One in a Million

Another election cycle soon will be upon us. As usual, in all the debate no serious discussion will arise concerning seventy years of Marijuana Prohibition. Is there no one embarrassed by the deafening silence of the American people?

One in a Million

by

William W. Wraith

 

Gordon Kasket, just home from a stint washing dishes for some extra cash, now sat soothing his muscles in a steaming hot bath.  This was his special place for brainstorming.  A college senior and regular on the dean's list, tonight he puzzled over a new project.

      His professor had told the class, "Your assignment is to write about a current event, something occurring over the past few years.  Share with us the world's untold stories."

      Gordon had submerged himself in these words, and the intensity of his thinking grew as the hot water became warm and then downright chilly.  It occurred to him the most important stories were those that had been ongoing for generations, yet were so "current" they had the steady attention of millions of people.

      Gordon thought about the issue of civil rights, and recalled how from an Alabama jail cell in 1963 Martin Luther King had said, "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter."

      What mattered so much today?

      Gordon also considered the ongoing conflict in the Middle East that began in earnest the day Israel declared independence in 1948.  Who didn't think the whole world would be better off if a path to peace were uncovered?

      Here were two events now ongoing for generations, both currently considered among the most crucial issues of our time, both affecting millions of people all across the world.

      But they were hardly untold stories.  Where, Gordon wondered, was a story generations in the making, devastating to millions, and yet untold.  Experience informed him he'd find what he wanted right under his nose, if he just thought hard enough.

      Gordon's concentration was broken when he heard some commotion outside the bathroom window, but he paid little attention, ascribing it to the wind.

      Then there came a pounding on the front door, and a yelling that penetrated the walls.  "Police, open up."  Gordon's mother, Marge, a lupus patient, was down in bed with a flare-up, so Gordon grabbed a towel and had one foot out of the tub when he heard the front door ripped right off its hinges.  He stood frozen in place, dripping on the rug, as black-clad armored DEA riflemen burst into the bathroom pointing M-16s at his naked chest.

      They found Gordon's four marijuana plants growing under lights in the spare bedroom.  They threatened to arrest Marge, too, but eventually decided Gordon was prize enough.  They'd sprawled him out naked on the bathroom floor, cuffed his hands behind his back, crammed him still wet into some holey sweatpants, perp walked him out before his gathering neighbors and shoved him inside the black-and-white unit.

      His mother's plaintive cries as they dragged him away haunted Gordon on the ride downtown and throughout the booking process.

      He'd spent that night and next day in jail.  Gordon had no assets and the judge assigned him a public defender, one Bill Boggs, who helped Marge put up her house to make his bail.

      Then for several weeks, life went on for Gordon and Marge as though all of this had been a grotesque nightmare.  They jumped whenever a knock came on the door and feared for their lives whenever they saw police or guns, even on TV.

      At last came the day of arraignment.  Marge and Gordon were shown to a small room within the courthouse and soon Mr. Boggs joined them.

      "Boggs said, "OK, this is really a slam-dunk, kid.  We see lots of cases like yours."

      "A million arrests a year this decade," said Gordon, always ready with facts where others might settle for generalities.

      "Yeah, that sounds about right," said Boggs.  "You're one in a million.  So take my word for it.  We know how to handle cases like yours.  Now when we go in the prosecutor is going to charge you with simple possession and abuse, possession with intent to distribute, growing a prohibited dangerous substance…"

      "All true, but there's no danger about it, and no abuse.  No more than a bottle of wine is dangerous or abused."

      "Not what the law says, kid."

      "By the way, my name's Gordon Kasket," he reminded the lawyer, extending his hand.

      Boggs looked at it.  "Gordon, yes.  Please understand, the court's swamped, I'm swamped, we have to move dozens of cases a day.  We don't get much time for names around here.  You're a docket number.  Wouldn't be surprised if one day soon we begin stamping the number on prisoners' foreheads.  Anything to speed the process."

      Marge now wept quietly into her floral hanky.  Gordon held her forearm.  Boggs drummed his Mont Blanc pen on the table.  Time, and therefore money, was awasting.

      "Tell me, Mr. Boggs, why did the police pick on us?"

      "That's easy.  They picked up one of your friends, charged him with a felony, and then dropped it to a misdemeanor when he gave up a name.  You were ratted out, kid.

      "But that's immaterial now.  You're in the legal system and what's most important is gaming the system.  So when we go in there you're going to look contrite and plead innocent."

