Chapter 41. The Fire Bird to Ashes

There was no viable plan for Anna’s extraction in plan A. She laid it out and made for my escape but her part was sketchy at best. And Plan B had no extraction plan at all. I should have challenged her more vigorously on this point. However, one consolation to sanity was that Ralph was positioned outside the perimeter on the other side of the slough in both plans and that was enough to assure me that no matter how things turned out, he’d be okay. She assured me that she had it covered and I went along to get along. That is not a good attitude when going into battle. Oh, Anna, if only, if only. That was how it went down.

We were crossing the Rio Vista bridge when the first foreboding revealed its hand. Ralph’s 1974 Trans Am Firebird was a beast of a car. Anna and Ralph were in front and I was crammed in the back seat with my knees at my chin. Its rumble was worse than any Harley but, from the sound of its mill, you knew it could outpace any car on the streets in a sprint. Ralph was near giddy to be on a mission with us as he told us about every detail of his machine.

“This ain’t no regular Firebird. This babe’s gots a 455 SD with reinforced cylinder block, forged rods, high-flow cylinder head too. Shocks better than any NASCAR. They don’t make ‘em like this no more… emissions restrictions… fuckin’ California.”

Anna paid rapt attention to every detail and informed me of her appreciation, “It’s an art form, ya know. As much as painting or sculpture… the way these things are put together and improvised to perfection.”

I let them rattle on while I held his shotgun on my lap. I hadn’t a clue as to what he was talking about and knew as much about muscle cars as I did quantum physics. But I know guns and this pepper sprayer might be good enough while we were in the car but the mansion was going to be a hell of a challenge and required something as lethal but just a little quieter.

Anna adjusted the passenger side view mirror so that she could use it when we passed Rio Vista before the bridge. When Ralph noticed she’d done so, he protested, “Hey, don’t do that. I gotta watch fer stuff.”

“Ralph, you pay attention to the road ahead. I’m watching a motorcycle behind us ….”

“Uh, I didn’t see that.”

“I’ve had an eye on it since Rio Vista and the Isleton bridge. Take the Howard’s Landing junction and a right on Leary Road.” Anna’s monotone was calming… not a trace of panic.

“You wanna get to the Mansion, that ain’t the way.”

“Ralphie dammit,” Her drone took on a more sinister vibe, “Remember what I said about following orders?”

“You didn’t say anything about that.”

“I did just now.”

With that order of business out of the way the Firebird’s thrust was comparable to the space shuttle’s. Pressed to the back of the seat, the adrenaline of it gave me a similar rush as paragliding out of an airplane at night. No control. 

Sometimes I just trust the driver. It doesn’t take long before I knew the road was good to Ralph. He could drive that beast and, when our turn at the junction came, the bird stayed level in a drift flat around the turn as though hydroplaning on rubber and dry asphalt. The next right came up before he could slow but he managed the turn onto Leary Road.

Ralph was full of glee, “I told you I gots NASCAR racing shocks on this puppy better than anything the CHP has… better than a lot of shit!” 

"You already said that." 

Like any good driver, Ralph possessed professional humility. He gave credit to the machine before himself but he knew what he could handle, and handle it he did, without horsing it.

“Here!” Anna shouted pointing to a farm-vehicle dirt track with thick brush on both sides.

Gravel and dust flew and we full-brodied a 180 circle on the dirt and into that gap to a stop.

“This good enough fer ya?” Ralph grinned while idling into the bushes enough to remain unseen once the dust settled.

Anna took a deep breath… a sigh, “Whew! Perfect my man. I sorta knew you could handle this car.”

“Ma’am, this ain’t no car. This is a Fire Bird!”

The dust still hadn’t settled when the motor-cycle sped past us at about ninety and around the curve of the road out of sight. There was but little assurance we were hidden though a farm vehicle was turning the sod but, because of recent rains, not much dust arose from it.

“Well, let’s go back to Isleton and take the long way around. They’ll be expecting us sooner rather than later.”

I had nothing to say about the matter. She had it covered. All I had to do was wait for my orders and there wasn’t much I could do from where I sat.

Before the Isleton bridge Anna had Ralph stop, “Okay, Crash. This is where you get out.”

She leaned forward so that I could squeeze my cramped legs and the rest of my body out of the two-door’s back seat and with the door still open, I handed the shot-gun to Anna and checked her sketch of a map.

I was supposed to be dropped closer, “Looks like Plan B?” I said. A two-mile crawl in daylight. I couldn’t allow myself to be seen by anyone… an innocent farm worker or worse.

“Take cover and wait ‘til dusk. Your entry time is changed to twenty-two fifteen. Wait for Ralph’s call once inside the perimeter.” Anna was clearly in charge and I was to follow the time table. We knew the part each of us was to play in each plan and we knew what we had to do if one or two of us didn’t make it. Once the mission was accomplished we were on our own getting out. I’d memorized the map. It wasn’t hard to do and knew I would have to take a dip the last hundred yards in plan B.  There was no other way. Our first plan had me going around the perimeter staying dry but now I had to accept wet and cold.

