Undermind: Nine Stories (14 page)

Four agents approached the front door carrying a
battering ram. The lead agent spoke into his lapel mic.

“Snipers, sit rep?”

“Sniper One. All clear. In position.”

“Roger, One.”

“Sniper Two. Woman walking her dog past the end
of the street… Okay, we’re clear. In position.”

“Roger, Two.” He glanced around at the agents he
could see, then spoke into his mic again. “We’re a Go. On three.
One… Two… Three”

The battering ram smashed through the front
door. Glass shattered as other agents fired tear gas grenades
through the front windows. One sniper peered through his scope at
the upper level windows. The other perused the perimeter for anyone
trying to escape.

The battering ram agents withdrew, trotting
backwards, and other agents with gas masks rushed in, yelling,
“D.E.A. Nobody move!” and “Freeze, motherfuckers!” Agents spread
throughout the house. Within a minute, they declared the downstairs
clear. The lead agent, Gelkins, pointed at two agents and motioned
for them to follow him up the stairs.

A door near the second-floor landing creaked
open and one of the agents fired past Gelkins.

“Hold your fire!” he yelled, running up the
stairs and taking a position beside the partially opened door. The
two agents on the stairs came a little further up and aimed their
guns at the door.

“Come out with your hands up!” Gelkins
ordered.

Adrenaline raced through the three men as the
door creaked again and slowly began to open. An elderly man in a
dark blue robe carefully edged the door back with one foot, holding
his hands high above his head. His hair was sticking out in every
direction and his eyes were wide with fear behind lenses that make
them look much larger than they were.

“Face on the floor, asshole!” Gelkins screamed
from three feet away. “Slowly!”

The man bent down to his knees, then lowered his
hands to the carpet to lower himself in a reverse push-up. Gelkins
gestured with his gun. The two agents on the stairs rushed up and
secured the prisoner. One pressed the man’s head into the carpet
while the other patted down his backside and then cuffed him.

Karnes and Wilson saw the perp coming down the
stairs with the agents behind him.

“How did you know?” the old man asked.

“Your good friend Phyllis sang like a bird,
shithead. Your career is over,” Karnes spat.

“You didn’t hurt her, did you?” he asked,
wincing in fear of the tactics that might’ve been employed to
compel his lifelong friend to turn him in.

“Only as much as necessary. Where’s your stash,
you old puke?”

“In the basement. You’ll find everything in the
basement.”

“Very smart! I guess you still have some brain
cells left.” Turning to the nearest D.E.A. agents, Karnes ordered,
as if he were in charge of the scene, “Get this piece of shit out
of here.”

A voice came through one of the agents
radios.

“Jackpot! He’s got a whole fucking java-lab down
here, along with a nursery, grinders, antique percolators, and
everything else.”

“I’ll never understand you fucking dregs,”
Wilson said, watching as the man was escorted out his front
door.

***

Walter Brown was booked on charges of
cultivation, trafficking, and possession of over fifty pounds of
coffee. Phyllis Kant was charged with possession with intent to
distribute. Her attorney argued that half a pound was nowhere near
sufficient to distribute. The average coffee drinker could easily
drink that much in less than a month. In addition, she had
cooperated and was promised leniency. They wouldn’t have gotten
Brown if it wasn’t for her. The D.A. agreed to simple possession
and a term of a reduced sentence of six months in light of her
assistance which led to the apprehension of a major trafficker.

Brown’s trial commenced a few days later. He and
his attorney sat in his cell facing the wall screen. Two metal
folding chairs were brought in for the proceedings. The wall lit up
and the face of the bailiff appeared.

“Please rise. The Honorable Jacob Jackson
presiding.”

Brown and his attorney stood.

“Defendant Walter Brown and attorney Sheldon
Knight are visibly present, Your Honor.”

“Court is in session,” the judge intoned.

“You may be seated.” The bailiff stepped out of
the camera view and repositioned it to aim at the judge’s bench,
then rattled off the formal list of charges against Brown.

