A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  “For two joints? You can’t be serious!”

  “Serious?” Bremer eyed him, his interest kindling. “Oh, yes, very serious. You’ve got two choices, Corbet. You can go downtown with us and get booked. That means pictures, fingerprints, an arrest record, newspaper articles. With your father’s reputation, you’re sure to make front page news …”

  As if someone had physically punched him, Myles paled and grabbed his head.

  No! Myles cried behind his tightly closed lids. I can never, never let my father know I smoke pot. I’ll never get grant money again!

  “… I’m sure your neighbors up in the hills would be as scandalized as the Colonel,” Bremer continued, watching him closely now.

  And his heart. What if the shock killed him?

  Myles could not breathe. The thought of his mother’s humiliation smothered him. For a long moment, he tried to convince himself that his parents might understand.

  But will anyone else? How can I ever be head of the biology department tainted with an arrest record for marijuana? Will they even admit me to graduate school?

  The Colonel sat complacently behind his desk, muttering something, but Myles didn’t hear the words. Instead, he looked into Bremer’s hard eyes.

  “The other choice,” he whispered with half a voice. “What’s the other choice?”

  “You can tell us where you got the stuff,” Bremer answered. “We need to put some fear into students. We need a good informant on campus. Someone who can point out who’s selling it.”

  Myles wanted to run, to hide, his mind wildly swinging, searching for possible solutions, but not even his wall of pain could conceal him. Their absolute power sickened him. All he could see was the look of bored humor on Bremer’s face as his own panic rose.

  Suddenly, something inside Myles clicked—some instinct for survival.

  All right, he struggled with the new thought, this is only a game, and he’s trapped me into playing. But I’ll make my own rules. They want me to fink? I’ll do it. But one day this man—Bremer—will answer for this. I’ll get to know him. I’ll walk the fence between the two worlds. Play one side against the other. One day, he’ll feel just like I’m feeling now. Trapped. Humiliated. In the end, I’ll show him what it means to be the winner.

  “I have a name for you,” Myles answered with a tone that caused Bremer to narrow his eyes, some of the amusement gone.

  Myles rubbed his own eyes hard, the better to avoid looking at anyone in the room.

  He knew only one way out, knew only one person from whom he could score. He thought he might vomit. Time stopped as his entire being pushed against the inevitable moment when it must move forward again.

  Jerry.

  Jerry would be the first move in the game, his sacrificial pawn. Balanced against his future, he realized friendship, even love, didn’t weigh enough.

  His resolve hardened. There was no choice.

  “Jerry,” Myles asked that same evening, “do you think you can get me a kilo of pot?”

  “A whole kilo? What for?”

  “For a friend. He wants to break it into ounces so he can make rent. You know how hard it is working and going to school.”

  Jerry hesitated. “I’m really busy, Myles.”

  “Come on. Didn’t I give you the tip on the research assistant position? You owe me one.”

  “I’d have to ask around. Don’t you know anyone else you can ask?”

  “Only you.”

  “Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll make one phone call. If they have it, you’re in. If not, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  They had it.

  “I’ll get the money and meet you at your house,” Myles arranged. “Seven, tomorrow evening.”

  Myles never showed, but six officers from the California Bureau of Narcotic Enforcement and the Berkeley Police Department did. Armed with a warrant based on the testimony of a “confidential reliable informant”, the officers fiercely questioned Jerry about where he’d gotten the marijuana, assuring him a jail term if he didn’t cooperate.

  Jerry refused. How could he turn in a friend? Utterly destroyed, he just had to face the fact that he’d been set up, and he’d have to eat it.

  Soon afterward, he was tried and sentenced to three months in the County Prison at Santa Rita.

  CHRISTIAN AND LANCE BORMANN

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  JUNE 1967

  When he arrived at Lance Bormann’s law office, Christian chose a chair to wait, picked up a magazine, and occasionally looked toward the secretary. Young, obviously busy, she still looked up and smiled with some regularity. In the months to follow, he would see a good bit of Georgia Delaney, a talented legal secretary who’d been with Bormann since he’d first started to practice law.

  Good, he observed. Her interest will make Mr. Bormann more available.

  Just back from L.A. and a peek at Bob’s new shipment of hash, Christian considered what he’d heard of Lance Bormann. Young, twenty-nine years old. Dedicated. A product of Berkeley’s Free Speech Movement. John Black, a seasoned Berkeley street veteran and smuggler, had told him that those years had been difficult for Lance.

  A graduating law school student in 1964, Lance had spent many hours researching the rights of assembly and protest for different organizations. As the days passed, more of his time had been used giving free legal advice. Even after the demonstrations had ended, he’d devoted hours in the defense of activists in court. For weeks, Bormann had been sorely tempted to join those friends who had quit the classroom to organize full time. But his father had warned caution and asked that he carefully consider finishing his studies.

  Boalt School of Law, Christian recalled. Prestigious.

  But then, Lance Bormann had come from a long line of prestigious attorneys. His father, Michael Bormann, had made a reputation for himself in the fifties defending members of the Communist Party, and his grandfather, Herman Bormann, had been an immigration lawyer during the Second World War, finding a place in America for displaced persons.