The rice fields in the delta are flooded in the winter. It’s not like the Mekong… similar soil, but, when the temperature drops below fifty-eight the crop is ruined. So, it doesn’t get planted then. Principally, the fields are flooded to speed the decay of the straw left from the harvest. Decay does create a little heat and that causes steam to rise-up from the peat. It’s Tule fog when the winter water temp is warmer than the air. The rice field served as a moat of about a foot in depth. I counted on the fog for cover out of water and a little, not much but enough comfort while in it… I was trained to buck-up or fuck-up and that would be my only option. A fuck-up on a mission was never acceptable… no matter what. Every Ranger, every Navy Seal, ever Special Ops grunt, knows how to do this. Though I was certainly not any of those I had similar training along those lines.

At the twenty-hundred hour, I had two-hours and fifteen-minutes to close my part of the action and was already in the reeds before the mound that arose to the electrified fence. Just as Anna’s map for me showed, I could see up there where there was a gap between the security cameras and the guard posted at the South end of the perimeter. She was good. I trusted her with our lives now and could see the camera in one of the eucalyptus trees and the guard’s position. It wasn’t exactly a bunker… it was more of a concrete foxhole where the guard could see 360 degrees around and rise as if a ghost to any intruder. I too was a ghost and I could do the same… only better. Ralph’s night vision glasses were state of the art. Who says crime doesn’t pay. Ralph had to spend a nice wad from selling speed and pot to buy these.

I lay in wait. I managed to creep close enough to dig by hand and a K-Bar enough space to worm my way under the electrified fence. Time was getting close to 22:00. I had to make my move soon. I watched through the glasses, “C’mon fucker, do something stupid."

The guard stepped out of his mini-bunker to have a smoke. His lighter was as bright as a flare when he lit-up a cigarette. I don’t know which is worse, drinking while on watch, or smoking. I know the Bird Dog was adamant about it. This boy must be a one of the Dogs recruits that was still in training. No matter, that was my opening the door to the palace. A four-point crawl had me in place behind him and my belt at his throat before he finished his cigarette. I pulled him down into his pit and stripped him. Poor fucker had but one jail house tat on his shoulder. It was one of those little devils with Old English script saying, Born to Lose.