      "But isn't contrition an admission of guilt?  Of course, I did grow the plants and I like nothing better than a good joint.  But since I'm innocent of any wrongdoing…."

      "Kid, you're all wrong.  You can't be both guilty and innocent.  You need to choose one.  But don't worry, first you're going to plead innocent; and look very, very contrite.  Then I'm going to work the district attorney for the best deal possible before you plead guilty.  You start out looking at five to twenty years.  But by the time I get through, we'll get them down to six months in county jail and three years probation, tops.  Oh, and you'll lose your driver's license."

      "But that doesn't make sense.  I wasn't driving when they arrested me."

      "We're talking about the justice system here.  Sense has nothing to do with it."

      "What if I just tell the truth?"

      Boggs esquire's eyes swelled in their sockets.  "You can't tell the truth."

      "Why not?"

      "The truth is suicide.  You'll be sent off to prison and buggered from day one."

      "Buggered?"

      "Oh, kid, you're so innocent.  Not only prison; they might seize your assets."

      "I don't have any assets."

      "Well, the plants were growing in your mother's house.  They could seize it, even if they never bother to charge you."  Hearing this, even Marge wondered whether lying might be good in this case, though it was against her long held principle never to lie.

      It was during this meeting that Gordon Kasket got an idea for his class essay.  He discovered this was the 70^th anniversary of marijuana Prohibition, and the official 35^th anniversary of the War on Drugs.  Gordon thought he would rightly upbraid these milestones of madness.  During the run-up to his trial date, inspired as never before, he set words to page.

      When his professor read his paper, he wept with laughter at the absurdity of Gordon's reasoning, and with sorrow at the certain outcome of such brashness.

      Finally, let's-make-a-deal day came for Gordon, and down to the courthouse he went with his mother, where Boggs met them outside the courtroom door.

      "It's all set kid.  Now, when you get in there, sit up straight and look contrite.  Very contrite.  On my signal, you stand up and say 'Guilty.'  See if you can shed a couple tears when you do.  And it'd really be great if you could choke up a little too.  Make the judge feel good about the light sentence he's going to give you.  And don't forget:  say nothing else.  Not a peep."

      At the appointed hour, Boggs led Gordon and Marge into the courtroom.  There they sat for the longest time as one prisoner after another was paraded before bleary-eyed Judge Broomhead.  Each without exception pleaded guilty, bowed their heads in admission of grave wrongdoing and then, like cowering dogs, dragged their defeated tails all the way out the door.

      At the other end of the process, behind Gordon now, a never-ending stream of alleged criminals entered the room to begin their promenade toward justice and everlasting guilt.  Gordon couldn't help thinking hell must look like this, excepting for the ubiquitous brown woodwork.

      Gordon's turn came at last.  He and Boggs sat at the table before the bench.  Marge sat among the rows of spectators just behind them, hanky at the ready.  She wept a little as the district attorney read the charges with the shrill voice of accusation.

      "How do you plead, Mr. Kasket?" said Judge Broomhead.

      Mr. Boggs gave the prearranged signal and Gordon rose.  Much to Boggs' consternation, Gordon opened his mouth and out tumbled, "I'm not sure, Your Honor."

      The judge sat up a little.  "Hasn't your attorney briefed you?"

      Boggs, his reputation on the line, stood and in a too loud whisper said to Gordon, "Guilty.  Say 'guilty.'"

      "Yes, Your Honor, Mr. Boggs seems a very fine man, but he has been much too busy to answer all the questions I have about my case.  So I just thought I'd tell you the truth."

      The crowd gave a collective gasp.  The judge sat straight up, picked up his gavel and pounded for order in the court.  "Quiet."  He turned his full attention on the defendant for the first time, looked him up and down.  No one in recent times had made such a foolhardy suggestion in his court.  "What did you say, young man?"

      "I'd like to tell the court the truth, Your Honor."  Again, the gavel came down to quell the excited babble filling the awakened courtroom.

      "Are you saying you're going to throw yourself on the mercy of this court Mr. Kasket?"

      "Well, I'm already at the mercy of the court.  Besides, my mother taught me never to lie, and her advice has thus far served me well."

      The judge said, "Kid, even mothers are wrong sometimes."  The whole room could hear Marge sobbing.  "Now why don't you just enter the plea your attorney has advised and we can get on with this."

      "But an admission of guilt, when I haven't done any harm to anyone, would perpetuate a lie, Your Honor."

      "Then you wish to enter a plea of not guilty?"

