Short stories by Hugh Yonn
Shoulda Robbed a Bank
When I awoke to the smell of stale piss, I knew that things had not gone according to plan. The nightmare became live and in living color.
This was the real deal.
I had been busted!
I was in jail.
Not a pretty place to find oneself, in a North Florida jail cell.
I had been charged with conspiracy to import and distribute 12,000 pounds of marijuana. A “very serious offense,” according to the DEA. This is the federal entity that had placed handcuffs on me and my friend from Colombia, Jorge.
I thought we were performing a public service.
Twelve thousands pounds of marijuana, my last ring of the cash register.This mission would have netted the tidy sum of just over one million dollars.
Even after abandoning the aircraft . . . like a disposable shopping cart.
I should have quit while I was ahead. I suspect my downfall was my infatuation with toys: cars, boats, motorcycles, airplanes and antiques. Items that just seem to add more zest to life. Items that bring a supreme amount of pleasure, just being able to look at them, touch them, own them.
I may have been able to find the same satisfaction with a nice Matchbook collection.
Then again, maybe not.
Today, Jorge and I were being sentenced in a United States Federal Court. Over the past several months, we had been tried and found guilty before a jury of our peers. Six ladies old enough to be our grandmothers, one retired Air Force colonel, three bored housewives, a young, good-looking creamer . . . and one fat chick who had slept thru the majority of the trial.
Oh, and one alternate juror. A very stern, tight-ass-looking older lady who managed to have the good-looking young creamer kicked off the jury. It seems “Ms. Tight-Ass” claimed to have heard the creamer slander the prosecution’s star witness. The judge, in all fairness, removed them BOTH from the jury. He tolerated nothing that violated his order: “The jury will not discuss the case, or its merits, prior to the deliberation process.”
Really too bad for us. The young creamer was a definite vote in our favor. She could have at least hung the jury.
Such was not the case.
With the creamer gone, the remainder of the jury said, “Yeah, they done it.”
So here we sat.
Neither of us was having any fun. We had been in a county jail for the past three months. This is where federal “detainees” are held during trial.
For the last thirty days, the judge’s office had been conducting a “pre-sentence investigation.” He wanted to know just what kind of desperados he was dealing with.
In a nut shell, Jorge was a 20-year-old lad from deep in the interior of Colombia, South America. The son of a farmer. Just a really clean-cut young man with a very dear, hard-working and loving family.
Me, the worst thing that I had ever done was break Mrs. Mabry’s gazing ball, a very large mirrored ball that was in her garden. I was mowing her yard when I was nine years old. The glass ball sat on a pedestal in her back yard beside a bench. Here, she often spent the afternoons enjoying her garden. As I passed with my lawn mower one fateful day, I struck the pedestal and watched the ball drop to the ground. That bastard broke into a thousand pieces. I picked up every shard and placed them in a cardboard box. Then bicycled the evidence three blocks away and deposited it in a dumpster.
I felt bad about that. Mrs. Mabry’s garden and the gazing ball were beautiful.
Two weeks later, when I returned to again service her lawn, Mrs. Mabry asked me about the ball.
Yes. . ., I lied.
I told her, “No, ma’am. I haven’t seen it.”
I was really a sorry-ass little scoundrel. To this day, for that indiscretion, I feel tremendous shame.
Where was I?
We were being sentenced today. From what I could discern from the jailhouse lawyers, and my not-so-hot attorney, we were facing a potential 15 years in federal prison. But surely, I thought to myself, there was no possible way that honest, clean-cut young men such as Jorge and I could possibly be handed down such a disproportionate sentence.
I mean, this was a crime involving marijuana.
Even the federal authorities had calculated that in this era, over 40 tons of weed per day were being consumed in the United States. We only had six tons. This equated to what? A three and a half hour supply?
What kind of contribution was that to Party Central, U.S.A. ?
How about a break here!
We were not talking about death and destruction!
We were talking PARTY FAVORS!
And so on.
My Colombian buddy and I had been arrested when we landed my plane near the thriving metropolis of Malone, Florida. The plane was a 1945 Lockheed PV2. An old WWII Navy bomber that I had picked up at a yard sale. This puppy could carry 12,000 pounds of cargo 2,700 miles. She didn’t have to outrun anyone . . . she just stayed in the air until a pursuer ran out of gas.
My Colombian friend was on board merely as a guide. Once a plane entered Colombian airspace, it was not a matter of the Colombian Air Force pursuing. It simply became a matter of landing on the right airstrip. There are so many airstrips in the jungles that, when an aircraft came in low, the people owning the strips scampered out and put down bed sheets. They were in hope that a pilot would identify their sheet as the correct landing strip. To land on an incorrect runway placed one in an awkward position. Not only would the airstrip owners attempt to sell you your own airplane, but also your freedom had to be purchased. Not a very fair deal, but the only one they offered.
Hence, my Colombian friend’s only reason for being on board was pretty much as a tour guide. He had done nothing wrong. Just pointed out the correct address. And he rode back to the United States with me because he had Christmas shopping to do.
Anyway, today he was being sentenced, too. Poor bastard. His entire English vocabulary consisted of two words: “okay” and “cheeseburger.” I am sure that he understood jack-shit about what went on during our trial.
Yes, the federal government had provided him with an interpreter, but this person really did not speak his dialect that well. During the entire fiasco, Jorge sat with a puzzled look on his face.
This entire affair seemed like some kind of very bad joke. I knew deep down in my heart that any minute, the authorities would set us free. With an admonition: “You guys get on out of here. And don’t be doing this shit anymore.”
We had been sitting in a “holding facility” for over three months. It takes that long to go to trial, have your character evaluated and set a date to share what they intend to do with you.
Three months may not sound like a long time . . . but when you are using a roll of toilet paper for a pillow, and a swatch of carpet for a blanket, it seems like forever.
Just when I had had all the fun I could stand, our day in court arrived. This was the day the judge would share with us his decision as to our punishment, if that were to be the case.
The U.S. marshals (the lads that transport federal prisoners) had sent word that we would be picked up at 9 a.m. and transported to the courthouse.
As usual, they were right on time.
Of course, being a “positive thinker,” I expected the judge to say, “You guys have been in jail long enough. Get the hell out of here and don’t do this again.”
But what the son-of-a-bitch really said was, “You will be remanded to the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for a term of 15 years.”
And to Jorge, “You will be remanded to the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for a term of five years.”
Well, Jorge waited three weeks, then tried to hang himself. He did not do it correctly, so they shipped his ass back to Colombia .
Me, I spent five years as their guest. They finally released me early because I had been such a nice guy.
But I will share this with you: Those boys cured me!
If I ever again want to accumulate toys, I am going to rob a bank. I watched bank robbers come and go during my stay. These lads only spend about a year and a half.
But, if a person is in prison on a marijuana offense, his ass is going to do some BIG time!
Hopefully, this sorry tale will deter others who may be contemplating a “drug offense.”
Rob a bank instead.
Hugh Yonn, 61, a native of Jacksonville, Fla., worked in the field of sales until a divorce in the 1970s led him to a bartender’s job in Delray Beach, Fla., where he met what he calls the ‘customer base’ for his marijuana sales. He holds two associate degrees, one of them earned while in federal custody.