When two lives collide, p.31
When Two Lives Collide, page 31
Reports suggested that Harry’s lawyer wept after the verdicts were handed down. “I’m speechless……there is just no evidence of guilt. It makes no sense,” he explained to the gathered hordes of reporters.
So there it was. Harry’s future was soon to be under the control of courts. Just before Christmas, another short note arrived. This time there was copy of a well-constructed letter dated December 1993 to Hon Janet Reno, Attorney General of the United States of America, suggesting the sentences be dropped—this was of course never answered by M/s Reno.
Not a word, nothing. So Harry went to the sentencing hearing in March 1994 with no letters of reference or no one speaking up for my lonely friend. Although Harry had the lesser sentence of the four lawyers convicted, he still received two years in a federal prison and two years’ probation. A court reporter suggesting that Harry’s reduced sentence was based on him now being sixty six.
Back in London, my life was now moving along comfortably, making a reasonable living with a settled relationship. Still confused by Harry’s situation, I felt duty bound to try and bring some cheer to my dear friend. With this in mind, during the Christmas New Year break, I penned a lengthy letter to Harry. This in an attempt to bring a semblance of normality into his life.
His reply said it all.
January 1995 New Year
One ship sails east
One ship sails west
With the self-same wind that blows
Tis the set of the sail and not the gale,
That determines the way to go…
Hi Mike,
What a great year this has been, almost as good a year as last! Wow.
Thank you for your cheery Happy New Year greeting.
I’m trying to get admitted to a federal playground, but the order has been on the judge’s desk for a month. I’m the only one who can’t get in to prison. My appeal is good, but the judge should have directed a verdict of not guilty. So what the hell. I may as well go in and start doing my 24 months.
Best always
Harry
In June 1995, Harry unable to stand the stress, waiting to start his sentence, he made a formal request to start his incarceration. His first stop being a federal prison camp in Pensacola. Not the open prison he had talked about. His hope, this was only a stepping stone to a more acceptable prison. We continued to write to each other. My letter’s enclosing various stories, albeit in draft form. Also excerpts from two screen plays I was working on. My letters to Harry made him a popular figure with those who missed light-hearted banter. My letters and stories coming from England, making Harry an even more fascinating inmate to other prisoners.
In September 1995, Harry got his wish and was moved to a completely open prison in Talladega, Alabama. There was an immediate change in the style of his letters. At last, I sensed that my friend was obtaining some benefit from his stay inside. In November 1995, I confirmed that I would be visiting him in Talladega over the Christmas period. Before leaving the UK, I received the following note.
Merry Christmas 1995
I hope this greeting finds you in good health, happy, with all of your bills and obligations paid. I have an all expense trip to an all-male monastery together with a fine group of fellow AMERICAN MONKS who have been plucked from society and given a wonderful opportunity for a better way of life and an opportunity to truly reflect on life and on our government. I’ve been here 8 months (obviously not helping with counting the months) and can already see a great change in my way of life and in my thinking.
Kindest personal regards
Harry
Chapter 26
The warden threw a party at the county jail,
The prison band was there an’ began to wail.
The brass band was jumpin’ an’ the joint began to swing,
You should have heard those knocked out jailbirds sing.
I arrived in Long Boat Key in December 1995 for two weeks of Florida sunshine. Big mistake. Freezing temperatures had sent poorly clothed tourists seeking out balaclavas, scarves and gloves, in fact, anything to fend off the freezing bones. Before leaving Florida to see my dear friend, I had been lectured over several glasses of frozen weak Floridian beer by a well-meaning ‘Wasp’. His discourse on how to translate colloquial Alabamian into English. Such Ivy League arrogance was worth indulging, so I frittered away the best part of an hour together with other fascinated drinkers at The Mermaid Bar. Our amusement levels increased as we listened to an expensively educated oaf digging himself into a socially discordant pit.
“One must of course recognise the differences in culture even nine hundred miles of changing topography can bring,” he knowledgeably proffered. “Sad thing is, those poor devils have never quite assimilated to life in the modern world. Shade any reply with scepticism and keep one’s car windows firmly shut,” he arrogantly continued.
It was clear the natives of Alabama were conversant only with sign language lived in mud huts and dragged their women behind them as prehistoric cave dwellers. By the time I left his lecture, on the bad lands of deep Confederate Territory, I was beginning to find sympathy with the gun lobbyists on Capitol Hill.
My flight from Sarasota deposited me in no time at Atlanta International, straight into the arms of those caring people from Alamo Rentals. As quickly as they could extract penance from my now fragile American Express card, I was aimed into the vast parking lot, space#245. There a sparkling brown Oldsmobile wearing Virginia plates was awaiting my pleasure.
Atlanta had changed. Now a wonderment of man’s ability to waste copious quantities of ill-gotten gains. All to promote a fatuous Greek Olympian festivals for the benefit of ‘teaching the world to sing’ drinks companies, along with ‘masterful’ international credit cards.
