Wally’s eyes went up at that, with the shock of recognition. A close call, perhaps.

Then the three of us made our way to the Courthouse, just two blocks away. Two blocks beyond that was the library. And several hundred yards behind that was the fateful water tower.

I don’t suppose it’s every day a crime is committed so close to a Court House. I entertained a fantasy about a having Jury trial, and having all the jurors stroll out of the Court house to go survey the nearby crime scene.

But the question of what kind of trial we’d have would wait— until after this telling day. But if things went poorly for me here this day- there would be no trial at all.

I was very nervous.

*******************************************************

In Court Wally and I sat at the table on the left. Wally sat to my right. I wore a sport-coat, tie, and slacks, and he wore a bowtie, and mismatched socks. Very Wally-like, I thought, not thinking specifically of him. It seemed like something someone named Wally would do.

Leslie sat in the gallery, directly behind my seat. We both took notes.

The Hearing began with some opening formalities. Then the State announced their list of witnesses. The State was planning to call Corissa, her mother, the Librarian, and Mark Fisher to the stand. And right away that roster led to some discussion. It was about whether certain witnesses could be “excluded”. I learned then that there was something called an “Exclusionary Rule”, which allowed certain witnesses to be barred from the Courtroom, while the other ones were testifying. That rule prevented the witnesses from reinforcing— or being influenced by— each other’s testimonies. And the discussion yielded the conclusion that only Dickie and Cora could be “excluded”. Mark and Corissa had special status: he as the Investigator, and she as the Victim. So Cora and Dickie were asked to go outside the Court— and forbidden to discuss the case out there.

That done, Corissa was the first witness called to the stand. She took an oath, sat down and started answering questions. And while she spoke she fidgeted with the microphone that was mounted in front of her. Prosecution questioned her first, of course. Prosecution always goes first.

She said they lived in Hannibal now, so that “George” didn’t have to drive so far to work. (Aha! So it was not for her “special counseling” at all, as Cora had asserted)

George, of course, was George Singer, in case I haven’t said: her Stepfather who had driven them all to Kanab on the day that I had met Corissa in the library.

Eric Lind asked her if she’d met a man named “John” that day, and she said that she had. (Which was interesting, because she’d really met a “Royce”.) She said she’d gone into the Library to check her e-mails, and had “mistaken” (sic) chosen the computer next to me. According to her unfolding tale, I had then started to rub her leg. In response to that she said she’d logged off her computer and gone to the “Children’s Room”— and I followed her into there.

Then she went outside the library, she asserted, to wait for her mother— and I followed her again. (That was her third different claim to why she had gone outside. But why would she go outside to wait for her mother an hour-and-a-half before she was due?)

But the flow of her story got interrupted there, as Corissa jumped far ahead: “And then 25 minutes later I guess Dickie Robinson or whoever was in charge that day called 911 and then…“ So Eric Lind put her back on track, and asked what happened outside the building. She said that her gut had said “No, Corissa, don’t go with him”. After a moment she added “three times”. Then she took another forward leap, saying “And then five minutes later Mark stepped into the picture…”

Lind asked her if we’d talked about anything before getting into the car. She said that we had not.

She was cute, up there on the stand. She exuded that quality that I had found attractive, but had not been sure how to describe before then. But there on the stand, I thought I knew what it was: it was her brave resolve: her determination not to be left behind. Something like that. And she was quite strong-willed, I noticed, watching her on the stand. But I knew that much already.

She was sassy too, and corrected people more than once. Like when Eric Lind asked her how we got to the water tank, she corrected him, and said ”the water tower”. I remembered then how she’d corrected me about the “under-score.” in much the same voice. I was actually amused.

What else did she do up there? Well let me first tell you what she did on the way to getting up there…

She limped!

Lind asked what happened after we got to the tower. He admonished her to “just tell the truth.” “That’s what she also told me”, Corissa said, referring to her mother. But then she went her own way again, and blurted “Then after, well, my mother said he didn’t sexually abuse me because…“ (HER MOTHER SAID I HAD NOT SEXUALLY ABUSED HER!… God almighty: that was huge!) Hearing that Lind quickly asked a different question, while my Attorney leaped out of his chair. Wally wanted to explore that statement. But Judge Mower wouldn’t let him do that then, because it was still the prosecution’s witness.

