by Jace Killan
15
The next several months passed in a blur—an exhilarating, fantastical blur. If Joaquin were honest with himself, the first time he used meth was the greatest experience of his life and each time after failed in comparison. Each time he used, he tried to recreate that initial moment of unfettered power. Perhaps it had been so potent because of the hurt and frustration he’d experienced before his first hit. Surely that had aided his having such a magical experience with the drug.
Or maybe the brand, the way the cook made that particular batch of meth, had something to do with why it had been so great. But he had not been able to duplicate the original sensation. Not yet despite all his attempts.
His latest obsession had become crystal. He learned everything about it. He studied and even tried some of its ancestors, PCP, acid, crack. None even came close in comparison. He liked ecstasy, but meth was far superior.
Addicted? Sure. Probably. But why should he care? He knew enough to beat any downside of using and still enjoy the rides. He just needed to be smart about it. He needed rules.
First, eye drops. They’d hide his misdeeds, a salve for the window to his soul. He could put on a smile and wear the mask.
Second, no travelling while high. He could use in his room when his folks thought him asleep. He didn’t want to risk getting pulled over when stoned. A DUI would hinder his education and career endeavors.
Third, sleep and along with that, take a break after using two days in a row. A lot of meth addicts were found out because they didn’t rest. In that manic state he could get into trouble, hence rule number two.
And fourth, eat often. Crystal did something to his throat. He’d forget to hydrate and wouldn’t be hungry for days. So meth addicts typically lost a lot of weight. His family and girlfriend couldn’t be led to suspicion. They couldn’t know.
And last, he’d need money to fuel his addiction, but no stealing from family or friends. There were plenty of other ways to pay for his habit without drawing up more suspicion, or taking a dump where he slept.
One night, Brina requested that he skip whatever he had given for an excuse of why he couldn’t hang out, and meet her at Filibertos for some Carne Asada fries. Had she found out? Did she suspect something? He couldn’t blow her off, not again. That and he loved her. She was his best friend. So he agreed.
But going out meant breaking rule number two of driving while high. And he’d already broken rule number three of not using two days in a row. Maybe he’d have to modify that one because of his increasing tolerance.
A muffled voice in the back of his head told him to stay in. Going out high was a bad idea, but fear of getting caught overcame reason. It wasn’t like he was really impaired anyway. He wasn’t drunk. So he went and he applied eye drops in the car before entering Filibertos.
He didn’t realize it, but he hadn’t seen Brina in days. He had claimed illness or tutoring or his favorite, a group project for one of his college classes. He caught her gaze when he entered. Those beautiful deep brown eyes. They distracted him from the look of concern. But damn, she was beautiful. Her green blouse, accented with the silver pendant he’d given her for her birthday last year. Or this year. No.
Panic raced through his head. It was June. Her birthday was a few months away still.
“Jaqui,” she said, those brown eyes puffy and red, though he cared more about his own eyes to notice. “We need to talk.”
Joaquin didn’t answer. He stared at the mound of fries, center table, covered with chopped carne asada then smothered in melted cheese, sour cream, and guacamole. He knew he had to eat—rule four. If he didn’t, she would suspect his state and if she suspected, he might be found out. And with a cat out of the bag like that, he’d be in a world of hurt. His folks would probably lock him away in rehab or something stupid like that. He tried to swallow, then took a fork and shoved three bites into his dry mouth, unaware of the surprised look on Brina’s face.
“Jaqui, your family and I all love you very much. We all know what’s going on with you, and we think you need help.”
Joaquin heard the words, but he didn’t listen. He chewed and forced the bites down his throat. It felt like getting a chip stuck, or swallowing an ice cube whole. He sipped some soda; that helped a little. Across the restaurant were two guys. He’d seen them before and it nagged at the back of his mind. “Do you know them?” he asked.
Brina’s face grew upset. “Are you listening to me?”