My drive west across the Georgia state line was a refreshing delight. Leaving behind Atlanta with its stranglehold of white supremacists and its endless building sites for the forthcoming Olympics. Also I’d escaped disappointed Floridian sun seekers, still searching for balaclavas and mittens to fend off the unexpected ice age. Attitude towards time, distance and other problems besetting the world appeared lost on these Alabama folk.
Having just exited Interstate 20, I’d forgotten the pearls of wisdom my bar room travel expert had delivered. Innocently, I breezed into a timber shack, passing itself off as a road side grocery store to inquire the shortest way to the Cheaha Mountain Lodge. Now according to my Rand McNally Alabama State map, it was close by. Even in the fading light, surely it must be visible, maybe just five miles distant up there midst the ravaged pines.
“Honey that’s a great little place—if it wasn’t for that there hill yuh could see the Lodge,” A rosy-cheeked ball of fun eased my Rand McNally away, staring at the open pages. I was minded of the old time Cockney music hall song by Edgar Bateman and George Le Brunn:
Wiv a ladder and some glasses,
You could see to ’Ackney Marshes,
If it wasn’t for the ’ouses in between.
“Now you just track on down 21.It ain’t far, just a short step, hang left by the post office, yuh come to a junction, sorta gotta turn right or left, know wot I mean,” she rambled on.
I nodded as though my knowledge of Klingon had previously awarded me a Trekie badge of honour for translation services to an emerging nation.
“S’ very simple honey, yuh just make a left, and the road goes all the way up to the Lodge. Do yuh need some gas, candy, cigarettes?”
I suppose I should have heeded this inquiry regarding the need for provisions with greater concern, did she know something I didn’t. A parallel with Southern Ireland was thrust upon me. Time and distance having little relevance in their twentieth century lives. Once, whilst coaxing a horse-drawn gypsy caravan across County Wicklow, in Southern Ireland, with three young children in various manic states and a disdainfully misplaced wife, I stopped to ask a smiling old farmer the directions to the Flaherty’s farm; which was destined to be our camp site for the night.
“Well you see,” offered the red-faced farmer, “it’s as far as old harse’ll take you.”
I was no wiser as to the location and distance to Flaherty’s farm. Left with a complete suspension of relativity and dismissed of any concern regarding other external influences.
It is here that I can offer the benefit of my worldly education. Hereby, allowing me the ability, in an instant, to translate freely Celtic and now Alabamian logic into a 20th century lexicon.
“A short step down the 21”—seven miles.
“Hang left by the post office then you come to a junction”—An indiscernible building which on the side facing from the road was secured a 12“x12” faded grey plastic plate, indicating the flat roof shack had once been the property of the US Postal Service. By now, you will have guessed the junction was nearly two miles distant.
“Make a left and the road goes all the way to the Lodge”—seventeen miles through terrain set aside for the next Trans-Siberian Rally. The only sign of previous human existence being a burnt out redneck church and hill top Civil War burial ground bedecked with faded plastic flowers.
Having spent a night high into the red neck hills, I was keen to make my way to Talladega. As I approached the town, it was time to seek out another rosy checked ‘geography student’.
“Suh I knows where ’tis sur. Now hell let me see yu’s new to these parts, tell yuh wat we’ll do.” Her gold teeth glinted from behind and just above the counter at the fifties style Texaco gas station. Liza, a jolly black dwarf, was pleased to break from the drudgery of pumping gas and stashing fuel sodden dollar bills into an aging cash dispenser to help a forlorn traveller.
“Now yuh listen up good,” she ordered. “Jus’ go right on down here, that’s East Battle and yuh comes to a signal. Now yuh gonna hang left just a spell down the 231, then yu’ll see the deaf and dumb school. Just hang’a right there......yeh it’s just no distance.”
To those of us, proficient in geographical accuracy and conversant with those well-defined RAC travel plans—“best way to get from Bridlington to Lower Froyle without criss-crossing London, maps”—if there was time, I would explain the minor differences I have observed when interpreting Alabamian directions.
It was therefore with some trepidation, I set forth to follow Liza’s enthusiastic instructions. Fully expecting to cross the State line into Mississippi before finding Talladega County Detention Centre—Harry’s current home.
Talladega prison was not what I had expected. For I had followed Liza’s instructions to the letter; passing the deaf school, then heading out into the open country. Talladega boasted two federal prisons. One, where my friend was incarcerated. A splendid modern edifice with no cells or guarded walls. Most inmates serving short terms stays for fraud and offences that were hardly life threatening to the populace. A short distance across the open countryside, the other prison was a more daunting establishment. This high security establishment housed every sinister son of bitch the Alabama State authorities could place their hands on—including General Noriago.
I queued along with mums, dads, girlfriends, wives and selection of screaming brats. Most of the women folk had sussed the security system. Rather than tip out the complete contents of their purses, everyone carried transparent little numbers. Accessories now sold in fashion boutiques in Paris, London and Rome.
There he was, looking healthier than I’d seen him in a long time. Self-consciously we hugged; again I saw tears in my old friend’s eyes. I had been Harry’s only visitor to drop by since he was first imprisoned, some fifteen months earlier. We talked for several hours like the close friends we’d become. As we talked, his eyes hardly left mine, as though his way of holding me from saying my farewell.
