Commoner the Vagabond

  Chapter 16

 

  A few days later, Commoner was sitting eating lunch at a downtown community food bank. The well-lit room must’ve contained about 100 hungry people, all too happy to scarf down whatever warm vittles were cast their way. As Commoner slurped his cabbage & cauliflower soup, he overheard two rough-voiced men at the end of his elongated table talking about opportunity, specifically, where it existed and who should take advantage of it. The shorter of the two looked sharp and out of place with his designer wool sweater and gold jewelry adorning his neck and wrist. His taller friend had long, straight salt and pepper hair and, kept in check by a wide red bandanna, framing a round pock-marked face. Just as Commoner was about to say something to them, a few other men sat at the table. He decided then to just wait outside for the original duo.

  “Excuse me,” Commoner called out to them as they exited.

  “Yes?” the tall gray one asked.

  “I heard you talking about opportunity?”

  “You ever been to wine country?” the stranger asked.

  “No,” Commoner answered. “Where is it?”

  “Just around Sacramento,” he answered. “I’d go myself but I’m a little old for traveling alone.”

  “I’d go,” the shorter man said, “but yá7-se-sen tl’e xwotqen – I’m headed up to Bellingham today.”

  “You should think about it,” the tall man told Commoner. “I know people who went down there and came out prosperous. Bought homes for their families and everything. And you don’t need an education, just a willingness to learn and work hard.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “They have cabins,” the old man added, “so you don’t have to worry about finding a place to sleep.”

  “How do you get down there?”

  “That’s the problem,” the longhaired man stated.

  “You can always travel by rail,” his friend suggested. “I’ve done it before.”

  “That’s possible,” the elder man agreed. “Risky, but possible.”

  “I’m willing to try it,” Commoner revealed.

  “You are?” the older man asked. “You’re very brave.”

  “I don’t want to lean on other people for help.”

  “What’s your name?” the stranger asked, holding out his hand. “I’m Levi.”

  “Commoner,” he stated as they shook hands.

  “I have some things to do,” Levi told him, “but I’m always around here. If you’re really interested in going, we should talk about it later.”

  Commoner had already made up his mind when he ran into Levi two days later. They spoke about what they should bring as the ride from train to train could take as long as one week.

  Levi cautioned Commoner to travel lightly as there may be times that he’d have to run from dogs, security personnel or maybe even robbers. He even showed him the 10” serrated blade knife he carried just in case. Commoner, taking Levi’s suggestion, dropped his duffle bag off at Carny’s doorstep that night. The next day, the two were stowed away on a BNSF train heading southward.

  Moving from car to car in the train depots, they hit nearly every town between Seattle and Sacramento. Their quest for traditional boxcars, where they could stretch their legs, was hampered by the overabundance of refrigerated cars, pipe-laden flatcars, “Bathtub” gondolas laden with coal and crushed-rock toting hoppers with drop-bottoms for emptying supplies.

  Traveling lightly, each person carried used backpacks donated by the local Goodwill store containing mostly canned tuna, pork & beans, water & crackers procured from Levi’s private collection. For seven days, they were awakened by high decibel horn blasts or the loud clunky sounds trains made when they switched from track to track. No dogs did ever chase them, but the amount of time spent avoiding security personnel may have been just as dangerous. At least once, when they thought they were cornered by personnel riding in two-seater utility vehicles, they sought to abandon their quest. Luckily, they weren’t seen, or even if they were, no foul came from it. At one point, they stowed away in a boxcar half-filled with hay.

  “What is this?” Commoner asked, surveying the arid contents.

  “What does it look like?” Levi questioned in return. “It’s hay. Horse food. Why are you so surprised?”

  “I’m not surprised,” the younger traveler answered, “it’s just that I didn’t know they moved it around like this.”

  “So, what do you think horses ate,” Levi asked, “braised salmon in the morning and stuffed leg of lamb at night?”

  “No,” Commoner responded. “It just surprised me.”

  “They may have been busy building skyscrapers,” Levi attested, “but nobody ever thought to change a horse’s diet.”

  Commoner shook his head. “You should’ve been a guide at the Museum of Natural History,” he concluded.

  “You know,” Levi mused, “back in the day all this hay would’ve been set on fire by raiders. Those are self-appointed guardians of the peace. Used to run through here in the middle of the night with their torches ablaze, roughing and beating up any vagrant they saw. What did they think? People like being homeless?”