Why play games with him? She did know them. That’s where he’d seen them before. They went to high school. Yeah. One of them, Jacob, was there at prom last month. He’d eyeballed Brina and Joaquin had regretted not doing more about it. He had wussed out because he didn’t want to draw attention and make a scene. But here sat the bastard, eyeballing Brina again, stalking her even. Maybe that’s why Brina wanted to meet. She wanted to break up with him and Jacob would be there to pick up the pieces.
He didn’t realize that his breathing deepened, and sweat dampened his scalp. He balled his hands into fists, his jaw clenched. “I see what you’re doing,” he said. “I get it now.”
“Jaqui, when’s the last time you slept?”
“How long have you been cheating on me?” He slammed his fist down, bouncing the Styrofoam carton of carne asada fries. He pointed at the guys in the corner, who had cleared the table and now exited out the front door. “You’re dead, you hear?”
“Jaqui,” Brina said. “Stop it. Please sit down.” She grabbed him by the arm, but it wouldn’t impede him. He charged out of the restaurant after the losers who were obviously running away. That only solidified their guilt.
He headed for his car. Jacob and his friend were in their dark blue Tundra and Joaquin could swear he heard them laughing at him as they pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road.
Joaquin forgot about Brina. He couldn’t let Jacob get away with this. They’d insulted his honor. Now they’d pay.
He climbed into the small red compact and drove off. A moment later he realized Brina sat beside him. He gunned the car down Ironwood Road, changing from one lane to the other in order to pass the few cars in between him and the Tundra.
“Jaqui, please stop this. Listen, you’ve got to get help.”
Brina’s voice was distant, too far away. Joaquin wondered why she was still there. She wanted to protect her beloved Jacob. Make sure Joaquin didn’t kill him.
He came up on two vehicles going practically the same speed, blocking the only two lanes heading North. The Tundra had magically made it on the other side of this obstacle. Joaquin slowed to assess the situation. Then he saw his opening. The median, though sunken dirt, could support a quick in and out around the two vehicles and then he’d take on the Tundra.
He reacted quickly, flying into the median. The drop bounced his car and his wheels lost traction. When they hit again they shot him across the median into oncoming traffic. A semi hit the passenger side first. They said she died instantly, despite wearing her seatbelt. The passenger airbag did not deploy. The car turned with the oncoming traffic southward and rested partly on the median. The driver’s side airbag saved Joaquin’s life.
16
A smug, condescending guard escorted Chris Ericson from the courtroom right after the judge accepted the plea deal struck between the prosecutor, the FBI, and the defense. The guard placed Ericson into a holding cell and watched as he changed out of his suit and tie. He put on an orange jumpsuit and white slip-on shoes. A guard bundled up his discarded clothing to be added to Ericson’s personal effects and given to his attorney. Ericson would soon be transferred from county lockup, to the Federal penitentiary in Oklahoma. The guard shackled Ericson’s feet and hands in front of him. Then left Ericson alone, sitting on the scuffed linoleum floor.
He’d accepted his fate months ago when he sat helplessly in county lockup eating mush twice a day and sleeping with a number of hardened criminals. The damn judge hadn’t accepted his request for minimum security. Instead
the prosecution added an assault charge to his rap sheet from an incident while in county. Not his fault, of course. Some burly redneck tried to get frisky, so Ericson kicked his ass with the jujitsu he’d learned as a teenager. Maybe Ericson had overdone things. The redneck spent a week in the infirmary with swelling on the brain.
Assigning Ericson to a harsher climate in Oklahoma hadn’t disappointed him as much as what didn’t happen. Not a single soul appeared on his behalf except for his well-paid defense lawyer. Not his wife of fifteen years. Not his twelve-year-old son or eight-year-old daughter. Not his mom. Or his brother.
He hadn’t expected the last one. But the rest should’ve been there. Or at the very least should have written a letter to persuade the judge to keep Ericson in Arizona where his family could visit, not that they would.