      "No.  That doesn't seem logical.  The law insists marijuana is a dangerous substance with no redeeming value, and sets draconian penalties.  So, while what I've done is against the letter of the law, the law is clearly wrongheaded and mean-spirited."

      At this, some prisoners awaiting their turns broke into cheers.  The rankled judge's hawkish stare threatened to have them for lunch.  Their attorneys shook their fingers and rolled their eyes at their clients in hopes of shutting them up.

      "The law 'wrongheaded'?"  The judge smiled.  A muted laugh escaped him.  He could not think the last time someone had told the truth in his courtroom.  He would believe it when he heard it.  He was certain this young man was weaving an audacious lie.  "Tell me more."

      "Well, Your Honor, when I was in high school I used to get drunk on the weekends.  Lord knows how I got home some nights.  Then I discovered marijuana, and never had another reason to ingest vile alcohol.  Pot is a far superior drug, Your Honor, and I think it should be legal and regulated, so that I and my friends won't be forced onto the black market where they sell heroin, meth and…"

      "Oh, you don't like those?"

      "No sir, they are debilitating.  Though they should certainly be decriminalized, and we Americans would do well to look at how Britain and the Netherlands handle these substances, as health concerns, not criminal concerns.  Do you know why we don't seek advice from more level-headed peoples, Your Honor?"

      "Tell me."

      "I really don't know.  I thought you might, seeing that you make a living handling the casualties of the Drug War.  Let me say that I hope all defendants from this day forward will tell you the truth:  that they stop saying they're sorry for their pot smoking, that they stop blaming drugs for their crimes.  All that is malarkey, Your Honor, and they should be ashamed of themselves for not taking responsibility for their actions, for giving marijuana a bad name."

      By now, the halls overflowed with alleged criminals, as the conveyer belt bringing them forth was not slowed even a smidgen by Gordon's arguments.  Judge Broomhead knew he had to get on with business as usual, if he were ever to return to his chambers and the spot of gin he now desired so.  "Mr. Kasket, are you guilty of growing marijuana, and did you smoke marijuana?"

      "Of course.  I thought I was perfectly clear abou…"

      The gavel fell and silence with it.  "Then I have no choice but to find you guilty as charged.  The circumstances are aggravated in that your testimony today will give American children wrong ideas when they hear of it.

      "Due to your clear lack of contrition, Mr. Kasket, and especially because of the needs of the Prison Guard's Association, the Needy Lawyers and Cops Association, and so many others who benefit from the Drug War, I sentence you to twenty years forced penitence.  Take him away."

      Two cops came forward.  Gordon Kasket, confused at the abrupt finish of his case, exchanged anguished looks with his red-eyed mother.  The next prisoner was being called forward even as the cops, one on each arm, led him toward the exit.  He was angry now, and yelled over his shoulder at the judge, "This court is the most dangerous aspect of smoking marijuana."  His voice echoed in the court just a moment more before the door closed on Gordon's life.

 

***

 

Eight years have passed since the court established Gordon's guilt.  He now spends his prison days avoiding his enemies and sticking close by his friends, from whom he learns the wonders of burglary, handling stolen goods, and other ways of making a living on the outside.

      At night, he sleeps lightly and fends off recurring nightmares.  That his mother was wrong in telling him truth always wins out, was a nightmare.  That he had failed to look up the word "bugger" when he'd first heard Boggs mention it, was a nightmare.

      Having listened to his loving mother, while having ignored the advice of his lawyer—this striking combination of mistakes—ate at his heart and made him dangerously angry.

      But never mind.  Long hard experience is the only teacher of some truths.  Gordon's every day is a lesson in the meaning of American justice.

      One day soon, he'll be set free.  Free to teach others what he has learnt.

 

Reviews

[E. A. Slayton]

I'm sorry. I failed to give this a view. I just shelved it and hopped offline.

I don't have much to say as far as mechanics or style. But the story was awesome.
It made me think a while- about how they can sentence a man convicted of possesion with intent to distribute or "production" to a longer prison sentence than a rapist (in some states.)

I also thought long and hard about the idea that the biggest danger in smoking is not the herb and what it does physically, but the legal reprocussions that getting caught may entail.

I was popped for possesion once, as a minor. It was a slap on the wrist nd drug classes for two months. I grew up around it and never thought anything of it tll i smoked with my mom.

Anyway, you did I good job with the current event- ppl for pot vs the government.

did you submit it to the contest??
Someday, the people will win. Someday.