  Levi grew so angry that his arms trembled. Then, just as suddenly, he calmed himself down. The color in his face went from glowing red to their natural light brown hue.

  “Their tactics worked, too,” he continued. “Kept boxcar travelers at bay…like me.”

  “Did you ever get caught?” Commoner asked.

  “Came close to it a couple of times,” his older friend answered. “Real close.”

  One evening, as they sat in a boxcar travelling just south of Eugene, Levi pointed to the orange orb sinking in the eastern sky.

  “Klipsun,” he stated. “It means beautiful sunset.”

  “What language is that?” Commoner asked.

  “Lummi,” he answered. “Coast Samish. I’m a member of the northwest Lummi tribe near Bellingham. We are the Lhaq’temish, People of the Sea. Sadly, I was forced out.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “I argued with selá7et, the elders, about the way the new generation was being brought up. The stáwixwelh, the children, had no respect for the old ways, the traditions of our forefathers. The elders thought they needed to learn the new ways, then when they feel betrayed and abandoned by it, they’ll return home. There were other issues but that was the main one.”

  “Is it too late for you to go back?” Commoner asked.

  “It’s never too late with my people,” Levi confessed, “but I guess it’s probably just my stupid pride keeping me away.”

  “Maybe you could make peace with them,” Commoner suggested though he wouldn’t know what that would entail.

  “Maybe,” his new friend agreed. “I think, with this trip, I could squeeze my way back in and find favor with the spirits. I might even buy a boat and help their fisheries. It’s been a little uneven this season. But, you know, we have a saying – when the tide is low, the table is full. We Lummis eat anything from the sea – urchins, razor clams, you name it. We’re not too picky about what’s on land, either. You should try raw deer heart some time. Delicious.”

  “Ugh,” Commoner protested. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Oh, but you don’t know what you’re missing!” Levi squealed, accentuating his point. “You should go up there some time and try the stinging nettles. It’s very good. They also have pickled green seeds and glazed salmonberry flowers. It’s an acquired taste, like the silverfish eggs, but I think you’d go for it.”

  “I don’t know. Some of that stuff sounds poisonous.”

  “I think if you tried the slhòp’ schá:nexw, fresh fish soup, you’d fall in love.”

  “What about your rich friend?” Commoner asked. “Does he eat that stuff?”

  “What rich friend?” Levi queried.

  “That guy you were with who had all that jewelry.”

  “Oh, him,” Levi responded. “I
f he didn’t have those things he’d have nothing. I don’t begrudge him for it. Plus, between you and me, I think they’re all fake.”

  Commoner chuckled then reclined on his elbows in the boxcar, studying the irregular outline of the forests in the distance while sipping water from a plastic bottle acquired earlier in the day.

  “You know,” Levi pondered aloud, “it’s funny. Time passes by. Events come and go, but us human beings? We’re always the same with no changes whatsoever. We’re as tough as we’ve ever been, like the saddle strap of a quarter horse. We’re strong, we’re fast. We can stand a lot.”

  “What’s your point?” Commoner asked.

  “We break down easily,” Levi answered. “We can stand up straight in a hurricane then wither like leaves in a typhoon. I guess the reason I keep on pushing is I know I can expire at any time. Ain’t no rush to get to the other side though, huh? I look out across this land. This frontier is a beautiful one. It fills me like dinner. That sunset is just dessert. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  Commoner simply gazed at the sky as the train traveled on. He could almost count the bumps in the tracks, reminders of distances they still had to go. Taking a deep breath, he sat up straight as if trying to soak in as much unspoiled air as he could.

  “This is some kind of way to live, huh?” he asked.

  Levi looked out to the horizon. “If you bend the spirits, you can make the mountains fall,” he said solemnly.

  Commoner nodded although he wasn’t sure what his older friend meant.

  “Deep,” the ex-airman admitted. “Lummi saying, right?”

  “Nah,” Levi joked, “I just made that up.”

  Midway through the trip, to their surprise, they were given free breakfast at a roadside diner in Medford, Oregon close to the tracks. Commoner had corned beef hash and eggs while Levi enjoyed a Belgian waffle and two strips of bacon. As they were leaving, Levi stopped to talk to one of the waitresses. Commoner, passing the time, skimmed through a newspaper, a journal and a few pamphlets made available for customers near the entrance. As he was reading a magazine, Levi approached.

  “Let’s go,” he said then threw a travel paperback up on the magazine racks.

  “What’s that?” Commoner asked.

  “I don’t know,” his partner answered. “The waitress said some traveler left it behind.”