Corissa averred that we had taken off all our clothes and “had love”: that we “got into the sexual thing.” And she added “his penis kind of rubbed against my vagina.” (I breathed a sigh of relief- for that was exactly what had happened!) But when Lind asked what position we’d been in, she said “I was on the bottom, he was on the top.” (No, no, no, no, no.) She also went on to say that during all of that, we’d been in the front seats!

After that— she averred— “I asked him if he wanted to go on a hike.” SHE INVITED ME! Actually I’d invited her… But maybe she had invited me initially- while we were in the Library! Oooh! Perhaps the initial invitation really had been hers!)

But Lind redirected her again, and asked if she’d said “anything about whether she wanted it (the behavior in the car) to continue”. She said no.

Then she jumped ahead again. She related how Mark Fisher had come along and slammed me on the car! (Aha!) But she switched my given name then, in her account, and referred to me as Ross. She said that Mark Fisher then arrested Ross for Child Kidnapping. (Thank you, Corissa!)

Corissa said she’d been sent home from CPS, and that after that her mother had taken her to the hospital. Next Lind asked her about the Hospital, and she blurted out “They found a hair”. (Perhaps Prosecution hoped that at that I’d to jump out of my seat then: to scream “That’s a lie, you little bitch”-and to have to be restrained. But I did not so much as flinch.)

Finally Lind asked what happened on the drive to the water-tower. My stomach squirreled utterly then, in anticipation of the answer to the most important question of my life. But all she said was “I don’t remember”! SHE DID NOT REMEMBER EITHER!

Wally cross-examined her. He began by asking questions about the Prosecutors: whether she’d gone over her testimony with Eric Lind, and how she knew Mark Fisher. She claimed she’d only gone over her testimony with Lind one time— and that was on this very morning. (Bollox!) And she said she’d known Mark since she was a kid of ten. (She sounded like a kid while saying that too)

Wally asked if she was on schedule to graduate in two years. Corissa said she was. She added that when she graduated, her mother would get her a Jeep. (Interesting!)

He also asked if she’d ever been in trouble at home for not telling the truth. She said no (a lie), and then she added “I always stretch the truth”. (Yeah, Dawg!: SHE ALWAYS STRETCHES THE TRUTH! It could hardly get much better!)

Corissa repeated her claim that she’d gone to the Library to check her e-mails. I was rapt then. And Wally honed in on that disclosure too: “And so obviously you know how to use-“ But Judge Mower interrupted at that point. (No, no, no, no, no!). He said that Corissa had been touching the microphone, and he feared she might have shut it off. (Oh, great!) So he decreed that we’d take a short break, to see if what she’d said had even been recorded. (Oh God: that was just my luck. Something was finally going my way and it was not being recorded! Aiiieeee! Would that include her disclosure that she always stretches the truth?)

So Lind and Wally and the Judge went into the Judge’s chambers. Meanwhile Corissa was allowed to leave the stand. So she did— and she strolled directly over to Leslie then, to initiate a conversation. “We have to make sure he doesn’t do this to anybody else!”, she announced (Wow!). “But he’s my brother! Leslie protested, aghast.

Then Leslie took the opportunity to go outside to see what the other witnesses were doing. As she was gone, I watched Corissa from the corner of my eye. But I was careful not to stare. Corissa kept an eye on me too, too, but was loathe to make eye contact too. But when she finally sat— in Eric Lind’s vacated seat— she crossed her legs toward me. How I wished that someone else had seen that!

*****************************************************

We reconvened, with the audio recording being seemingly intact. Phew! Then Corissa took the witness chair again. Right away Wally asked her who Leon was. Leon, of course, was Leon Wilson— the man she’d told me had raped her. But before she could answer Eric Lind bounded to object. He asserted that references to past sexual behavior would be prejudicial. But the judge overruled him. That was because on the video, as Wally argued, she’d brought him up herself! The video was never put in evidence, however.

She said that she and her mother had lived with Leon for ten years. But Leon threw them out one night, it seems. And she said Leon shoved his hands down her pants, one time. (Oooh!)