I felt as though I'd helped to fulfill his destiny by facilitating that which he was born to do. As an extra bonus, it was a good wardrobe change because the fit was perfect. 
I had fifteen minutes to get ready to breach the back door. This was going just a little too easy

~~~

Ralph and Anna

“Take no chances. Let’s go the long way around at the landing, Ralphie.”

A CHP motorcycle was waiting for them. Anna’s sixth sense knew this wasn’t a CHP. She tucked the shotgun between her door and the seat with a hand on its pistol grip.

The faux CHP dismounted and sauntered over to Ralphs side with the standard orders, “License and registration.”

Ralph hesitated.

She said, “Do it Ralph.”

“Where you two goin’?”

“Just tryin’ out the wheels… tune up and new plugs, ya’ know.”

The cop glanced at the license but it was obvious he already knew who he was dealing with, “Step out of the car, real slow, Mr. Montano. And you… don’t make a move.”

She murmured,“Gather your chi, it’s show time, pal.” 

 She wasn’t sure she wanted to kill a cop… that is, if the CHP was a cop. But when he reached behind and pulled a Mac-10 from his belt, her intuition was confirmed. The trick would’ve been to lift the shotgun fast enough to take him out before he sprayed them like a horney tom cat. It all depended on what Ralph would do. Breathe into the belly… gather chi… Ralph swung his door open with force and was almost on the CHP before the flash of the Mac-10’s muzzle put four rounds into the front of the car and under the hood.

Anna blasted birdshot between Ralph and the door into the faux cop’s face. It was art, Nijinsky couldn’t have danced Stravinsky’s Firebird with more precision as Ralph pounced on the already dead corpse of a cop in a pin.

“Good work my friend.”

Ralph’s motion froze. His eyes glued to what he saw in front of him. Then he puked into the hole that was once a face. Nothing but the part of the wire frame that hangs over the ears were where they were supposed to be. That was all that was left of the pilots’ glasses. The rest of them were gone where a hole replaced his eyes and nose and Ralph's chunks of Taco Bell from the night before. It testified that the cop was done with his karma in this lifetime. Checking all his pockets for ID to see if he might have been an off-duty CHP, she tapped Ralph on his shoulder to dismount and rolled the poor dead fool over.

Ralph stood back over him. “Who was he…and don’t tell me he’s a cop.”

“He’s not a cop. But wait.” She kicked him in the ribs. “Security.”

Ralph was entranced, “Fuckin’-A, man. I bet this dude’s from the mansion. What do we do? You killed that fucker. Shit, I never killed nobody.”

She paused a minute, “Bird Dog could be on anyone’s side.” She grabbed the CHP helmet that was laying off to the side, “I think he’s Smerdyakov’s security. What do you say you strip off those duds, Rafael? You might as well look important where you go. I’ll drop you at your post. Go down out of sight. Know what I mean? Watch me from there. I’ll drive past the gate and turn off the ignition… a damsel in distress like the car broke down…. 22:15 Crash will call. Give him an A-Okay, if, I’m past the gate. If not, Abort. I’ll be on the move then. Let me know if I’m followed. I won’t answer, don’t worry unless I do. Then get the fuck out if you can… Salsipuedes campanero.”

There was a whoooosh! The Mac-10 spray must have dislodged a fuel line over the manifold.

"Aw shit... my car! This crap is burning up!"

"We have the bike. C'mon Ralph. Forget the car." 

The damnedest things come to one's head in a panic. Ralph was in shock, “Man, shit, that’s big trouble to impersonate an officer. I know, remember, I worked in the prison.”

“Ralph," Anna grabbed him by both shoulders and shook hard, "Listen to me. The trouble we can get into with the law is nothing compared to the shit we stepped-in today. It doesn’t matter if this fucker is Baker’s or Smerdyakov’s. Got it. We take the bike now or we're both dead." 

The reality sank in and it was no longer just an adventure. Ralph agreed, "Ashes to Ashes, man, I don't wanna see that happen either."

Chapter 40. Yamantaka/Yamarani

Anna had sketched out maps the night before (tracing them from a Rand McNally) and we had our positions laid out for us. The most essential part of any operation is logistics and Ralph, on the excursion which Anna sent him out, thought of everything we needed to finish the acquisition of gear stage of the operation. He’d picked-up some toy compasses and a set of small two-way radios at a Radio Shack type store, spending the rest of his reserves he’d kept rolled up in a sock hidden away in an old stash place. He gave me a set of night vision binoculars he had from his drug dealing days. Anna figured I could use them more that he could from where she would have him posted. It was clear to Ralph and me whose operation this would be. He had a Minolta SLR with a telephoto lens that Max had also left in the apartment.

Anna tried on one wig and then another. She changed the make-up on her face several times too. Each time she came out of the bathroom she looked entirely different; taller, shorter, paler, and somehow tanned, skinnier, and so on.

“Ralph,” she said, “before we do anything else, take a shower.”

“What? I just did.”

“Wash off the cologne, no stink on an operation like this.”

Ralph stripped off and left the room.

She called out to him, “And don’t use that stinky soap. Irish fucking Spring.”

 The shower was already running as he yelled back at her, “You have perfume on. What’s the diff?”

“Just do it. I want them to smell me coming?”

I left the apartment to take a jog around the small park at the end of the cul de sac. Ralph had blackout curtains pulled when I got back to the apartment. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. A single candle’s light flickered about a woman’s face that was nothing like Anna’s. It appeared clothed in its soft glow where she sat in a full lotus position. Ralph was at her side so I assumed the pose a few feet away and facing them.

Time passed. Once we sat long enough for Anna’s satisfaction, a faint Buddha smile passed her lips before she spoke, “The mansion’s a mandala castle, you know. Like the one hanging in the bedroom. A castle guarded by fierce Vajras.”