  “Mr. Bormann will see you now,” Georgia told him, interrupting his thoughts.

  Christian put down the magazine, thanked her, and headed through the redwood door.

  “Mr. Alden.” Bormann walked from behind a large polished desk and held out his hand.

  The walls behind Bormann’s chair held ceiling-to-floor bookcases, each shelf containing large, numbered volumes of legal cases. Two chairs of dark wood, simple, elegant, with black leather seats, sat before the desk. An Asian carpet covered the oak flooring. Near the long window, on a tall, iron stand, a wide, healthy fern sprouting new fronds leaned toward the light.

  Christian focused on the man as he took the firm handshake—medium height, clean-shaven, perfectly trimmed dark hair, level brown eyes measuring him, the expensive three-piece suit, bright tie, polished leather shoes.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Alden? John Black says you’re looking for an attorney.” His voice was harmonious, confident. A wooing voice, drawing the listener into it.

  “I’m looking for an attorney,” Christian answered. “I’ve read some of your cases.”

  “Read my cases?” Lance asked quizzically. “Where did you do that?”

  “A few transcripts from cases you’ve defended are circulating through a group of people I know. I was impressed with your arguments. I like words. They’re very precise when read without visual distraction or voice inflection.”

  Lance tilted his head, unsure. There was something unusual about this Christian Alden. If the recommendation had come from someone other than John Black …

  “I tell you what,” he finally answered with some humor, “you come sit here behind this desk, and I’ll sit out front.”

  Christian laughed and shook his head. “No, man. That’s not my trip.”

  Lance liked his laugh, free and without malice. Relieved, he asked, “What exactly is your trip, Mr. Alden?”

  “I understand you sta
rted as a drug attorney with the Wilder case.”

  “Jake Wilder,” Lance nodded. “Congressman Wilder’s son.”

  A little over a year ago, Lance had been working as an associate in his father’s firm. As soon as he’d entered the front reception room, the senior secretary had caught his attention, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. He’d knocked politely at the door to his father’s office, and once inside, had listened as Michael Bormann tried explaining to Phil and Marion Wilder why he couldn’t take their son’s case. Jake Wilder had sat to one side feigning disinterest.

  “My father didn’t want that case,” Lance told Christian. “He thought a drug case, particularly one as highly publicized as Jake’s, was too sensitive for the office.”

  Christian raised an eyebrow. “For a man who built his reputation defending Communists?”

  “It’s a whole different witch hunt these days, Mr. Alden.” Lance’s grin was wry. “My father still takes cases he considers political, but drug cases don’t fall into that category for him. With respect to the Wilder case, his position was clear. His firm had spent hard years building a reputation, and that reputation needed to be protected so that he could remain effective. Without credibility, the chances for others might be destroyed. He didn’t want to become known as … what did you call me … a ‘drug attorney’?”

  “For want of a better word. We’re really talking about sacraments, aren’t we?” He grinned at the surprise on Lance’s face and added, “You obviously didn’t agree with your father.”

  “No. It pisses me off that the Federal Bureau of Narcotics has the power to make laws. Those people are cops, not experts on drugs or drug problems. Or sacramental issues,” he grinned in return. “I get really annoyed when someone tries to tell me addicts are weak and immoral. Anybody with half a brain knows addiction is an illness.”

  “What about the area of religious freedom? Doesn’t the First Amendment guarantee me the right to use sacraments in the expression of my religious belief?”

  Lance shook his head. He’d been asked that question dozens of times. “An entirely separate issue. And a very complex one.”

  “How can they make psychedelics illegal if peyote’s protected for American Indians?”

  “There are ways for the courts to get around a claim of religion. They hold a distinction between a spiritual or philosophic belief and what they consider a true religion.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not many people do. I have clients in here all the time telling me they want a religious defense, and I have to explain the difference. Within constitutional law, the First Amendment embraces two concepts: The first is the freedom to believe, and the second is the freedom to act. Freedom to believe may be considered absolute. You can express the view, for example, that LSD and marijuana are beneficial, and you can advocate the repealing of the laws against their use, but you may not practice what is illegal.”

  “But then, why is peyote legal?”

  “By an absolute miracle—and some really good politicking. It was only after an appeal to the California Supreme Court that the lower court decision was reversed. And that fight was a long, uphill battle. The state claimed that peyote was being used in place of proper medical care, that children were being indoctrinated into the use of drugs, that peyote led to a propensity to use other drugs. The defense, on the other hand, claimed that peyote was a teacher, created a brotherhood, embodied the Holy Spirit. Those who partook of peyote entered into direct contact with God. Fortunately, the California Supreme Court ruled in the Woody case that peyote was an integral part of the Native American religious faith. In fact, the prohibition of peyote would mean that the religion would no longer exist.”

  “But, certainly, politics also played a part in designating marijuana a narcotic. Wasn’t your father aware of the history of the marijuana laws when he decided to turn down the Wilder case?”