Didn’t they know what he’d done for them? Didn’t they realize his sacrifice? He’d spent ten years providing for his family and providing well. Sure he’d made mistakes, but it would still be worth it. When he got out in six years, assuming good behavior. Everything was in place to provide for his family for the rest of their lives. Six years seemed a small sacrifice to pay for the reward.
Guatemalans did the same thing for their families. They’d break the law, sneaking into the US illegally, so they could work and save for five, six, seven years, and then they’d return to their families, heroes. Ericson was no different. But instead of a hero, Ericson’s family treated him as a criminal. They’d used him.
He had told Bridgette, his bride, that she had nothing to worry about. Sure, they’d have to live in an apartment and she’d have to work, a vast change from their lifestyle over the past decade.
If only he’d delayed the inevitable for a few more years, when his children were older, maybe out of the house. He hadn’t expected to be caught so soon. After nearly eight years of scheming, part of him believed he’d never get caught. Then the real estate market crumbled and the loans came due. Those same loans he had oversubscribed by millions.
It all went fine until his clients stopped paying their interest. It was their fault really. He managed to keep the lenders at bay for a year, which afforded him enough time to put some of his ducks in a row, before the banks grew suspicious enough to investigate. Then the FBI got involved, and his world of luxury ended.
The guard returned and commanded Ericson to his feet. Ericson shuffled out of the courthouse to a white, unmarked van. From the van, he went into a holding cell for two days that grew crowded over that time. Later, he and the others were loaded on a plane and shipped like cargo to Oklahoma.
Off the plane, they were transported to the penitentiary for intake. Ericson hadn’t been so degraded in all his life though he went through a similar procedure when first arrested and after each court appearance. Stripped naked, they forced him to spread his cheeks, squat, cough, stick out his tongue and more.
He kept telling himself that it was worth it. He would put in his time, get out on parole, and soon after, it would all pay off. He’d move his family to Antigua. They could spend out their days in paradisiacal luxury, without a worry in the world. Of course, he’d have to be smart about accessing the money. Those details he had worked out time and time again over the last eight months in county lockup where there wasn’t much more to do than think.
By then the money would be laundered and shifted through a number of shell companies. His bank in Antigua charged criminal fees to handle these matters, but it’d be worth it to have clean money. He’d change citizenship and have the bank hire him, surely for more fees, but then he’d have access to his funds. Even if he only touched the interest, he could live like a king. Fifteen million after fees would generate half a million a year without even trying.
The FBI had closed their case. The court appointed trustees had declared that they’d found “all” of the money. In discovery he learned that they’d found a receipt for one chartered flight from six years ago, with a ninety thousand dollar price tag for he and nine others to Florida. That was as close as they came to discovering his stash.
They didn’t know about the four other flights to Mexico and then to Antigua. The Florida trip hadn’t been to Florida, but also Antigua, through another outfit, and there weren’t nine passengers. Later, Ericson had found a cheaper supplier of transportation that asked fewer questions and accepted cash payments. He was in the clear, or rather, would be when he got out of prison.
He had to keep his head down and not access his jujitsu so he could qualify for parole when 85% of his 75-month stay ended. He’d already served ten of those in county.
Ericson received more than a few nudges from the Pecker Woods that he needed to affiliate with them. The PWs acted like an offshoot of the Nazi party, hating everything that wasn’t white. The name acronym PW pronounced pee-dub, was actually a play on the acronym WP for White Power.
So Ericson attended a meeting. A short but beefy man presided from a makeshift podium at the front of the classroom. Going to chapel, as they called it, let Ericson out of his afternoon landscaping duties on Saturdays.
The self-appointed pastor introduced himself as Brother Simon. His bare shaved head carried a prison tattoo of a sun surrounding a swastika. He introduced Ericson as Brother Eric and welcomed him to the fold.
“Of course,” Brother Simon said, “he will receive opportunities to prove his loyalty and faithfulness to God.”