“How do you plead?” the judge inquired, looking
over his old-fashioned, half-framed glasses at the video
monitor.

“Your Honor,” the attorney spoke up, remaining
in his seat. “Sheldon Knight, representing. My client pleads Guilty
with an explanation.”

The judge sighed and turned to face another
monitor. “Will the State hear an explanation and consider a
sentence less than life in prison?”

A small picture appeared in the corner of the
wall display, featuring the District Attorney Janet Callaway. “The
State will hear the explanation.”

“You may proceed,” the judge said, looking into
the camera perched above his desk display.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sheldon looked down at
the papers in his lap, then back up at the camera. “My client is
from an era when coffee was in common usage and sold in every
establishment. He grew up in a household where coffee was served
every morning with breakfast. It was—“

“Mr. Knight. The court is aware of what life was
like before the Anti-Stimulant Act of 2039. Your client admits his
guilt. If there are no extenuating circumstances beyond the
accused’s childhood when the laws were different, then we can
proceed with sentencing.”

“I understand, Your Honor, and I apologize. I
just want to speak to my client’s motivations in breaking the law.
To his way of seeing it, he wasn’t doing any harm, and there were
no victims who suffered as a result of his actions.”

Janet Callaway interrupted. “Society is the
victim here, Counselor. Mr. Brown cannot take it upon himself to
decide which laws benefit the people. The people themselves have
already decided that.”

“You’re correct, Ms. Callaway. I just want to
point out that my client is 67 years old and has a clean record.
His only crime, in all his life was to ingest a stimulant that he
had ingested his entire life with no harm to any other being
besides himself. I ask that the court consider my client’s
intention – that being, to do that which he had always done without
running afoul of the law. Granted, he failed to change his daily
routine when the laws changed, and he continued—“

“Mr. Knight, your client did not only continue
to drink coffee in blatant disregard for this nation’s laws,
presumably for the last three years, but he also took it upon
himself to enable others to do the same. He engendered a spirit of
anarchy and rebellion, thumbing his nose at authority, and the
People. The State is showing plenty of leniency already in only
seeking a life sentence.”

“We appreciate that, Ms. Callaway, and don’t
deny his guilt and his debt to society for what he’s done, and for
which, he’s prepared to pay. I thought it might help to show that
my client was a law-abiding citizen his entire life. He, himself
never changed in his nature or intentions, and unfortunately,
neither did his habits and routines change. One day he was a pillar
of the community, and then the next, he was an outlaw – but only
because the laws changed and made coffee an illegal substance. My
client is the same law-abiding citizen he was four years ago, but
for the criminalization of coffee, coffee grounds, and
caffeine.”

“Are you finished, Mr. Knight?” the D.A. asked,
not at all impressed by the defense attorney’s proffer of an
explanation for his client’s guilt.

“Yes, Ms. Callaway. My client asks the State and
the Court for mercy in its wisdom in handing down his
sentence.”

“Does the State have anything to add, Ms.
Callaway?”

“The State rests and asks the Court to not be
swayed by the defendant’s explanation. We still seek life
imprisonment.” The picture within a picture at the corner of the
screen winked out and the judge’s face filled the entire wall
display, then zoomed out to show the United States flag hanging
behind him.

“In the matter of the People versus Walter
Brown, the Court accepts the guilty plea but does not feel the
Explanation provides any mitigating circumstances or considerable
reason to sentence the defendant to less than the minimum sentence
that the State has leniently requested.

“All through this nation’s history substances
have gone from legal to illegal, and vice versa. There was a time
when families enjoyed beverages that included such vile substances
as cocaine. And they did so in family restaurants and other places
where respectable people gathered for meals – not in dark alleys
and seedy motels, as they do today. People ingested morphine to
ease their pain. Marijuana was grown and used in many ways in
competition with the cotton industry, as well as ingested to alter
one’s consciousness. The fact is, Mr. Brown, society decides what
is okay to consume, and what is not. The people make the laws by
way of their representatives and their votes. When the people have
spoken, the people must also obey. To state that there are no
victims to the crimes you’ve committed is to say that the voice of
the nation as a whole is irrelevant to you. That you can decide
what is right and wrong, despite what hundreds of millions of your
countrymen have decreed to be wrong.

