by Ben Muse
I sat near the fire with some of my best friends from the team, laughing and throwing back Milwaukee’s Best. I’m sure Foggy Harbor’s finest knew about the party, but for whatever reason, they left us alone. At some point, I saw Bailey, and for a moment, I felt something slipping away. I raised my beer to her, and she looked at me, unsure of how to respond. She simply turned away to join her friends. I was nothing to her anymore.
Sometime later, I left the fire to take a leak. I retreated about twenty yards into the brush and sparse pines and as I was walking back, I could hear two people yelling near a large pickup truck parked away from the fire. Everyone had driven onto the beach. I walked toward the sound, and Bailey’s voice cut through the air.
“Leave me alone, you bastard,” she screamed at someone behind the dark truck. I thought I could see her pushing someone away, so I took off in a drunken sprint.
“You know you want some of the Cam-a-nater, bitch,” said a surly Cameron Tanner. He laughed drunkenly as he came into my view and stumbled toward a retreating Bailey.
“Cam!” I shouted, “Leave her alone. You’re drunk and you need to back away.”
“I can take care of myself, Chase,” she sneered. “I don’t need you butting into my business.”
“Since when is this asswipe your business?” I countered.
“You heard her, get the fuck out of here, Clemson.”
“I will, as soon as you leave, Division III.”
I turned to look at Bailey, who was still backing away from Cam and edging closer to the protected dunes.
“Are you all—” was all I could get out before Cam rushed me and punched me in the head from behind. We went down in a heap of testosterone and swinging arms. He landed a few punches to my side, and I was able to get in two shots to his stomach.
Cam had gotten a lot stronger since that day at the inlet, and I was having a hard time matching him blow for blow. I could throw a football fifty yards on the fly and run a 4.4, but they were not necessarily great qualifications for fighting, unless I planned on running away. He detached himself from me and stood up. I saw him grinning in the moonlight as he lifted his foot to stomp my face and turn it into a permanent part of the beach. Before he could, I kicked my leg up and caught him square in the balls. I rolled over and stood up as he fell to the sand, writhing in pain.
Bailey yelled and screamed, begging us to stop, and some people ran over from the fire to see what was going on. Cam was still on the ground in pain, and in a fit of anger, I kicked him viciously, twice, in the side of his head with my thick-soled Timberland boots. He lay there moaning and still, and I walked away as some people knelt down to help him.
“Are you proud of yourself, Chase?” Bailey screamed at me, tears rolling down her delicate face as the cold winter wind blew her hair askew. “You always have to come to the fucking rescue, isn’t that right, Clemson?” she said, chock full of contempt.
I ignored her and walked back to the fire, my side sore from Cam’s punches. I didn’t see him get up; instead, there were shouts to call 911. Five minutes later, an ambulance arrived, as well as several police cars. The police fanned out and gathered information from eyewitnesses. Against my better judgment, I gave my story to a police detective next to the fire, as it slowly died, along with my future, instead of requesting a lawyer.
The ambulance soon left with Cam, and the beach emptied. The detective who questioned me walked me over to his car and told me to turn around and place my hands on the vehicle. An officer then patted me down, placed me in cuffs, and read me my Miranda rights. They charged me with assault and booked me into the Foggy Harbor City Jail. I stayed there until noon the next day, when my father’s attorney, Arthur Stinson, arrived to bail me out. He had some bad news. Cam Tanner was in a coma, and there was a better than fifty-percent chance he would not come out of it.
I spent the next two weeks at home, wandering aimlessly around the house, ignoring the schoolwork my teachers sent home. Cam’s condition continued to worsen, and on Sunday, December 26, a doctor declared him brain dead. Art came over to explain what was happening. When a doctor declares someone brain dead, it means they are unresponsive to stimuli, have no reflex activity, and are unable to breathe on their own without the use of a ventilator. Mr. Stinson had been in regular contact with the district attorney, who told him I would be charged with involuntary manslaughter, pending the autopsy results.