Ericson glanced around the room of thirty men. They looked like poster children for the Hells Angels. He did not belong here. But he feared retaliation if he didn’t join.
His attorney had suggested that if Ericson could stay out of trouble for a year, he’d put in for a transfer to a less secured facility. Possibly one closer to home.
Over the past months he hadn’t heard anything from his family. No letters. His calls went unanswered.
Brother Simon spoke colorful propaganda, full of ignorant hate and prejudice. Ericson had thought racism dead in America. He quickly learned it still thrived in prison. Each race associated with their own, whites separated from blacks, the blacks from the Mexicans, the Mexicans from the Asians. Muslims made up the only group that seemed interracial though most black or Mexican. They’d separated from all others.
The PWs had their share of altercations from what Ericson had heard, but he hadn’t seen any such activity in his brief stay.
After the sermon, Brother Simon invited Brother Eric to remain, along with three other men.
“Do you ever pray, Brother Eric?”
“No.”
“You need to pray to the Lord Almighty that he can forgive you of your sins. You need to be sanctified, washed clean with the blood of the lamb.” Brother Simon now towered above Ericson who remained on his plastic seat.
The other three men stood like a row of linebackers, blocking the long and narrow window at the side of the room.
“On your knees, Brother Eric. Pray to your savior. Beg for peace.” Brother Simon pushed Ericson’s head down.
Ericson fought the urge to stand and leave. He told himself he needed to play nice. He cautiously did as instructed, kneeling on the ground. Then Brother Simon started to remove his blue jumpsuit.
Ericson reacted, knowing what would follow. He jabbed hard, upward, catching Brother Simon in his groin, causing him to topple over to the floor.
Something, probably one of the other PWs, hit Ericson in the head and he blacked out. When he came to, his jumpsuit and drawers were lowered about his ankles. He couldn’t fight what they did, each taking turns with him.
He’d spend a week in the infirmary where he’d learn that he had contracted HIV in the ordeal.
17
“Hey...Maxie.”
Joaquin opened his eyes. He hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Just like every other night in prison, the memories wouldn’t let him. That and the place never got dark enough to feel like nighttime.
The others in his wing called him Maxie, not short for Maxwell but maxie pad. They said he looked like
a sweet little thing and couldn’t wait for him to get off the rag. That was one of many reasons he quietly cried to himself at night. Had they heard him?
“Maxie.”
He wiped his eyes to find Burke crouched by his bunk. “What?”
“I need you to take this to the bathroom. Now.”
Joaquin rolled away and closed his eyes.
“Hey!”
Pain shot through Joaquin’s cheek. The bastard had slapped him. Then again.
“Get off me.”
“Take this to the bathroom. Now!” Burke slapped him once more and held out a ball of socks.
Joaquin accepted it and stood. He thought about knocking Burke in the jaw, but that would only result in more attention. Burke had a number of friends, each gruffer than the next.
Joaquin squeezed the sock ball. It held something inside. Drugs probably. He didn’t dare look. As much as he wanted to tell Burke to go screw himself, he knew that the safest, most prudent path was to accept the task without complaint. He walked into the bathroom, combed through the stalls and found nobody. Maybe this was some sort of a hazing joke.
He took the opportunity to relive himself in the urinal then waited for another five minutes before someone else came in—Fischer, one of the prison guards.
“What are you doing?” the guard asked.
“Uh, just taking a piss, sir.”
Joaquin returned to the urinal to fake the action. He immediately regretted it. What a stupid move to turn his back to a guard. But he had to commit to it now. He waited a moment then flushed.
“Did Burke send you?” Fischer asked.
How should he answer? Was the sock ball for Fischer, or was Fischer on the hunt for whatever the sock ball meant? He dared not return to Burke before delivering it. If he ratted on Burke he’d be hurt, or killed. If he didn’t, he’d receive whatever legal punishment the sock ball merited. He opted for the latter. More time added to his stint would be better than no life. “No, sir.”