Ralph’s voice was distant, “I know, Max left it too. He told me what a mandala is, a circle kinda thing. That black dude in the middle with fangs diggin’ into a chick like he was fuckin’…  what’s that about? I thought it was ‘posed to be spiritual.”

“It’s a protector, a Vajra…, Daemon sometimes.”

“That what you mean, a Vajra?”

“Yes, the main one in the center, Ralph. Center yourself. Find your inner chi like you do in Kempo karate. Meld yin and yang. Your soul is the castle surrounded by fear and delusion. This one has four sides; white across from red and green across from yellow or gold, as in that case. Each guarded by several lesser daemons, or Vajras.”

 “You sayin’ that the Bird Dog guy is a demon fuckin’ with the Smurf guy?”

“Smurf? I like that. Smerdyakov… Papa Smurf fucking the Bird Dog. Uh, not exactly, but I like it. They are there to protect the treasure.”

“I’m taken the white side, Crash is taking the red and you stay where I drop you off outside the perimeter on the other side of the slough from the boat landing. You are there to watch the green and gold.”

Ralph grinned the way he did when he wanted you to know he got-it but was getting bored with it, “Green and Gold… I like the Packers. It’s time we go?”

 “I have gas money,” Anna offered, “Lets go fuck ‘em up.”

“That forty bucks is my fuckin’ money, honey,” Ralph pouted.

“I told you I was a whore. If I charged you what I usually get, you’d owe me lots more than forty bucks.”

“Okay, it was worth it, my sweet whore.”

 “We’re set then. Let’s go.”

Alt Reality: A Mad Man in a Mad House

California Correctional Medical Facility
at Vacaville

The Correctional Medical Facility at Vacaville has a psych ward at the very end of the main-line’s long corridor. It is isolated from the rest of the prison population with its own wing and sally port, we are protected against the general population. Most of us are maintained on high doses of psych meds that have more to do with custodial control than to fix us. I have the honor of a private room… cell. I don’t know why. Some of these guys are more fucked-up than I am. I feel perfectly sane by comparison.

Ryan waited for me three weeks after the trial on one of those uncomfortable plastic seats attached to a round table universally characteristic of visiting rooms. He stood and greeted me with a warm hug and started talking the usual; how you doing, are they treating you okay, you look like you’re putting on weight. He let me know a little more about what was really going on.

“Nice to see you Crash. Not even a visiting day. I haven’t seen that in here before.”

“I wondered about that too. Do you think they found out I’m royalty?” I grinned.

He didn’t smile back.

I asked, “Are you in touch with that bitch?”

“You mean, Anna?”

“No, Santa fucking Clause! Who do you think I’d be asking about?”

“She’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone.”

“Doctor Spawnn disappeared shortly after sentencing and Anna was gone right after testifying.”

She was no longer a bitch. I almost cried, “Gone, where, what, the Bratva?”

“No, she married a guy from up north, Rafael Montano. I believe you know him, and… well, it’s another version of witness protection.”

“Against Smerdyakov, I get it.” The way he looked at me was the same way I imagined a father would look at a son that just came out of the closet, “Why, Ryan… what’s going on! I thought you and Bird Dog had my back.”

“David, please, forget it. I was warned about bringing up the past. But there was no Bird Dog. He hasn’t been around us since Saigon.”

“Witness protection against me then? And Doc? I thought maybe you must’ve been protecting some sort of CIA secrets. Since I’ve been here I have had lots of time to think. The tapes about what happened… the whole goddamned business runs over and over through the thick of Thorazine. I can’t stop thinking about every detail. If there was a reason that made sense, I’d go to prison just for that.”

“Look, David… Anna’s not what she seems.”

“She said I raped her. It’s not true. Why would she say that!”

“Doc pressed her, we think. We couldn’t prove there was a Bratva.”

“Smerdyakov and Yuri?”

“Yuri, yes. He is real. Smerdyakov. It’s better we don’t know.”

“So, I’m supposed to rot here for the rest of my life because it’s better we don’t know what?”

“David, there’s only so much we can do.”

I hadn’t planned on breaking down. It just came on like a Tsunami, “It’s okay, Ryan.” I straightened up after embarrassing myself and put on my best face, “We’re a brotherhood in here. We don’t need shit from the outside. No shit. No sex either. The meds take care of that. All of us are castrati and we like the less complicated life.” I stood. “Ryan, you have to help me! I can’t stay here. I’m no good for this shit. I won’t live five years on this food and these meds.”

“You’re just being medically evaluated and will be sent to Atascadero. It’s a better place. They even have air conditioning.”

“Oh, so it’s like heaven after this. I’m going to a better place… on Thorazine and psych-meds… I won’t suffer anymore. Fuck, I’d rather be executed. The VC we snuffed were better off than this. One shot in the nape-of-the-neck and it was over for Charlie. Locked up with the looney-tunes in here is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Epilogue: A.S.H. Atascadero State Hospital, December, 2016

A.S.H. Atascadero State Hospital

 You get used to it. Ryan was shot by a dirty cop a few years after all that shit went down in the eighties. Ancient history in here. I’m okay. I get three squares… a cot and a hot… dental and medical for life. No problem. My heart is bad… ticker cholesterol levels clogging half the arteries in the ole blood pump. I’ve become a jailhouse attorney. I hit the books for this or that under CRIPA, Criminal Rights of Institutionalized Persons Act. Inmates and staff get shanked more often but it’s okay. Life is as short as it is hard for some of us in or out of here.

We’re trying to get to the Supreme Court on a case for cell phones and laptops. Inmates with access to online porn are few and far between… you know, the ones working up front in administration. Some printout pics and slip ‘em in for a price. Get almost as much for them as a sniff of cola.