Wally returned to the matter of her electronic prowess: the matter of whether she could use a computer, I mean. And she averred that she could. She said that it was while she was on the computer that I had touched her leg. She said she’d asked me to remove my hand, and that I had done so. Then Wally asked about her leaving the Computer Room. Again she claimed I’d followed her into the Children’s Room. This time she said she’d read a book in there— and stayed in there for thirty minutes. She said that I was in there with her the whole time— and had then followed her out.

She denied having told Dickie that she thought I liked her. She also denied ever having told Dickie any lies. (Aha, for me again!)

She said she left the Library to walk to someone’s house. (That became the fourth reason she’d given for that) She said that I came outside too, and told her to “come here”: and that when I did that, I was standing by my car. She said her instinct told her not to go with me… that three times she’d said “No, no- I don’t want to go!” (Oh God). But when Wally asked she reconfirmed that she had not said that out loud! (Phew!)

She said I was had worn long pants…and that I opened her car door for her, and that she’d gotten in. She said I did not force her. Nor, she continued, did I say where we were going. And she had said nothing to me either, by her account. Wally asked why she got into the car, and she said “I guess I was being pretty stupid that day.”

Wally asked if she’d forgotten then that I had put my hand on her leg in the library and made her feel uncomfortable. She said that she had not.

She denied that there had been any conversation about driving my car, and she denied she’d even asked. But she did affirm that the doors had stayed unlocked, as we drove off!

She said I’d removed my mountain bike from the car, after we got to the tower.

But she didn’t fall for the trap about the fishing gear. We hoped she’d say she saw some of that type of stuff, in the back of my car.

She said she stepped out of the car herself— and that I had not restrained her. “He didn’t hold me back”, she said. She also claimed that I put the same clothes on that I had taken off. I think that was good for me! Apparently no one had noticed that I had changed my pants!

It was then, she said, that she’d invited me for a hike! (You go girl!)

“I could have walked away”, she said. And she reaffirmed that she’d felt free to leave at any time! (Man, how relieved I was to hear that! Well, actually, I was so numb and entranced by all this, that my thrill was quite subdued.)

Then she claimed that when we were outside the Library, I told her I wanted to take her picture. That was before we got into the car.

After we got to the tower, she went on to say, I’d reached inside her bra. She asked “what are you doing?”, she said, but her tone of voice did not suggest that she hadn’t understood. She claimed that I unsnapped her bra as well, but that it was she who took it off! (Yes!) And no, she admitted, she never said she didn’t want me to do that!

We kissed, she said. Then she realized “Stupid me— I already have a boyfriend”.

Wally reminded her that she had said that I’d touched her breasts. But I think Wally made a mistake there, for she had not testified to that at all. Maybe he was referring to the video-cassette.

Anyway, Wally asked her to estimate for how much time I had done that—touched her breasts, that is. But “I have no idea”, was what she said. Then Wally asked if she was on the top or bottom? At first she said that I had been on top, (Uh oh) but then she reversed herself, and said “No, I was on top, he was on the bottom.”(Saved!) “Have you ever said that you were on the bottom?”, Wally asked. “No”, she said.

“You realized this was a man’s hand that was touching your breast?”, Wally asked. “Yes”. “And you knew he was touching your butt?”. “Yes”. “Did you say any-thing about I don’t want you to touch my butt?”. “No.”

“And then he rubbed against you, and you could feel his penis?”

“Yes”, she said, quickly adding “And then white slime came out of his penis” (Uh oh! I wasn’t comfortable having my sister hear that either!) She went on to say that a little of that slime got on her (Aha?!), and that after that she took a napkin and cleaned herself up (Yes yes yes yes yes!)

She confirmed twice more that she’d asked me to go on a hike. And she made it clear that she’d felt free to leave at any time.

But she denied I’d climbed up the hill before her, or that we were ever hand-in-hand. But Mark Fisher had already written that we’d been hand-in-hand, so that denial would only help me! Unfortunately she also denied that she’d said “Don’t tell anybody”, “What did you do?”, and that “He’s my friend!”. And none of those denials were very good for me.

She did affirm, however, that she had played with my cell phone.

One more thing— I almost forgot this: Corissa claimed that her mother promised to buy her a car. That revelation really perked me up because if true then did that surely meant that even Cora believed her daughter was competent enough to drive a car. Wow!