Much later, I would understand that as human beings we were flawed from the moment we took our first breath. We broke things and hurt people, and in the process, hurt ourselves. The proper course of action would have been to express remorse over the death of Cameron Tanner. Instead, I retreated into my own little world and threw myself the world’s biggest pity party. How could this happen to me? In due time, the district attorney took the case to the Brunswick County Grand Jury, which found there was enough evidence to charge me with involuntary manslaughter. Arthur advised us to hire new counsel for the trial, as criminal defense was out of his purview. We hired Jackson Ellis, a renowned criminal defense attorney out of Atlanta, and a good friend of my father’s. I wanted a trial, but Mr. Ellis thought a plea deal would be a better option, since I had already admitted to kicking Cam twice in the head after the fight ended. Plus, the prosecution had eyewitnesses to back this up. I wanted to argue self-defense, but he turned that argument into Swiss cheese. The fight was over when he went down from my kick.
The prosecution had already portrayed me as the rich kid who thought he could buy his way out of prison. It was class warfare at its finest. Jack argued that a two-week trial would be risky and could make the jury look at me in a harsher light. We acquiesced and Jack began sentence bargaining, a process where the two sides agree in advance on what the sentence will be. Cam’s family was pressing hard to have me locked away, with the key dumped in the deep Atlantic.
Jack began with an offer of five years in a minimum- security prison. Allen Banks, the DA, countered with twenty years in a medium-security facility. Back and forth we went for two days until I reluctantly agreed to a 12-year sentence in a medium-security prison, with the possibility of parole in ten years, if I had no blemishes on my record. At the beginning of my ninth year, I would be moved to a minimum-security prison, where I would serve out the remaining four years, unless I was paroled in the tenth year. Got all that.
The agreement was reached on February 10th and I was given a reporting date of March 17. I began to focus on March 17, 2015 as a possible parole date, and this date was still on my mind, until a visitor showed up a couple of weeks ago.
Chapter 4
March 1, 2012
I was leaving laundry after lunch when a corrections officer by the name of Patterson told me I was needed in medical. I asked him if they needed me to scrub in for surgery. That got a laugh out of him, but he offered no more information. I hoisted my canvas laundry bag over my shoulder and followed him, wondering what was going on. Prison is a highly structured environment, and deviation from the norm seldom happened.
We walked past the locked door that led to the administrative offices, took a right into the empty lobby of the clinic, and walked down a narrow hall that smelled vaguely antiseptic. Patterson opened a door labeled “Exam Room 9” and ushered me in.
“I’ll escort you back when you’re done,” he said as he closed the door and stepped back into the hall.
Seated on a rolling doctor’s stool was a rumpled-looking man in an even more rumpled black suit. He had a mop of unruly black hair, flecked with bits of gray, and deep-set eyes. Worry lines creased his face. He could’ve been fifty or seventy-five.
“Mr. Hampton, I’m FBI Special Agent Rollin Schmidt,” he said, offering his hand. He showed me his worn credentials and offered me the wooden straight-back chair that was set against the wall.
“Sir, I don’t know what trouble I’m in, but I’ve got a pretty airtight alibi for the last seven years,” I said in jest as I sat down.
“Relax, Mr. Hampt
on. I just need your undivided attention for the next fifteen minutes and your promise that what we talk about does not leave this room. Can you agree to that?”
“You have my undivided attention, Special Agent Schmidt.”
He nodded his head and seemed unsure of how to begin.
“Chase, did you play monopoly growing up?”
“Once or twice.”
“Are you familiar with the Get Out of Jail card?”
“I am, but I believe it’s called the Get Out of Jail Free card, Mr. Schmidt.”
“What we have in mind isn’t free, but it will get you out of prison if you agree to our offer.”
“Out of prison?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, in about two weeks, give or take a day or two. A great deal of thought and planning has gone into this endeavor already, even without your agreeing, and while I personally don’t like this idea, my bosses are gonna run with it as long as you run with them.”