“Our society has determined that no substance
shall be ingested that accelerates the natural functioning of the
central nervous system. Stimulants are illegal in this country in
all of their manifestations – regardless of how you were raised.
The laws have been passed. And you’ve admitted your guilt in
violating them. The Court hereby sentences you to remain in custody
for the remainder of your natural life.”

The judge banged his gavel one time then set it
down.

“Court is adjourned.”

The screen in Brown’s cell wall turned black.
Knight grabbed his papers and put them in his briefcase, then stood
and grabbed his folding chair with his free hand.

“I’m sorry, Walter. I did my best.” He looked at
his client, chagrined. “If there’s anything I can do for you…”

“I appreciate it, Sheldon. I just don’t know how
I’m going to make it in here. I’ve never been in jail before. I’m
so stressed, I feel like I’m going to have a heart-attack.”

“I’ll ask the guard to bring you some heroin.
It’ll help you relax, Walter.”

###

It started on Halloween night.

Daniel was at a party that he didn’t really feel
like being at, but it seemed foolish to turn down going to a party
on a holiday. What would he do instead—sit at home and watch TV, by
himself? He told himself there was zero chance of meeting a woman
at home. But then he argued, he could meet someone escorting her
kids door to door. Right. Like that’s what he wanted, someone who
already had kids. The party offered better chances of ending his
single streak.

After sticking around for nearly two hours,
thoroughly not enjoying himself and not seeing any dating prospects
since none of the single women interested him, he slowly worked his
way toward the door. He tipped his red, plastic Solo cup all the
way up, finishing off his beer and took one last look around to see
if anything could possibly make him change his mind. There was
nothing.

Twelve minutes later, Daniel was driving slowly
through his neighborhood, careful to avoid hitting any miniature
witches or goblins that might come running out into the street from
between parked cars. As he drove, he looked around at the houses
that were made up for the holiday; white streaming gauze hanging
from a tree, plastic jack-o-lanterns glowing with electric light, a
few real pumpkins that were carved and lit with candles.

He thought back to the last time he had gone out
dressed up as a kid on Halloween. He had grown up poor and
frequently had to wear a homemade costume. When he was very young,
he didn’t know the difference between homemade and bought in a
store. But the older he got, the more he noticed how fancy and
professional the other kids’ costumes looked compared to his and
his sister’s.

It was still easy enough to put out of his mind
though as he enjoyed the night and harvested sweets that would last
him for months. One day, everything changed. He was old enough to
escort his sister around without parental supervision. He had
reached the magic age of twelve and his parents no longer required
him to have a babysitter. On Halloween that year, he argued that no
babysitter at home should equal no babysitter while
trick-or-treating. His parents relented and allowed him and his
sister to go out alone after a brief lecture about safety, looking
both ways before crossing streets, and so on.

Daniel was waiting for the two standard warnings
that they couldn’t possibly include in the speech: Come home when
it gets dark, and don’t take candy from strangers. He thought it
was funny that they weren’t going out
until
it was dark, and
they were to do nothing but take candy from strangers. But he
didn’t voice those thoughts. This was a milestone event that he
didn’t want to risk having rescinded.

The night had gone perfectly. He and Rebecca had
nearly full bags of candy and were heading home, not even stopping
at any more houses along the way because they had so much candy
already, and both of them had aching feet from walking far more
than they were accustomed. If they followed the streets back home,
it would take them twice as long as it would if they cut through
the local park, so Daniel headed toward the park.

His family lived in a middle-class suburban
neighborhood, and it was as safe as any normal neighborhood could
be that was gated or walled off with security guards blocking
entrances like Daniel had seen when they drove around looking a
Christmas lights last year.