Then Corissa was through testifying. At that she relinquished the witness stand— having alleged no coercion, no enticement, no penetration, and no protest. She’d said nothing about scratches either— nor did she repeat her claims that I had raped her— or that I’d sucked on her breast”! Aha!

Unfortunately, nor had she said anything about my missing gap of time!

So did that mean that something had happened there— on that short transport— that was too bizarre— or too horrible— for either of us to remember? Or could it be that I—we— didn’t recall it simply because there was nothing noteworthy to recall?

***************************************************

Next was Mark Fisher’s turn. As Prosecution questioned him, I listened carefully for holes in his story.

He confirmed that we’d been walking hand-in-hand when he had first espied us on the hill. He said Corissa had come down first: he said she ran down. (Ha Ha Ha!) Then he had motioned me to come down as well.

Corissa had indeed hugged him, he said, and asked him how he was.

He said that when I came down to meet him, that I stood on an incline— which put him at a “disadvantage”. (Posh- but never mind.) He said he was uncomfortable having someone stand above him, and that I was “a big man” (I’m 6’2 but I only weigh 160 lbs). And he said that he’d asked if I knew Corissa’s mother or father. (Or father?: posh again). He affirmed she claimed I’d raped her- and that she uttered that twice.

Then he claimed he had arrested me for “Unlawful Detention”. (Liar!)

He said that on the way to jail that I’d said I’d like to meet the girl’s mother. I’d said that I had something to tell her. But I would not elaborate.

When Wally cross-examined him, Mark said he knew Corissa from other cases he’d worked with in her family. (Cases? In the plural?!)

He said that one of the Librarian’s had called his office after Corissa and I had driven away. She had called him directly, in fact, and reached him in his office. (Hmmm. Why would she have his direct number?)

Wally asked if anything had been missing from his report… Like whether Corissa had said “this is my friend?” And damned if the prick didn’t admit that she had! HE ADMITTED IT !“That wasn’t in my report”. He said “But I do remember something about that”.

He admitted he’d arrested me forcefully. But this time he claimed he couldn’t recall what he’d arrested me for. That it was either UD, or CK— “I don’t remember the exact words”.
(Um hmm: A  “b” misdemeanor versus a 1^st degree felony? Riiiight!)

Wally went after Mark for the way he’d conducted the video-cassette interview. He called him out, I mean, for having led the witness. That was very good for Wally, too— because I hadn’t thought of that! It was the most exciting part of the whole hearing:

Wally: “Is there some police interrogation or interview technique that explains why you would tell her ‘you told me he raped you’?”

Mark: “I didn’t tell her that”.

Wally: “You deny that? You deny that you said on the interview “you said that he raped me’? You deny you said that?”

Mark: “Ask the question again. I’m not really sure what you’re saying.

Wally: “You interviewed Corissa, right?”

Mark: “With DCFS”

Wally: “Right. And at some point in the interview do you remember that you said to Corissa you said ‘he raped me’. Do you remember that you said that to the-”

Mark: “Yes”.

Wally: “Why would you say that? Why would you say to a young girl ‘you told me he raped you’?”

Mark: “Because she— she told me”.

Wally: “Well…isn’t that like leading?”

Mark: “Yes”…

Wally: …“Do you agree that that’s a terrible police procedure…if you ask a question and don’t get an answer then you answer the question yourself?” He had the son-of-a-bitch on the ropes. I relished every minute!

This went on and on. At one point Mark sneered at Wally that he didn’t have to yell at him, for something I’ve since forgotten. But I remember that Mark made one more attempt to defend his interview technique, by citing the “circumstances at hand”. He was worked up then, and Wally parried for his blood: “You don’t have to raise your voice to me either”, he sneered.

Mark said “You can hear fine?”

At that Judge Mower shut them down. “Gentlemen, you can leave your attitudes at the door…”, he spewed: “I’ll hold you both in contempt…” Wow!

Finally we got into the little matter of the scratches:

Wally: “Did you see that the (medical) report indicates that there was no trauma?”

Mark: “Correct. Yes I saw that.”

Wally: “Did you ask Corissa how she got a superficial scratch on her stomach?

Mark: “Yes”.

Wally: “What was the explanation?”

Mark: “I believe she said ‘I guess he did that’.”