I’m being moved to the new facility at Coalinga. It is more like a dorm. A dorm that is still a prison. You are supposed to go to therapy and take your meds to be eventually considered for release after the term for your criminal offence is served. The Catch Twenty-Two is that everything revealed in therapy can be considered of evidence in court. There is no patient confidentiality in prison. Therefore, very few inmates are released other than feet first in a body bag… about one a year otherwise.

Speaking of sex, I found Anna online this year while working in the Admin Office. It didn’t have her name on the site it but I could tell who she was from her picture. Children of Operation Babylift. I searched through Google Images until I found another pic with a name on it, a Vietnamese/Irish name, Kim Phan O’Brian and another old News Press trial picture of Anadel Bonnaire. Older, of course, but more beautiful with age. I did a search… variations on the web until I found one… It was a PO box.

I sent an Email from my own illegal address. I was delighted she wrote back. She told me all of that in a code of her own… that she and Casey were sorry but had to testify against me or the Bratva would kill her mother, my Saigon wife. She ended it with saying I was a grandpa and that my grand kid was twenty-nine and he will visit me someday.

I tried writing back to her but never get answered. Go figure… probably just too busy with life.

I gleaned that much from the email. It read:

David,

I heard you were still alive when a friend told me to check your blog. I wasn’t forced to testify against you like that conspiracy theory you concocted on-line. I don’t hate you but I am sorry you live so that your grand-child of 29 years can’t piss on your grave. I promise you, he will someday. Please don’t try to contact me.

Your Saigon Package

Annadel

The Meat Grinder of Justice - Alternative Reality II

The trial dragged on for an eternity. Attorneys were called to the sidebar for discussion at various lengths of time. During the short sidebars, the Bailiff chatted it up with other officers and the court stenographer. It was the same as minor as a drunk in public… a show of dignity as thin as the strings on a stripper’s thong. I sat next to Walter White Bear Gibbons as he laid out a case for my insanity. He brought in Psychiatrists and specialists in traumatic head injury, PTSD, and called witnesses confirming my alcoholism. Friends… I thought they were friends… had been rallied against me. I knew that if I wasn’t insane I would surely be driven there. Ryan took the stand as a sympathetic witness but testified that I stole his boat under cross examination.

The Prosecution called Anna to the stand I broke down. I didn’t rape her… I never had sex with her… consensual, or not.

I upturned the table, shouting, “Anna, why are you lying!”

I was shackled and carried out. It was a bad dream… a very bad dream.

I had to have a restraint chair the next couple days.

One bubble-headed psychiatrist testified about PTSD. During the cross examination, he was asked by White Bear, “Have you ever served in the military?”

Dr. Bubble-Head objected, “… that doesn’t have any effect on the science.”

“Have you ever served in the military? A yes or no answer would be sufficient.” White Bear insisted.

“Uh, no.”

Amanda stood, “Objection. The question is irrelevant.”

“Objection denied.”

“So, you have no personal experience with PTSD or, the context within which one can be inflicted with the syndrome?”

“Objection, your honor, that is a leading question and not relevant.”

“Objection sustained.”

Back and forth on each item… one by one the prosecution would bring up another aspect of my character and crime while the Defense countered. I had, (on the bus, to and from the court house and County Jail), a separate, caged-in, front seat reserved for sex offenders and snitches. Other inmates chattered low, if a new guy asked, “Who’s he?” 
All of them seemed to know I was accused of being charged with murder and rape. Murder would’ve given me status but rape was another story. It was accepted that rape is often a case of false accusations but it is still very low on the social standings within the institutional-pale-green walls of prisons and jails.

I was exhausted and phased out the procedure. This went on for weeks. I lost track of where it was going. Urchin divers found the body of the Goon at Santa Cruz Island. .45 caliber bullets and shell casings from the Mac-10 were collected by the coroner but it couldn’t be determined that I shot him because no Mac-10 was found. Mr. Risner, who swam ashore, testified that Anna was present but too doped up to do anything and that I’d done all the shooting. It was argued that any testimony about who shot what was hearsay as Mr. Risner was on another part of the boat. 
   I interrupted the court once more by shouting at Risner, “I didn’t shoot anyone! You can’t admit being out-gunned by a woman!”

I was put back in a restraint chair again. Anna wasn’t in the courtroom to hear me brag her up.

The Sherlock was discovered later by divers in the deep near the Island. The Doctor’s Dream was still being searched for, but not found, as it went down beyond the continental shelf off Avila Beach.

Doctor Lawrence Spawn was called as a witness too. He claimed I kept him dosed on heroin and I tortured and brainwashed him using LSD. That there was no Bird Dog in Gabe’s shed. He told a tale of Russian mob figure and the Bird Dog, a CIA contractor, was Bull Shit. Casey and Gabe weren’t alive to testify on my behalf.

Smerdyakov, and Bird Dog were delusions… figments of my imagination. I gave up. There was no fighting it. I couldn’t determine whether Gibbons, believed whether what I'd told him had happened but he seemed to be making the best out of a bad situation. He did call in another psychiatrist to testify for the defense. They went back and forth on the subject of PTSD too. The prosecuting attorney, Amanda Barron, insisted the psychiatrist speak in common terms understandable to the laity.

Amanda cross-examined, “Doctor, does long-term exposure to combat cause blackouts and flashbacks.”