  Commoner picked up the book, A Guide to America’s Museums, and leafed through it. Fascinated by its contents, he showed some of the attractions to Levi who agreed they were probably worth visiting. By the time they arrived in Sacramento days later, Commoner felt he had found a friend he could trust.

  While the traveling duo were traipsing around California, several students from the fracas at Blue Ray Bar & Grill in Bellevue, on the advice of their counsels, explained to a court that the fight was initiated by the stranger interviewed by the news corp. Judge Agnes Turlington issued a subpoena for him to be brought in. The SPD received the order but Det. Vert, worried about the frail wanderer being mishandled, explained that he’d deal with it himself.

  Levi and Commoner, carefully avoiding the well-patrolled I-80, hitchhiked along rural routes from Sacramento southwest to Napa. The cities, roughly 70 miles apart, should have taken about an hour and change to travel between, but the rides they obtained on old pickup trucks and an International Harvester near Vacaville delayed their journey. Finally, they reached the end of their trek when they arrived at Monticello Road just outside Napa.

  “You’ll like this area,” Levi promised. “You’ll see. It’s a land of 1000 wineries. You work hard, not get in anybody’s way, and you’ll be okay.”

  Making a right on Silverado Trail, they walked for nearly four miles passing by at least 16 wineries till they arrived at a sign in the road which said “Doe Run Cellars.”

  “This is it,” Levi stated.

  “Doe Run,” Commoner read staring at the rustic sign. “Wow. You can actually smell the grapes from the road.”

  He then looked down a winding path partially obscured by stately oaks and the occasional black walnut.

  “When I was younger,” Levi admitted, “you couldn’t get me to run through a forest. We were told tales about the sti7talh, little people that lived in the wild. They were so strong they could knock over a tree, and if you saw one, you’d get real weak so you’d have to purify yourself by fasting or bathing in a river.”

  “We have those in the urban jungles, too,” Commoner joked. “It’s called the taxman.”

  “Let’s go,” his older friend said.

  They met minutes later with one of the estate managers who, remembering Levi, hired them for their upcoming August to October harvest season. He gave them a tour of the estate then showed them the barracks where they would sleep, an amenity rare among vineyards. Within days, the vineyard was abuzz with activity. The wine pickers who’d arrived were all Mexican immigrants. Only a few spoke English, and when they did, it wasn’t that good to begin with. They were fast, diligent workers who focused on their work with intensity. Commoner was surprised to find that Levi, the oldest of the group, was able to keep up with the younger ones. To everyone’s relief, the managers weren’t hard-assed. Stressing quality over quantity, they only wanted grapes that were ripe and healthy, not rotted or bunched like sardines.

  Most of the immigrants left during the evening to their homes in Sacramento, San Francisco, Santa Rosa or San Jose. The handful that stayed also slept in the barracks. To Commoner’s surprise, Levi spoke fluent Spanish and was able to engage the immigrants in card games he’d learned along the way. Commoner, on Levi’s encouragement, joined in a few games, but the twin difficulties of learning the rules and picking up Spanish made his involvement less than enjoyable. To help pass the time he read his new Museum book, crimping the pages at articles he found most intriguing.

  One of the perks of being part of the grape harvesting crew was that they were allowed to use one of the kitchens at Doe Run to cook their meals. While the men were out in the fields, two senoritas provided them with enchiladas, tostadas, burritos, chimichangas, pollo asadas and other dishes. With their unique, rich and complex tastes bursting forth with cilantro, peppers and lime they barely reminded Commoner of the blander Americanized versions he’d eaten. Levi ‘of the wandering eye’ also enjoyed the dishes while finding the time to steal glances of the ladies which, in all fairness, could be his daughters.

  “In my defense,” he once told Commoner over lunch, “I’m as healthy as a 20-year-old.”

  As the weeks passed, Commoner felt comfortable enough to ask the manager about wine making. The manager introduced him to one of the vineyard’s viticulturalists who took him through the globally ancient process. He learned a couple of things about the importance of temperature regulation, how to plant, trellis and prune grape vines, the proper handling of materials, grape selection and acidity testing. Later, after learning a little about the settling of juice and fermentation of grape material, he was introduced to the fine art of wine tasting. This touched on the steps for determining the complexity and character of wine as well as integration and balance on the tongue. The tutorials on expressiveness, or the detection of a wine’s aromas and flavors, proved difficult because of their subjectivity and inherent abstractness. By the time the harvest season was over, his interest in wine making waned as he thought it was an art much too refined for his tastes.