I came back again the next day. By now, we’d exhausted most of our thoughts. In fact, all that remained was a solemn promise for me to come back as soon as he was safely back in Miami. As I drove away from Talladega, I reflected on the temerity of a system that ensnares unworthy subjects, thus ensuring faceless politicians achieve meaningless trophies.
It was eighteen months before I saw Harry again. I was on a business trip to Miami determined to surprise my dear friend by arriving unannounced. There he was, sitting by the pool at his old clapboard house on 122nd Street. The once verdant tropical vegetation long gone killed off by insensitive tenants. Billy was still tidying the yard; sweat still washing his friendly face. Harry had served his time at the obligatory Dickensian halfway house; a painful introduction to freedom still operated in most States. Harry had spent several weeks of social and humane depravation in the Cuban quarter of Hialeah. Not the place for an old Southern boy with limited patience for blue-collared Latinos. Eventually, he was freed and permitted back to his own bed, albeit under a form of curfew.
But there was more to come. For Harry had to suffer further bondage, ensnaring his partially-liberated life. His unsympathetic parole officer had imposed restrictive movement covenants. But this shaded into insignificance to other events now affecting his life. Part of Harry’s lung had been removed. ‘Big C’ had taken its toll; Uncle Sam had failed to kill his spirit, the confines of parole had not dimmed his intense belief in life. But God was already telling my dear friend, he was soon to be called home.
Again our lives moved along on different sides of the Atlantic. His attempting to come to terms with the humility he felt following his incarceration. Mine now established in London, busily living a façade having re-joined the business community. Our written communication was regular, if not growing somewhat unusual in its content.
I became certain I was the only person who received regular ‘pen-pal’ letters. Harry would write me with plans for us to open a guesthouse in Costa Rica. To sell replica Spanish gold coins rescued from an obscure vessel off The Keys. The ideas kept coming. But at least I hoped this was proof I needed that my friend was still alert and not feeding on the depression I had tasted during our last encounter.
But it was not Harry who slipped in the depths of depression. It was me who fell into a state of despair. In March 1998, I somehow appeared at 122nd Street, having apparently arrived via Chicago and Tampa, seeking solace with my old friend. Harry didn’t offer sympathy just a practical common sense solution.
“Just give me your car keys, wallet and passport Mike, sit here a spell and let’s get you into hospital. Got insurance?”
Even in the throes of a potential life-threatening emergency, my friend was thinking logically. For my medical insurance had long since lapsed, everything was down to pay up or suffer. Appointments were made for me to see the best man at Mount Sinai on Miami Beach. For sure, if it was good enough for the rich Jewish population, then Harry was convinced they could sure resolve my problems. So I did the only thing any brave Englishman would do. I found my keys, wallet and passport and moved on. Several years earlier, I had been given the keys to Harry’s apartment in Key West. So here was the opportunity to make use of them. Harry said nothing. He knew I’d call when I was ready.
The cast of characters at Chateau Harry had been forced to change by circumstance. Hurricane Andrew had its evil way with John’s quarters. Fortunately, John was up-State at the time. A crashing avocado tree shattering his garden shed home. What remained of John’s splintered home, being deposited on the roadside, for hurricane clear up teams to remove. John never returned. For John stood in his worldly belongings. Not another word was heard from John. Harry collected insurance on the one bed-roomed ‘doll’s house’. I guess everyone was happy.
Harry had decided to take over my old storeroom, converting it to his quarters. Our Dutch air stewardess had made alternative arrangements. Harry’s old bedroom lay empty for some time, apart from my occasional visits. And so life went on. Harry slept for three hours each night. Driving early each morning to his AA meeting via The Farmstores. There he would spend time with others, seeking some form of solace amongst equally lost souls.
The last letter I received from Harry before his health and in particular his mind deteriorated was shortly before the new millennium and undated.
Dear Mike
Thank you for your last letter. It was indeed a pleasure to hear from you.
I’m glad you’re doing well, but I thought you were in the business of selling a cure for the Y2K. Whatever happened to that.
I still have your autographed copy of Purkiss and waiting for the second edition of Harry. Ha! I am in the business of cleaning up my house to sell. It is heart breaking, but it must be done. You can find me Key West.
Of course I miss you. You are the only one that came to see me in prison, and I really appreciate it. My son and I are getting along quite well.
Good luck in your new ventures, and may God be with you
Best regards
Harry
Harry’s son had always considered my relationship with his rejected father incomprehensible. Thankfully, I made it to be with Harry just a few weeks before he died. I spent several weeks helping the wizen-framed old man to collect debts from a mixture of supposed friends who had taken advantage of his failing memory. Harry also requested that every morning at 5 am on the dot we visit the local Farmstore. There I waited, watching him shoot the dirt with a mixture of equally weird characters. Most, a collection of rednecks from AA meetings. Harry was determined that every day he attended at least one AA meeting. For most of the time, Harry’s rapidly weakening body and wavering mind wandered in its own world. Harry tried on several occasions to force money and other valuables on me, but on each occasion, I managed to stow them safely away for the benefit of his son.
