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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 5th 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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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 6th, 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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!
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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!
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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.
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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”.