  By the middle of October, most of the harvesters received their checks for around $3000 and left. Those who stuck around helped with the general cleanup of the vineyard. After Commoner and Levi received their checks, they decided to part ways. Levi realized he was getting old and perhaps it was time for him to reconcile with his people. Commoner planned to travel to Chicago to visit the Museum of Science & Industry in his new quest to visit world famous technological centers around America. Saying goodbye at the bus depot in Sacramento, they continued on their separate journeys.

  Sitting on the bus, Commoner studied its itinera
ry. His I-80 journey from Reno to Salt Lake City, Cheyenne to Omaha and Des Moines to Chicago should be an easy two days, and with his new knapsack stuffed with pretzels and other edibles, enjoyable as well. Sitting with his recently purchased CD Walkman, he quietly listened to brand new CD’s like Radiohead’s OK Computer, The Verve’s Urban Hymns and Third Eye Blind’s debut release. When they were finished, he simply repeated them again. The 8 hour, 520-mile ride from Reno to Salt Lake City, with barely anything to see but endless patches of dry land and interstate shrubbery, lent itself well for catching up on some much-needed shuteye.

  Grabbing his knapsack, he exited the bus to stretch his legs in Utah. Turning to the driver, he asked him if he had time to eat a meal at a diner near the depot. Unfortunately, the driver told him, he had a tight schedule and his layover would only be for 10 minutes. Hurrying as fast as he could, he bought two hot dogs and a glass of soda from a fast food joint and raced back to the bus. Quite a few of the faces he’d gotten used to from Sacramento were gone, replaced by new riders headed to points east. Settling into his seat, he ate his lunch as the bus pulled out of the station.

  Once again, miles and miles of paved land stretched forth before him as far as the eye could see. Reaching into his knapsack sitting on the empty seat beside him, he brought out the museum book and commenced reading it. About three hours later as he started dozing off, the bus pulled into the depot at Rock Springs, Wyoming to pick up two male and female college students. Leaving their oversized knapsacks in the outside storage compartment, they entered the bus and headed straight for the back. When the bus continued along I-80, Commoner tried to squeeze in some Z’s, but from where he sat in the middle of the bus, he could hear people talking or whispering to the front and back of the coach. As the miles passed, the talk emanating from the back grew louder and more impassioned. The two college kids seemed to be having a spat. Occasionally, Commoner would clearly hear phrases from “You’re a coward!” to “I told you this was a mistake!” to “I’m going back home!” Nearly an hour later, walking from seat to seat, the college girl finally approached Commoner.

  “Excuse me,” she asked him. “Can I sit here?”

  Commoner whisked his knapsack off the seat. “Help yourself,” he told her.

  Falling into the seat, she angrily crossed her arms.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “My brother’s a jerk!” she whispered loudly.

  “Okay,” Commoner nodded. “Is that him back there?”

  “Yep,” she answered. “We’re through.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  As Commoner prepared to don his earphones, the girl tapped his shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “What are you listening to?” she quizzed him, her voice now noticeably softer and lacking in malice.

  “Oh,” Commoner answered, “Just some new stuff. Third Eye Blind, Radiohead…”

  “Yeah,” she opined, “I like those bands.”

  She offered her hand. “What’s your name?” she asked. “I’m Brandy.”

  “Commoner,” he introduced himself, taking her hand.

  “Commoner?” she asked. “That’s different. Hey, um, Commoner, do you like football?” He put on a faux southern accent. “Ah’m ah rodeo man, m’self, ah reckon.”

  “Come on,” she pleaded, flicking his left arm. “I’m serious.”

  “Yeah,” he finally answered. “It’s okay.”

  Reaching into her back pocket, she produced two tickets.

  “These are for the last home game for the U-dub Cowboys,” she informed him.

  Commoner took one and read the ticket. “Saturday, November 22, War Memorial Stadium, Laramie Wyoming against Colorado State.”

  “The annual Border War,” she added. “It’s gonna be a hoot and a holler.”

  “Have fun,” he wished her handing the ticket back.

  “Where are you headed?” she asked.”

  “Chicago.”

  “You’re going to school out there?”

  “Just visiting,” he answered.

  Picking up the Guide to Museums by his right side, he handed it to her.

  “Sounds…interesting,” she said. “Are you in a rush to get there?”

  “Not really. You can kinda say I’m on vacation.”