“Yes.”

“Will you describe for the court the characteristics of these blackouts and flashbacks?”

“Characteristic?”

“What usually happens in the mind of the Veteran?”

“These can be, but not in all cases, temporary or sporadic. The patients feel as though they are in the moment of the trauma… that they are under attack.”

“Is it common for them to react with violence?”

“It is rare but it happens.”

“Using a clinical, subjective measure, can you rate events of this nature on a scale of one to ten? Ten being the most violent on every occasion and one would be once in a lifetime, if ever, occurring?”

“Yes, I would say, one. That is, erupting in violence. Though sensational in the media, violence is so rare it is hard to measure in the typical shorthand of one to ten.”

“How often would you say these occur long term; say, a flashback that endures for several months.”

“Clinical studies show that intermittent flashbacks can last a lifetime. Extreme cases, long term, the veteran suffers what was once called combat fatigue or shell-shock. These are cases where the patient never recovers and constantly relives the trauma to the degree of psychological paralyses. But, it is most common for veterans to act out against themselves and are not violent to others. Suicide, or suicide via alcoholism, drug addiction, often results in broken relationships with marriage, family and friends, affects the majority of those who suffer from PTSD.”

“Are there any cases, like Mr. Kraszhinski’s, in which the patient for several days, weeks, or months, acted out against others in a continuous, cohesive, delusional, and violent behavior such as kidnapping, rape and murder, due to combat fatigue?”

White Bear flew off his chair, “Objection. This is a text book leading question, and, for the record, you have allowed a series of leading questions in this courtroom, your honor.”

The judge called a recess and, after reconvening, he instructed the court stenographer, “Strike the prosecutors question and defense attorney’s response from the record. The prosecutor will rephrase the question.”

Amanda plugged away at it, “How often have studies confirmed, or have you witnessed, cohesive, long-term violent, and delusional behavior witnessed that is similar to Mr. Kraszhinski’s case?”

“I’m unfamiliar with such studies if they exist at all. But, I can understand that, once the delusional premise is accepted, there can be prolonged sympathetic follow-up. This can explain the proclivity to adhere to conspiracy theories trying to make sense of the veteran’s disorder.”

“Would this then be a case of paranoid schizophrenia?”

“That’s a general term but it is a more precise delusion.”

The defense brought up the Bird Dog. It seems he didn’t exist. When it was contested about how I got the Bullpup rifle that killed the two crawdad fishermen, the prosecution proposed during the summery that I might have stashed it previously in Benicia.

Days were spent examining question, and cross-examining, questions and answers about the trip to Benicia… about my relationships with Gab, with Casey, with Doctor Lawrence Spawn… and, of course, my Anna.

I fell asleep several times during the trial. I believe my food was spiked with a sedative and it didn’t help that trials are an endurance ordeal that takes days sometimes to sort out the minutia of legalese between attorneys. I suspect that leading questions are often asked, knowing full well the objections will be sustained to color the perception of the jury even though the jury is directed to ignore and not allow them in their deliberations. By the time the trial was over and they were done with me the meat-grinder of justice won another one. I believe it is harder for an innocent man to jump through the hoops of the law than it is for someone locked in the system as a lifelong history of criminality.

Alternative Reality

If Kraszhinsky had not escaped from jail this could have been his fate. In fact, it is his fate in an alternative universe.

I originally wrote it this way but decided it just didn't feel right... yet.

###

The meat-grinding wheels of justice turn slowly and steadily. A month or two after the arraignment, I had a midnight plane-ride in a four-seater from Sacramento to Santa Barbara. There were no reporters awake to greet us at the time of the morning when we arrived at the Santa Barbara Airport. I was old news by then. 

A year of delays and extensions passed, along with another three months before a jury was finally gleaned and selected for approval by the prosecution and defense. I sat in the courtroom next to my attorney, Walter (aka. White Bear) Gibbons, on one side and across the room at a table on our left, the Prosecutor’s team, a effeminate young man dressed immaculate in suit with a bright pink tie and one anorexic looking women in a knee length grey skirt and cadmium red silk blouse, led by Assistant DA, Amanda Barron.

Everyone from a truck driver, cocktail waitress, and aerospace engineer were selected; a jury of my peers. Peers, what a joke… cocktail waitress, sure… but not one graveyard cab driver. The prosecution seemed determined to keep Viet Nam Vets off the jury but Gibbons manage to get three. That’s what took so long since PTSD was part of the case for the insanity plea. I didn’t believe in PTSD as a defense but that didn’t mean I didn’t believe in it. Hell, what do I know?

The opening statements were by Assistant District Attorney, Amanda Barron… Amanda Barron! Hell, I’d taken her home several times in my cab and had thrown down a couple of Jack Daniel’s with her at Pascual’s. She was a bit thicker in frame then… standing almost six-foot-tall and had shoulder length brown hair. I didn’t know she was a D.A. I figured she was a cop though. We didn’t talk shop. She was a devoted Celtics fan and knew more about the professional basketball than any man. My knowledge of sports was nil except for baseball when Willy Mays played for the Giants… I knew absolutely nothing about the NBA but went along and pretended I did. 