  “Of course he was. He understands that when Prohibition ended, all those police officers had to find new jobs. Transferring alcohol prohibition to marijuana prohibition was easy. Who cared about a few black jazz musicians? Billie Holliday or Louis Armstrong? Or itinerant Mexican laborers?” Lance looked down at his desk, musing. “But my father belongs to a different breed of attorney now. He has influence—and power. He’s made a lot of money. He’s comfortable. I think his courage is gone.”

  As if realizing what he’d just spoken aloud to a man he’d only known for a few minutes, he added, “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Alden. I owe a lot to my father. Not only for my upbringing but also for keeping me in law school when I considered dropping out. He made me realize that the Free Speech Movement would pass. Told me that what I could become by completing school would profit the movement more in the long run. He was right. Many changes are ahead for the nation. And to change the inequities of the law, I need power and position. But I won’t be seduced by it. I’ll never lose my courage to do what I think is right.”

  So he’s motivated by more than money, Christian thought.

  “I read the newspaper accounts after you won the Wilder case. You charged illegal search and seizure.”

  “The police simply broke down the door of the house Jake was visiting,” Lance told him. “No search warrant. No invitation to come in. Just a broken front door. All they had was a phone call from a nosy neighbor who reported seeing a lit cigarette passed around the kitchen table.”

  “Parts of your speech for protection of the rights of privacy were carried verbatim by the newspapers.”

  Lance grinned and nodded. “Along with the judge’s admonition to the officers involved.” His tone picked up levity. “They sure are pissed off at me down at the station. The narcs are beginning to tighten up. They’re even beginning to follow legal procedure. No sense making arrests if they’re not going to stick. The week after that newspaper article, I got about ten phone calls for drug cases.”

  Lance eased back in his chair, remembering. In first looking over those early cases, it hadn’t taken him long to discover that many drug dealers had access to large amounts of cash. There would be a fringe benefit to this type of work.

  “I chose four of the more interesting cases and really went to work. Man, this time when I told my wife I was working late, I meant it. The trial dates came up. The score was four more acquittals. My father and I mutually decided that I should move my office.”

  Christian laughed with him. “What did he say about the article in the Sunday paper with your name in inch-high headlines? ‘Lance Bormann—Dope Attorney’?”

  “He called to say it would have been better if I’d changed my name, as well as my office. So tell me, Mr. Alden, why did you come here today?”

  “I need an attorney, for several reasons. First, I want to learn about the drug laws. I’d like to see where mistakes are made and how they can be avoided.”

  “And the other reasons?”

  “I may need someone to call, just in case. Someone who’ll move quickly, night or day. In short, I need a good attorney who will be ready.”

  “I hope not, Mr. Alden, if I understand you correctly.”

  “I think you do, especially if you’re John Black’s attorney. Finally, I’d like to know a little more of what’s happening around town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re capable of moving through the courts and the jail. You know police officers. I’d like to be forewarned if you should hear anything that might interest me—rumors of a bust, an informer …” Christian opened the woven shoulder bag he carried. “Here’s $1,500.” He placed an envelope in the middle of the desk. “A retainer, if you’ll take it. For your time today, and for expenses that may come up. I’ll pay well for any information that’s helpful.”

  Lance only looked briefly at the envelope and shook his head. “I’d like to help, but it’s impossible for me to get the kind of information you want. What you need is someone within the police department itself. Quite frankly, the narcs hate me. I stay a
way from them, except in the courtroom. But I’m going to give you the name of a bail bondsman I work with. His name’s Melvin Sparks. If anything happens during the night, he’s the person to call. Daytime, I’ll arrange bail for you through him. You or anyone’s name you give me.”

  Lance passed Sparks’ card across the table.

  “There’s also an investigator you might want to know about. He graduated from Berkeley in criminology.”

  Christian took the second card and read it: Joseph O’Brian, Private Investigator.

  “Joe’s connected to the scene and has a good nose for what’s happening around town,” Lance continued. “He’s not your ordinary investigator. He worked closely with the Vietnam Day Committee, the same way I did, but while I spent my time in the library, Joe spent his on the streets. One day, he tripped on a curb while throwing back a tear-gas canister. Three of them got him with billy clubs. When they’d finished, he had a cracked skull, three broken ribs, and a broken nose. Then they charged him. Joe’s what you’d call righteously angry. He hates the police state, the big corporations. He believes in the combined power of the people. Government, he’s told me, should care for all the people it represents. Not just those with money.”

  “How long has he been an investigator?”

  “A couple of years now. He has something not many people in his business have.”

  “Is he well connected?”

  Lance nodded. “To many people, Joe’s a war hero. The doors of the underground are open to him. He knows how to get just about anything, from drugs to phony ID, although you didn’t hear that from me. He’s familiar with contacts for the underground railway leading draft evaders to Canada. Yeah, he’s well connected. But what makes him really special is his intuition. With Joe, it’s an ability that borders on the psychic.”

  “Tuned in,” Christian murmured.

  “Whatever he’s tuned into, it works. Jennifer, his old lady, keeps the place on its financial feet. Joe would just as soon donate all his time.” Lance shook his head. “This weekend, he’s off to Delano to give pointers to Cesar Chavez and a group of farm laborers in this tense grape strike that’s happening.”