  “Sweet!” she beamed then handed him his book and a ticket back. “I can always use the company.”

  “Um,” he hesitated, “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re worried about getting another ticket to Chicago, I got that covered.”

  “Yeah, but what about your brother?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s getting off at the next stop and heading straight back to Rock Springs.”

  “You’re pretty brave,” Commoner told her. “I mean, you don’t even know me.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed, “but I’m a good judge of character.”

  “This game isn’t for two days,” he informed her holding up the ticket.

  “I know,” she winked, “but I’ve got plans.”

  Just then she noticed Commoner quickly swat away the invisible flies by his ears. “Whoa, daddy,” she inquired, “are you, like, one of those guys that hears voices?”

  “It’s just a harmless disorder,” he revealed.

  “Oh,” she apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The two sat quietly for almost two full seconds before she started again.

  “I had an uncle that went ‘round the bend,” she said. “He was in Afghanistan and got hit with some nerve gas. Poor stiff needs help these days just for getting his pants on straight. What a shame.”

  Commoner continued looking out the window while Brandy fiddled restlessly with her thumbs.

  “I’m a student at Western Wyoming Community College,” she told him, interrupting his reverie. “Political science is my major. You’re probably wondering why I’m heading all the way out to Laramie to see a game, huh?”

  “I’m sorry,” Commoner said, “I don’t really know the area.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Sacramento. Before that, Seattle.”

  “Ooh, a traveling man. I like that type – eager to see the world. Nobody to tie you down, huh?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “You got kids?”

  “No. You?”

  “Geez, I hope not!”

  “Well,” Commoner revealed, “you’d make somebody a good wife someday if you…”

  “If I what?”

  “You know…toned a down a notch.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted, “they say I’m like a hot-wired firebrand, and they’re right, but I can see how it could turn some people off.”

  Commoner folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  “I’m gonna rest a little,” he informed her. “When we get to Laramie, wake me.”

  “Sure thing,” she said.

  Two seconds later, she tapped his shoulder. “We’re here!”

  Startled, he looked out the bus’s window to see them pulling off I-80 into the city of Laramie then gazed at the surroundings at it drove down 3rd Street and finally pulled into a gas station.

  “Hey,” he asked her, “where are we staying?”

  “My friend’s house,” she answered. “It’s not far from here.”

  Commoner, Brandy, her brother, and nine other passengers disembarked while four who were waiting in the gas station boarded. As Brandy’s brother was removing his knapsack, Brandy yelled at him to give her something from his collection. After giving her a long plastic orange bag with a few things in it, he entered the gas station while she walked over to Commoner.

  “My friend Cassandra’s just a few blocks that way,” she pointed. “You got your walking shoes on?”

  “Yes,” he nodded.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve gotta lower my voice, right? I grew up around six hard headed brother
s. I had to shout just to be heard.”

  “I understand.”

  Commoner’s next two days in Laramie were casually spent. He and the girls went out a few times to the same vegetarian restaurant and on Friday went to a bar. On Saturday afternoon, Brandy produced a University of Wyoming Cowboy’s football uniform and handed it to him.

  “Try this on,” she told him.

  Compliant, he went into a bathroom, changed into the Cowboy’s brown pants and yellow top outfit, and reemerged looking like he belonged on the squad. Moments later, Brandy changed into a Cowboy’s cheerleader suit.

  “How do I look?” she asked twirling in the living room.

  “Pretty good,” Cassandra stated. “You’d have me fooled.”

  Brandy checked her watch. “It’s almost time.” She turned to Cassandra. “Do you have the banner?”

  “Right here,” her friend replied, lifting it out from behind the couch.

  The three of them were picked up minutes later by two servers Commoner had seen from the vegetarian restaurant. They then drove over to War Memorial where Commoner and Brandy got dropped off. After the car took off, Brandy and Commoner entered with their tickets and found their seats near centerfield. The stadium was packed and as loud as can possibly be. Fans of both teams were either whistling, shouting or stomping their feet. The sidelines were crowded with players, coaches, members of the press, photographers, security and medical personnel.

  Entering late, the game was midway in the 2nd quarter. Both teams had seven points on the board. Brandy kept checking her watch intermittently. Nervous, her legs were also shaking.

  “Something wrong?” Commoner asked.

  “We’re almost there,” she said over the din.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  Looking down at the field, she saw Cassandra standing near a table of Gatorade.