She wore a gray pinstripe business suit that first day. Her slacks were slightly stretched full-wrapped around a nice looking... inviting... not large but... a good sized tush. Her short-cropped blonde hair was slightly disheveled as though she’s just rushed over to the courthouse from a cozy bed fifteen minutes before. I fantasized about who it was she’s been in bed with… hmmm a female? … Imagined myself squeezed in between her and her companion. Yep, I knew she’s a dyke alright but that didn’t stop me from thinking of that warm booty in my bed. She did not look me in the eye.

I whispered in Gibbon’s ear, “Doesn’t she have to recuse herself or something? We know each other for Christ sakes.”

Gibbons was stoic in his answer, “We have our reasons. We want her on the that side if we need an appeal.”

The Bailiff stood with his belly hanging over his belt revealing twenty years of kissing ass to achieve this high mark of accomplishment, “All rise. The Santa Barbara Superior Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Robert Caccini presiding.”

“You may be seated. The Bailiff will call the day’s docket.”

“Your Honor, today’s case is The People of the State of California vs David Craszhinski.”

“The prosecution will begin the trial with the Opening Statement.”

 “May it please the court and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Assistant District Attorney, Amanda Barron, counsel for the State of California in this action. We will prove that, on November 20^th of 1987 the defendant, David Kraszhinski, committed the crime of grand theft of a motor vehicle, the Mzz Sherlock, owned by his friend, Santa Barbara Police Detective, Sean Ryan. Ms. Anadel Bonnaire will testify that Mr. Kraszhinski lured her onto the boat, abducted her and held her against her will at Lady’s Harbor on Santa Cruz Island. She will further testify that Mr. Kraszhinski raped her repeatedly while mentally and physically abusing her. On November 23^rd 1987 Doctor Lawrence Spawnn will testify that Robert Casey informed him, that he saw the Sherlock sailing towards Santa Cruz Island. Dr. Spawn took his boat The Doctor’s Dream with unarmed deck hands, Raphael Alvarez and Donald Risner out to seek out the Mzz Sherlock and return her to Detective Ryan. Mr. Kraszhinski, an Army Counter Intelligence and Psychological Warfare expert during the Viet Nam War, killed Mr. Alvarez with a Mac 10 machine pistol.”

The prosecutor held up pictures on matt board. “I ask the court to accept this picture of the Sherlock as exhibit A., a picture of a Mac 10 machine pistol as exhibit B, and of Raphael Alvarez, as exhibit C.” She placed the picture of Raphael, his wife, and three children, with the others on a display easel facing the jury.

Donald Risner will testify that he swam to safety and was stranded on the island in foul weather for three days and nights before he was found by hikers, dehydrated, and near death. Doctor Spawn will testify that Mr. Kraszhinski held Ms. Bonnaire and himself hostage. At Avila Beach, he met Robert Casey, a friend and fellow Viet Nam Veteran. Dr. Spawnn will testify that David Craszhinski sold Casey a bill of goods, saying they were being pursued by Russian Mobsters or KGB. It will be shown that Ms. Bonnaire did not use this opportunity to escape because Mr. Kraszhinski was trained by the US Army in Counter Intelligence and skilled at brainwashing his… uh, subjects. And that decorated Vietnam Veteran Robert Casey helped David Kraszhinski sink the Doctor’s Dream. Please accept this picture as exhibit C.”

She held up an older picture of the Doctor’s Dream on a trailer with the good doctor and wife Rachel in front of it. Placing it with the others on an easel she continued, “They sailed for San Francisco Bay on Robert Casey’s boat, the Dinky Dao, December 3^rd. If it pleases the court, accept this picture as exhibit D.” Another picture of the Dinky Dao, when she was brand new, before Casey bought her was added to the easel. “Mr. Casey will testify that, at Loch Lomond Marina, Mr. Kraszhinski was so manipulative that he convinced another friend, Gabriel Mendoza, of the same story about Russian Mobsters.

Anadel Bonaire will testify that Mr. Casey and Mr. Mendoza, in order to rescue her, convinced Mr. Kraszhinski to split forces against his imaginary enemy. Dr. Spawnn will testify he had been given LSD against his will and brainwashed to believe he too was being pursued and fled with Mr. Kraszhinski to Mr. Mendoza’s trailer at another location in the Sacramento Delta. It was there that Mr. Kraszhinski shot and killed the brothers Raymond Gutierrez, and Leonardo Gutierrez, while they were tending Crayfish traps at Prospect slew. Please, I ask the court to accept this as exhibit E.” She lifted the Bullpup rifle and paraded it back and forth in front of the jury box as she spoke. She returned with dramatic flair to pick up a picture of two middle aged men in suits looking nothing like crayfish trappers, “If it pleases the court, accept these as exhibit E.”

“Doctor Spawnn will testify that the defendant further tortured him while on the Mr. Casey’s craft to perform surgery to extract a 9mm round from this automatic pistol. It was then that Mr. Kraszhinski brutally assaulted Yuri Chernayevsky with a pipe-wrench and murdered with this 9mm Browning automatic pistol,” She held my Browning up to be appraised by the jury. “Please accept this as exhibit F.”

She paused for dramatic effect and after a pin could be heard to drop in the hallway outside of the courtroom, “And furthermore, the defendant murdered his longtime friend and Vietnam War veteran that had earned two bronze stars and a purple heart.”

“In conclusion, the jury must decide what is to be made of this crime spree. The defense will try to convince you that the possibility that there was a plot by the Russian Mob, the Bratva to harm or kill Dr. Spawnn and Ms. Bonnaire. Failing to prove that, they will make one more desperate ploy to convince you that Mr. Kraszhinski suffers PTSD and was unable to distinguish right from wrong or that he believed his delusion and thought he was doing the right thing by murdering and maiming, drugging, kidnapping, committing grand theft of three and sinking two, boats and, most the most egregious of the crimes, raping his victim, Anadel Bonnaire. If the jury could have seen Ms. Bonnaire on the day she was rescued, you would be crying for justice.” She placed another foam board on the easel with several discretely cropped pictures of Anna nude body parts scratched, smeared with mud, and bleeding. “Please accept these photos as exhibit G. While Mr. Kraszhinski might be mentally impaired but his total lack of remorse exhibits a typical sociopathic or psychopathic profile that cannot be tolerated in a civilized country. The full weight of the law ought to fall heavy on the head of this fiend and, if ever there was a case for the death penalty, this is that case.”