Wally: “Well did you ask about the mechanics of how it happened?”

Mark: “I think I did but she could not tell me how it happened.”

Wally went after Mark another time, too. He asked if Mark had taken pictures of the back end of my car. We figured that with all the stuff in there, a picture of all the clutter would dispel the notion that Corissa and I had been in there at all. After all, we’d only had those “14 minutes”! And Mark admitted that he had taken no such shots.

“We don’t have those pictures, do we?” Wally asked, accusingly, with his head shaking back and forth. His point was well made.

Then Judge Mower asked Mark to talk about the car itself. And so Fisher de-scribed it, and hastened to opine that I’d been trying to hide it there— behind the water tower. But Wally objected to that, and the Judge agreed with him. Because Mark had been putting words in my mouth, by that remark— or something of the sort.

The Judge also asked Mark about the time estimates on his report. He said there was some question about how they were derived. I don’t know how he knew that, though! In any event, Mark said that he had gotten his time estimates just by calling his Dispatcher. So that answered that.

Dickie Robinson was next on the list. And she struck me as a very nice person.

She affirmed that I had come in to use the computer. But she said she couldn’t recall whether I’d been there before Corissa was. And she couldn’t really recognize me either— because I looked “a little different then”. (Of course I did: my hair had grown back.)

She said that Corissa had selected the computer that was beside me. She said it was the one she “always chose”. And she said they never assign computers. (But that was total bullshit. Every time I’d been in there I’d had my computer assigned.)

(Hey, I thought: could we subpoena the library’s records— to find out whether that was true? Whether Corissa always used the same computer, I mean)

She related that Corissa told her I was her friend— (aha! once again) and that she had wanted to go to talk to me outside. (Yowza!) She told us Corissa had added that I liked her “as a girlfriend”. But since Corissa is “friendly with everybody”, she continued, I didn’t know what she meant.” She said she’d been too busy with her other customers to really pay attention. (Bullshit: she had initiated the conversation with Corissa, by saying “So how’s it going in there?”) Anyway she said that a little later she’d related the circumstances to another librarian, who had become quite upset, and who had phoned the Police. (Hmm: didn’t Dickie say she’d called the police herself (?))

I wondered if that meant Dickie had not been alarmed at all! I wonder if there really even were “other customers”, or whether she was covering her tracks.

Wally cross-examined Dickie. She affirmed that in the Computer room, Corissa and I had sat beside each other. She said she could indeed see our heads— through that big picture window (Phew!). But she said that she had never seen us touch!

And she said that I had left the Library already, when Corissa came up to talk.

Wally asked about her contention that Corissa makes things up. And on that point, Dickie equivocated. She claimed she’d meant that Corissa had not understood. But Wally wouldn’t easily let her off the hook. He said she hadn’t written “makes things up” in her report, and that Librarian’s are interested in words. He said that not understanding is very different than making things up. Finally she relented, and agreed that making things up is different than merely not understanding! Then she added “I wish I’d written that, yes, (that Corissa “had not understood”) so I didn’t have to go through this.”

While Dickie was testifying I passed Wally a note. I wanted him to ask if Corissa had ever gone into the Children’s Room. I also wanted to know if there even was a Children’s Room. So he asked Dickie if Corissa had done that. She shrugged that she didn’t know.

Finally she claimed while she and the girl were talking, I’d already been outside for five or ten minutes.

The Judge asked her a couple questions of his own. He wanted to know about the system that they used there, in the Library, to assign the computers. Her answer was that users chose their own computer and signed their names to a list. (Liar!)

*******************************************************

The final witness was Cora Singer. Formerly Cora Wilson. Before that she’d been Cora Mumford, I figured. So when she was introduced as the former Cora Richardson, I was thrown for a loop.

Lind went first, of course.

She said that she’d first learned of the incident when she’d gone to the Library to pick her daughter up. That was what I thought: she’d abandoned an “incompetent” and was nowhere to be found when there was a problem.

Cora said that Corissa had a shunt in her brain. She claimed that as a result, she has a loss of short-term memory, (Sure!) and that she struggles with social behaviors. She claimed Corissa has a sixth grade reading level, but with only first grade comprehension. She also said that she has problems with explosiveness and anger. And she claimed an IQ for her of 49!

