violence didn't work he offered a reward of $1,000 cash. Suspicion soon fell upon another young drug dealer, Zorro, from a section of Atlanta just as rough as Mr. T-Bone's. A killing seemed likely, so the guards and the suits up front intervened and convinced the two that they'd be shipped away if things got out of hand. Violence was not tolerated at Trumble. The punishment was a trip to a mediumsecurity pen with inmates who understood violence.
Someone told Mr. T-Bone about the weekly dockets the Brethren held, and in due course he found T Karl and filed suit. He wanted his phone back, plus a million bucks in punitive damages.
When it was first set for trial, an assistant warden appeared in the cafeteria to observe the proceedings, and the matter was quickly postponed by the Brethren. The same thing happened just before the second trial. Allegations of who did or did not have possession of an outlawed cell phone could not be heard by anyone in administration. The guards who watched the weekly shows wouldn't repeat a word.
Justice Spicer finally convinced a prison counselor that the boys had a private matter to reconcile, without interference from the front. 'We're trying to settle a little matter.' he whispered. 'And we need to do it in private.'
The request worked its way upward, and at the third trial date the cafeteria was packed with spectators, most of whom were hoping to see bloodshed. The only prison official in the room was a solitary guard, sitting in the back, half asleep.
Neither of the litigants was a stranger to courtrooms, so it was no surprise that Mr. T-Bone and Zorro acted as their own attorneys. Justice Beech spent most of the first hour trying to keep the language out of the gutter. He finally gave up. Wild accusations spewed forth from the plaintiff, charges that couldn't have been proved with the aid of a thousand FBI agents. The denials were just as loud and preposterous from the defense. Mr. T-Bone scored heavy blows with two affidavits, signed by inmates whose names were revealed only to the Brethren, which contained eyewitness accounts of seeing Zorro trying to hide while talking on a tiny phone.
Zorro's angry response described the affidavits in language the Brethren had never before encountered.
The knockout punch came from nowhere. Mr. T-Bone, in a move that even the slickest lawyer would admire, produced documentation. His phone records had been smuggled in, and he showed the court in black and white that exactly fifty-four calls had been made to numbers in southeast Atlanta. His supporters, by far the majority but whose loyalty could vanish in an instant, whooped and hollered until T Karl slammed his plastic gavel and got them quiet.
Zorro had trouble regrouping; and his hesitation killed him. He was ordered to immediately turn over the phone to the Brethren within twenty-four hours, and to reimburse Mr. T-Bone $450 for long-distance charges. If twenty-four hours passed with no phone, the matter would be referred to the warden, along with a finding of fact from the Brethren that Zorro did indeed possess an illegal cell phone.
The Brethren further ordered the two to maintain a distance of at least fifty feet from one another at all times, even when eating.
T Karl rapped a gavel and the crowd began a noisy exit. He called the next case, another petty gambling dispute, and waited for the spectators to leave.
'Quiet!' he shouted, and the racket only grew louder. The Brethren went back to their newspapers and magazines.
'Quiet!' he barked again, slamming his gavel.
'Shut up,' Spicer yelled at T Karl. 'You're making more noise than they are.'
'It's my job.' T. Karl snapped back, the curls of his wig bouncing in all directions.
When the cafeteria was empty, only one inmate remained. T. Karl looked around and finally asked him, 'Are you Mr. Hooten?'
'No sir,' the young man said.
'Are you Mr. Jenkins?'
'No sir.'
'I didn't think so. The case of Hooten versus Jenkins is hereby dismissed for failure to show,' T Karl said, and made a dramatic entry into his docket book.
'Who are you?' Spicer asked the young man, who was sitting alone and glancing around as if he wasn't sure he was welcome. The three men in the pale green robes were now looking at him, as was the clown with the gray wig and the old maroon pajamas and the lavender shower shoes, no socks. Who were these people!
He slowly got to his feet and moved forward with great apprehension until he stood before the three. 'I'm looking for some help,' he said, almost afraid to speak.
'Do you have business before the court?' T Karl growled from the side.
'No sir.'
'Then you'll have to-'
'Shut up!' Spicer said. 'Court's adjourned. Leave.'
T Karl slammed his docket book, kicked back his folding chair, and stormed out of the room, his shower shoes sliding on the tile, his wig bouncing behind him.
The young man appeared ready to cry. 'What can we do for you?' Yarber asked.
He was holding a small cardboard box, and the Brethren knew from experience that it was filled with the papers that had brought him to Trumble. 'I need some help,' he said again. 'I got here last week, and my roommate said you guys could help with my appeals.'
'Don't you have a lawyer?' Beech asked.
'I did. He wasn't very good. He's one reason I'm here.'
'Why are you here?' asked Spicer.
'I don't know. I really don't know'
'Did you have a trial?'
'Yes. A long one.'
'And you were found guilty by a jury?'
'Yes. Me and a bunch of others. They said we were part of a conspiracy.'
'A conspiracy to do what?'
'Import cocaine.'
Another druggie. They were suddenly anxious to get back to their letter writing. 'How long is your sentence?' asked Yarber.
'Forty-eight years.'
'Forty-eight years! How old are you?'
'Twenty-three.'
The letter writing was momentarily forgotten. They looked at his sad young face and tried to picture it fifty years later. Released at the age of seventy-one; it was impossible to imagine. Each of the Brethren would leave Trumble a younger man than this kid.
'Pull up a chair,' Yarber said, and the kid grabbed the nearest one and placed it in front of their table. Even Spicer felt a little sympathy for him.
'What's your name?' Yarber asked.
'I go by Buster.'
'Okay, Buster, what'd you do to get yourself fortyeight years?'
The story came in torrents. Balancing his box on his knees, and staring at the floor, he began by saying he'd never been in trouble with the law, nor had his father. They owned a small boat dock together in Pensacola. They fished and sailed and loved the sea, and running the dock was the perfect life for them.They sold a used fishing boat, a fifty-footer, to a man from Fort Lauderdale, an American who paid them in cash $95,000. The money went in the bank, or at least Buster thought it did. A few months later the man was back for another boat, a thirty- eight-footer for which he paid $80,000. Cash for boats was not unusual in Florida. A third and fourth boat followed.Buster and his dad knew where to find good used fishing boats, which they overhauled and renovated. They enjoyed doing the work themselves. After the fifth boat, the narcs came calling. They asked questions, made vague threats, wanted to see the books and records. Busters dad refused initially, then they hired a lawyer who advised them not to cooperate. Nothing happened for months Buster and his father were arrested at 3 A.M.. on a Sunday morning by a pack of goons wearing vests and enough guns to hold Pensacola hostage. They were dragged half-dressed from their small home near the bay, lights flashing all over the place. The indictment was an