“What’s the rub?”
“You simply have to go home to Foggy Harbor and do a few things that we’ve been unable to do.”
“What could I possibly do that the vaunted FBI is unable to do?”
“We’re concerned your father’s company, Aquatic Expeditions, is involved in something detrimental to our national security. We’re not sure if his firm is dealing with a criminal enterprise or a rogue nation, and we aren’t even sure if he is involved or knows about it. That’s where you come in.”
“You want me to spy on my father, Mr. Schmidt?”
“We want you to be our eyes and ears, Chase, our very own informational sponge.”
“What makes you think I will have access to the company once I’m out?” I inquired.
“Pardon the pun, but we’re hoping your father will bring you aboard. One of the requirements for your parole is that you get a job within two weeks of your release. We do not want you to ask your father for a job; we’d rather he come to that decision on his own. In fact, we want you to apply for some other jobs around Foggy Harbor. Given your history, no one will want to hire a just-paroled ex-con with a manslaughter charge.”
“Well, now you’re just hurting my feelings, Mr. Schmidt,” I said with a smile, “but I understand. When you say spying, what do you mean?”
“Planting listening devices in his office and the offices of his executives and management team, and generally soaking up as much information as possible. Your contact will give you instructions on an as-needed basis.”
“Oh, is that all? I was worried this was going to be hard,” I said sarcastically. “Don’t you have people more qualified than me? Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to get out of here, but am I the best person for this job?”
“Chase, as I said, you are the most uniquely qualified, and if we do this right, no one will ever expect you are working for us.”
“If I agree to this, where do I get all the gear and how do I learn how to install these devices? Do I just head down to the local Radio Shack with a list and a government credit card?”
“We’ve got that covered. Soon after your release, an agent from my team will be in touch. That’s all I can say right now.”
“Mr. Schmidt, my father and I have never been all that close. I suspect you know this. Suppose he doesn’t offer me a job or a place to live. Do I just get to walk away?”
“We know that he is making a genuine effort to be a part of your life based on the phone recordings we’ve listened to and the visits he’s made recently. We see the glass half full; maybe you should as well. You have two months. If we don’t see progress, we find a parole violation, and back in you go to serve out your remaining time. Any more questions?”
“May I play devil’s advocate here for a moment?”
“Go right ahead, Mr. Hampton,” he said, seeming to know the question already.
“What if I were to call my father and tell him what you just told me? What’s to stop me from doing that?”
FBI Special Agent Rollin Schmidt’s eyes lit up at the question, and he looked at me warmly before he came in for the kill.
“Chase, your remaining years in the North Carolina state prison system would not be enjoyable. I dare say you would end up serving out your full sentence at a max-security institution due to some unfortunate violation. Poor Chase had illegal drugs and a homemade knife hidden in his mattress. And you certainly wouldn’t like your new cellmate, that I’m sure of. You following me here?”
“I think you’re saying that telling my dad this would be a bad idea.”
“I knew we had the right guy for this job,” he said with a smile that made me uncomfortable. Mr. Schmidt was not someone to screw with, I decided.
“I’m not eligible for parole for another three years. How do I explain this?”
“Chase, people get released early all the time. Due to overcrowding, you are one of a hundred inmates across the state who will be released due to this unfortunate circumstance. We’ve got all the bases covered. So do we have a deal?”
“I’m flat broke, except for the three hundred fifty bucks in my prison account; what do I do for money?”
“That’s up to you. Combined, your parents are worth millions. I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to help you out.”
“I’m not big on asking for money.”
“The thousand dollars deposited into your account every month would say otherwise.”
“Those are guilt payments, nothing more. I’ve never asked for a dime; however, it’s true that I don’t send it back.”
“Half full, Chase. Half full. So what’ll it be?”