She went on to say that they had started Corissa in counseling within the last two years. She didn’t blame me for that, but I suspect she meant to. Then she averred that she herself was in trouble with CPS for having left her in the Library that day! Hmmm.

When Wally cross-examined her, he asked how many times she and Corissa had gone over the story together. She said it had been six or seven times.

“Well did anyone ever tell you that part of the problem with going over a story six or seven times is that then we don’t know if we’re getting the true story or the practice story?”

She told us that Eric Lind had explained that to her already. (With a wink, I was sure) And she admitted that Corissa’s story has been different every time she’d told it. She went on to say “As far as after I verbally coached her on lying if she doesn’t change her story, that she has humbled herself and changed it to the truth”. I thought I made sense of that garble.

In response to the claim that she would buy Corissa a car she clarified that she promised to buy her one only if she passed the driving test first. She didn’t say then, but maybe she thought that would never happen.

Then we went to recess. But I never left the room. I didn’t even leave my seat.

*******************************************************

We reconvened to face the denouement.

The opposing Attorneys made their cases, about what charges should be “bound over”: what charges should be kept, that is— for me to face at trial. The arguments went on for a long time. Wally promulgated all the arguments I had generated, and added some of his own. And “the State” promoted theirs.

Eric Lind did concede that the laws created a conundrum: the AK law, I mean—with its conflicting standards of consent. He also conceded that “incompetence” is not defined by any Utah law. But he went on to cite “State v. Clark”, which held that “the magistrate” (the magistrate?) must “draw all reasonable inferences in favor of the prosecution”. Wally agreed that he had read that ruling right. (Hmmm. What those “reasonable inferences” were was never clear to me— but I suspect he had cleverly “inferred” that Corissa was incompetent.)

The Prosecutor acknowledged that there was another conundrum in having Corissa testify, though supposedly being incompetent. But he argued that “State v. Adams” had laid that problem to rest: that all witnesses are presumed competent to testify. That didn’t bother me, though, because (as you know by now) that that was not an issue. Our strategy was to have Corissa be judged as competent enough to have given consent!

Finally, Lind argued that “detain” is a broad word. “This isn’t like a bunch of people go to a football game or something”, he said. He meant that parental consent is not necessarily needed— or at least, that it is not zealously enforced. But this situation was quite different than that, he held. At least, I think that’s what he meant.

Wally pounded away, masterfully. He said there had been no expressed lack of consent; that there had been no detention; and that mental deficiency does not equate with mental incompetence. He said he too had researched the word “incompetent”, and had not found it defined either.

Finally Judge Mower said: “Mr. Lind, how do I listen to Corissa tell me about what she saw and what she heard and what she did, and she’s got a good memory and speaks forcefully, and then find her to be mentally incompetent at the same time?”

My heart jumped. Judge Mower must have seen the same girl I had seen! Something had finally gone my way. I could’ve kissed him too!

And Eric Lind responded “It is an irony your honor”. (How should I interpret that? Was that an admission that the piece of shit was prosecuting me for something he didn’t fully believe in either?: Perhaps he too thought it was a “poorly written law”?)

Pause to imagine a drum roll reverberating through the Court, as… Judge Mower… dismissed count II! The FSA was gone! (A-roooooooooo!)

Then he dismissed the AK too. For the love of god!: HE DISMISSED THE AK!

I was too transfixed to react. Things were going far better than I hoped: for the Judge hadn’t even considered the Lesser Included SAM charge* there!

Eric Lind argued with him, until Wally interrupted. “It’s already been dismissed”, he sneered. That convinced me that Eric Lind really was an idiot. I even rolled my eyes.

But though Judge Mower had dismissed— rather than reduced— the charge on what I’ve called “the right”, he then did something that confused me, dealing with “the left”. He declared that the UD law and the AK law were “inconsistent with each other”. (That had been one of my arguments too!) And he said “So then it’s Kidnapping or nothing”. (Huh? No it wasn’t! The AK had been built upon UD.) But I was still too stunned to outwardly react to that— too slow to think of writing a note.

Then Judge Mower dismissed the UD too, and substituted “Kidnapping” in its

place. At that Wally jumped up, and addressed the Judge: “May I ask you just for my

edification to address your thoughts on the word detain?”