  “Let’s go,” she told Commoner. “It’s time.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Getting up, she encouraged him to follow her out of the stands and down an entrance which brought them out to the sidelines. Walking behind rows of spectators, they reached Cassandra who took the banner out of the plastic bag and handed it to Commoner.

  “We’re part of the welcoming committee for the team,” Brandy explained. “It’s a yearly tradition. My brother was involved but he changed his mind.”

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Simple,” Brandy stated. “Me and you run out to the field and unfurl it.”

  “Okay,” he ascertained. “I guess I can do that.”

  “But you’re not waiting for halftime,” Cassandra explained. “It has to be done now for maximum effect.”

  Commoner looked out at the field. A play was just finished and the two teams were beginning to take their places at the line of scrimmage.

  “Do it now!” Cassandra insisted.

  Brandy grabbed one end of the wide banner while Commoner dashed to the field. She trotted behind him as the banner was unfurled. Before anyone knew what was going on, he had crossed over the 30-yard line towards the middle while Brandy stood at the edge. The huge 20foot-long banner, now completely displayed, stated on both sides, “MEAT IS MURDER!”

  The audience started yelling; some were cheering. With the playing stopped, several security officers ran over to the intruders. Brandy quickly stripped down to her birthday suit to the delight of the spectators. Eventually, the officers grabbed the banner, awkwardly covered the naked chanteuse with her fallen clothes and forced them both off the field. Commoner, looking confused, couldn’t make sense of what was going on. Brandy, however, was jubilant, jumping for joy like two prize winners as they were being escorted away.

  While they were sitting in separate jails minutes later, a sheriff approached Commoner.

  “Today’s not your lucky day, boy.” Commoner bowed his head.

  “You’re in the national system,” the sheriff noted. “Seems like they want you for questioning back in Seattle.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Don’t yell at me, son. I’m not the judge. You can tell them that when you get back.”

  “Darn it,” Commoner swore. “I’m on my way to Chicago.”

  “Not this week,” the lawman said.

  The sheriff contacted his brother in law, Hon. Judge Henry Fender, and received signed extradition papers from him. Typically, the Washington State Department of Corrections would be the ones executing the delivery order, but out of the goodness of his heart, the sheriff decided to do King County a favor by extraditing Commoner himself. The next day, he ordered two deputies-in-training to drive the prisoner back to Seattle. Riding in the back of the squad car, Commoner didn’t utter a word the entire 18-hour trip. The deputies provided him with food and exercise at stops along the way. Because he was so well-behaved, the deputies took a chance and released him from his shackles just before they entered a coffee shop or filling station. They were curious as to why Commoner had intermittent tics, but they summarily ignored it as the trip wore on.

  When they got to Seattle, Commoner was placed in jail for safekeeping. The next day, he had an emergency session with Judge Anne Turlington. Sitting in court in an orange county suit, he listened as his young public defender, Jennifer Barstock, spoke.

  “Your honor,” she began, “my client’s surrender was illegal and in violation of the

  Uniform Criminal Extradition Act. Not only that, he was never even handed the subpoena.”

  The judge looked over at Det. Vert.

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t believe it was,” Vert said, standing. “The judge in Wyoming did sign an extradition order.”

  “There wasn’t even a hearing,” Barstock interjected. “More like a writ of convenience.” “This man was then denied due process,” the judge noticed.

  “No constitutional guidelines were followed,” Barstock added, “which made the act akin to slavery-era bounty hunter justice.”

  “You’re reaching,” the prosecutor standing at his table said to the defender.

  “We simply wanted to know about his whereabouts,” Vert explained. “Wyoming may have been a little aggressive with their police work, but no harm, no foul.”

  “Your honor,” Barstock said, “I’ve already informed my client that the Fifth Amendment assured him the right against self-incrimination should he wish to plead it.”

  Turlington looked at Commoner. “Stand up, young man.”

  Commoner rose to his feet.

  “Did you wish to address the court?” she asked.

  “I was only visiting the restaurant with a friend,” Commoner revealed. “I have no idea who those people are that were fighting.”

  “So noted,” she said. “Luckily, these proceedings are being dismissed because the authorities sworn to enforce the law have corrupted it with their overzealousness. Therefore, you’re free to go. This court is adjourned.”

  Commoner was released immediately then told by Det. Vert not to stray too far from town just in case he might be subpoenaed again. With the money Commoner had remaining, he rented a $375/month motel room on Aurora Avenue in North Seattle that day. For the price, he secured a room surrounded by hookers and drug dealers, or as they say in the tourist catalogs, the local color.