I sat there with a zillion questions swirling in my head, vying for attention and needing to be answered. Astounded at the thought of getting out, I said the only thing someone in prison for seven years would say, if given the same opportunity.
“We have a deal.”
Chapter 5
I spent the first three years of my prison sentence continuing the aforementioned pity party. I was depressed, and the only way I could fight the depression was to eat. The money my parents sent funded one of the biggest three-year vending machine splurges in prison history. “Go big or go back to your cell,” I liked to say. It was not uncommon for me to purchase five or six Cokes, seven or eight of those coconut-flaked, moist, mini-doughnut packs, and two or three T.G.I. Friday’s frozen teriyaki wing packages a day. I was lost, and I turned to processed food as my savior. When I had my first prison physical, shortly after I began my sentence, I weighed in at one hundred seventy pounds, and my body fat was somewhere south of ten percent.
I had another physical eight months in and stepped off the scales in shock at seeing two hundred ten pounds. It was during this time that I learned the importance of sharing my wealth with my fellow inmates, but my eating was still out of control. I added Snickers and honey buns to my menu, and two years in, I was pushing two hundred fifty pounds. I could see Sam Farley territory on the horizon. My weight gain caused me to become lethargic, and so I burned fewer calories while continuing to empty a vending machine or two a week. Three years in, I weighed two hundred eighty pounds and was in a downward spiral. Prison counselors were no help. Neither was the money my parents were sending me, but send it they did.
The turning point occurred when I transferred to Carrboro State Prison in June of 2008 and met someone who would end up saving my life. Of course, he almost drove me crazy in the process. Carlton Givens was a jack-of-all-trades at Carrboro and master of none. He had been in and out of prison for thirty years for running con games on the elderly. He used to tell me that to be a good con artist you had to learn to sneak in on people through their emotions instead of their windows. Physically he was harmless, but mentally he had the uncanny ability to hone in on your biggest weakness and beat you upside the head with it. Unless you could score him some smokes, then he was your best friend and you couldn’t get rid of him. The first time he laid eyes on me, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see what was going on.
&
nbsp; “Let me guess. You got convicted of eating someone?”
After cementing our “friendship” with a carton of Newports, he said to me one afternoon in the prison yard, “You in here fo’ the rest of yo’ life, Chase?”
Before I could answer, he continued, “No, you ain’t, so stop livin’ in the damn past and look forward to the damn future, boy. It don’t take a brainiac to see dat you killin’ yo’self one damn Twinkie at a time.”
I wasn’t into Twinkies at the time, but Carlton was on a roll, so I let him finish.
“The secret to surviving prison is you got to have a villain. Someone or something that you ain’t gonna let get the better of you. It don’t take much to figure out what yo villain should be, FATTY,” the last word said for emphasis. I took what he said to heart and, over the next few weeks, began to curb the sweets, slowly weaning myself from the trans-fats and processed sugars. Carlton would still call me fatty, and he’d have other inmates do the same thing. It pissed me off to no end, but I eventually saw the magic of his meanness. I started walking interminable laps around the prison yard. We estimated that one lap was almost a quarter mile, and I would easily pound out three to four miles a day, sometimes five, day after day after day.
Eventually, cries of “Fatty!” turned into “Looking good, Hamp!” The pounds began to fall off. Two months into my weight loss project, I was down thirty-five pounds and had cut out all the junk. Coke became water and honey buns turned into fresh fruit from the overpriced prison commissary. I added weightlifting sessions to my program, and the pounds continued to melt off. I stepped on the scales six months later and weighed in at one ninety six.
Other prisoners congratulated me, and some of the heftier ones were inspired and began their own weight-loss journey. Things were looking up for me, and instead of taking my foot off the gas, I stepped on the pedal and increased the intensity and the amount of time I was working out. If I was sitting still, I would begin to fidget, so I had to teach myself balance. Where was I going anyway? The weights in the yard and the path I had worn next to the ten-foot, concertina-wire rimmed walls weren’t going anywhere.