So Judge Mower edified him— and me— and all of us. He said “Detain for me is sufficient if the person is with somebody else for any length of time and the parent doesn’t know about it” Then he added “Right or wrong, that’s what it seems to me”.

So that was that. I would face a charge of Kidnapping: a 2^nd degree felony. But I wouldn’t be a sex offender. And I wouldn’t be on a list!

I was arraigned on the new charge on the spot.

The trial would be in May.

Then we left the Court.

******************************************************

As we filed out gleefully we passed Mark Fisher out front. He was standing off to the side, leaning on a truck, and conversing with George Singer. He looked at me and I looked at him. I betrayed no emotion, then, but I could see that he was miffed. He was embarrassed, too, I’ll bet. He’d had his ass kicked.

Wally hastened me away. I think he was afraid there might be a scene. But there wouldn’t have been any scene by me. I was too happy to think about something like that.

Happy, hell: I was overjoyed. All three of us were overjoyed. Leslie and Wally and I, I mean. Wally even glowed. He was completely impressed with himself. And I was impressed with him too. He had been magnificent. He was just the Bulldog I had needed!

*see Appendix I for an explanation of “lesser included” charges.

As we walked out I asked him flippantly: “Is it legalese to say ‘You ‘da man!’?”. I think that until then he didn’t know I had a sense of humor!

We adjourned to that Chevron Station in the middle of town: the one I read in so many times at night- and where I had poured my coffee out at the morning of my arrest. It was not the most auspicious place for a celebration- but Harold’s place was closed by then. For it was after 5:00. The hearing had lasted for more than four hours!

************************************************************

I learned something else about the law while we sat there, celebrating: that the charges could be re-filed. (RE-FUCKING-FILED?! Say it ain’t so! But it was so.) Yes, Eric Lind could make me go through it all again. Double jeopardy had not “attached”. Double jeopardy does not “attach” unless the defendant has actually been acquitted. I had not been acquitted— I’d only had certain charges dismissed. Therefore, the scheming nazi bastard could file them anew. Or he could file different ones. He could file SAM, now, if he wanted to. And with SAM in play he could bring the AK back. It meant this nightmare would never end: that even in my victory lurked swirling shibboleths of doom!

“Nah, but they won’t”, Leslie said. She meant he won’t re-file them. I didn’t know how she could have known that, though, but she sounded certain— and her certainty restored me to my joy.

The celebration was quite brief, though, for there were phone calls to be made. Wally called his partner Tara, to boast his great results. And Leslie called Jeff- to do exactly the same thing. I talked to Jeff too, after a while. He was thrilled for me, and very much relieved. Me too!

Then it was time for Wally to leave. He had to catch a plane in St. George, to fly home to Salt Lake City. And since he was going there, he offered to drive Leslie to the airport too. I had planned to drive her there, but his was a better idea. I was grateful that she’d come, and didn’t mind driving her, but I also wanted them to talk— to get to know each other, and to confer upon my case. I did not tell them I was thinking that, though. But I was certain it would happen.

Besides, that way I could go the other way— back down to Marble Canyon. I’d take a couple extra days to get home again. I’d go the long way— and revisit some sights.

*********************************************************

Nine days later (March 31^st) I celebrated my 46^th birthday.

I was back in Oakland then. Around that time my friend Stephen Bull arrived from Taos, to do some projects around Leslie’s house.

I’d known Stephen for years—since he had lived in San Francisco, many years before. He was Leslie’s handyman then and remained so even after he’d moved to Taos. He did very good work, you see—and since he still had friends in the Bay Area, and clients he had similarly maintained over the years, he could be counted on to visit— and work— a couple times a year. He could make more money per hour working around the Bay than he could in Taos, too, so it was in win. Anyway between those visits, Leslie would compile a list of projects for him to do.

This time I helped him with the projects: painting, patching, sanding and the like. Oh yes— we remodeled a bathroom too! It was good to feel productive again— and it was good to have Stephen’s company again. I was breaking out of my social isolation at last.

And I finally felt unshackled enough to tell my whole story—every detail, I mean, leaving nothing left out. So Stephen was the first to hear my whole story. And while we talked we labored out of doors. It was spring, and the sun was steadily shining again.

My agonizing, debilitating, interminable winter was over!