Th audience burst out in cheers and applause. The judge hammered the gavel until it was quiet enough for all to hear him bellow, “This court will not tolerate such outburst and I swear by God, that I will empty the courtroom for the duration of the trial if there is another such display of disrespect for my court.”

Chapter 39. Greasing-up for Thermopylae

If it can be called a living room, I slept on its floor. The rug needed a vacuum job and shampoo. Every allergy imagined had been living in its fibers for years and I inhaled them all that night. We’d been at the card table ‘til after midnight planning tactics. Anna knew the turf and Ralph had the connections from his drug dealing days to acquire guns and he had transportation. Anna’s plans required little more from me than muscle but I threw in some detail here and there that she had missed. Field expediency was what I was best at. Just tell me where to go and I’ll figure out how to get there. We had but one common goal and that was to take out Smerdyakov. I was with Anna 100% on that. It was do and die for us but for Ralph, neither of us wanted him to be a sacrificial lamb.

I fell asleep to the sounds of moaning coming from the bedroom. It was nice to know the fervor of youth had time for both action and pleasure.

 Ralph was gone when I awoke to the fragrance of bacon frying. Anna was at the range stretching to reach items from the cupboards and bending for the fridge wearing nothing under a long tee shirt. I would be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that it was one of the most erotic visions I ever awoke to. I watched her for a good ten minutes before she noted my presence, “Good morning sleeping beauty. Ralph is out running errands”

I sneezed, “What time is it?”

“Bless you. Eleven… ish. I don’t have a watch. Ralph has no clocks.” She read my frown, “He’s out getting time pieces and gear for the ops. Make-up kit for me and, hopefully something in the lines of weapons for us.”

“I said it last night and I mean it. Weapons aren’t a setback.” Sneezing again, I got up and pulled on the jeans Ralph laid out for me.

"Bless you again," Anna’s eyes were on my crotch. She laughed, “Nice woody. I can’t help but compare.”

“Yeah, I heard. It ain’t the meat, it’s the motion.”

She giggled, “But, if the meat matches the motion it ruins it for any other man.”

“His rep precedes him, Anna, dammit, I feel real uncomfortable talking genital size with a girl that could be my daughter.”

“Sorry, I just had to have a good look at where I came from, you know.” She went back to cooking. “Get a shower and shave, Dad, I’ll have breakfast for us by the time you’re done.”

The table was set with paper plates and plastic utensils but I was so famished, it might as well have been brunch at the Biltmore. By the time I was done with my douche, Ralph was seated and wolfing down a stack of pancakes. Pieces of which fell from his mouth to the plate as he said, “I gots Anna a make-up kit and two wigs to choose from, a tack knife… old Marine K-bar… and an old 1911 Colt .45… serial numbers filed off…  but I couldn’t get all of us something.”

“Weapons and Tactics. I already said it last night. Anna is a weapon and tactic… a .45’s too much for her. I don’t need it either. Guess that’s for you, Ralph, on the perimeter… Too loud except for last minute shit.”

“Agreed. We hadn’t discussed weapons last night but I just need a small blade and guitar string. Ralph, you have that?” She sat with us. The scene was so domestic, like a typical family getting ready to set out for the day to their jobs and classes.

Ralph, scooping up the droppings soaked in syrup that had fallen on his plate from his mouth, slurped, “Yuh, sure. But don’t take a new one. I gots old ones in that drawer.”

Spoken like a true musician… gotta have good strings.

After Ralph mopped up his plate with toast he leaned back on the chair, “Say, I can’t figure. I mean, there’s just this one Smurdy-Smurfy Russian guy. Then there’s your buddy… that Cop and Dog guy. Why can’t they just let us in? Or, why can’t they take care of this turd without us?”

I let Anna explain because, if the truth was known to me, I didn’t know either. She started out saying, “Smerdyakov, he’s coming to the Mansion to make a deal with Baker.”

“You mean that Dog guy.”

“Yes, and that deal is for Smerdyakov to get out of the country. He has been a CIA asset for years. He will get a free pass. I know. Baker is our friend if he can be a friend to anyone but, so far, he’s used us to whittle down Smerdyakov’s forces. There’s no telling how much he’ll help us if the Russian’s still an asset.”

“And the cop?”

“Look, Baker has an army and so does Smerdyakov. The deal is being made. Ryan wasn’t in on it but he’s there as part of a criminal investigation; i.e., evidence precedes action. Baker was either going to get Smerdyakov with my help… or it might be the other way around. He might just as well protect him against me. But either way, our action requires no more evidence… proven or not.”

‘How can I tell who to shoot and who not to shoot?”

“Good question Ralphie,” I said, “That’s why you’re outside covering us and I’m going in with Anna to cover her. She’s the motherfucker in this operation. Right, Anna?”

She smiled. “You guys clean up and I’ll get myself looking pretty for Thermopylae." 
   I wanted to kiss her. I could see she was ready for action and we knew where and what we were about to do.

“Therma-what?” However, Ralph was clueless.

“It’s a Greek thing. Grease-up and get ready for battle.”

Anna shouted from the bathroom, “Try going to the real Library now and then, Ralphy. The one with books, not the bar.”

Ralph drew a hit from his bong and coughed, “I’ll… uh, wait for the movie.”