Anarchist to Abolitionist: A Bad Quaker's Journey

Nobody's Fault But Mine

None of the charges against the mobsters stuck and none of them even went to trial. The wonders of the so-called criminal justice system almost always favor the rich and powerful over the rest of us, even when they're caught red handed with millions of dollars’ worth of pot, automatic rifles, and a hand grenade. Since the growing operation was busted, they didn't make the remaining payment on the ranch, so Dad filled out the required paperwork and took back possession. Shortly after that, someone burned down the ranch house. I was relieved when I heard the news about the fire. That indicated to me that the Mob had decided the fire was the punishment and the score was settled, at least as far as my dad was concerned, but that didn't clear me. Or at least that's what I thought.

Finding work was never a problem for me. I was strong and could endure hard labor, plus I had a decent amount of mechanical ability. I landed a job working the cotton harvest in Tulare, California. At first, I was in the sun in the cotton fields, but that quickly changed. Once the boss saw what I could do, I was back at the shop repairing cotton harvesters. It was hot and dirty, but it was work. Cindy and I had a room provided and no one back in California City knew where we had gone except a couple members of my family. Even Cindy's family wasn't sure where I had taken her. (No wonder they hated me so much.)

I worked hard keeping the harvesters running, then, in the evenings, I would work-out. I fully expected that someone would come looking for me and I wanted to be ready. Again, I worked my hand speed. I punched bales of hay until my fists bled. Whoever came after me would need to take me from a distance, because if they got within reach of me, I would own them. But no one came.

Summer turned to fall, and my hands toughened from manual labor and my boxing routine. My system was clean of drugs and my brain was starting to clear. I could see that I needed to make things right with the Brothers and with the Mob, so I started sending out feelers. I made some calls from phone booths in Tulare, and I found out that my associates in the robbery had made things right with the Brothers. My share was covered, so I was square with them. But the Brothers didn't want to see me and they didn't want to meet with me.

The Mob was a bit trickier. I didn't know anyone with a connection to them, and since the Brothers wouldn't meet with me, I couldn't even ask them to intercede.

As the cotton season finished and all the harvesters were done for the year and readied for the next, Cindy and I decided to go back to California City and get married. After an unnecessary amount of drama between our families, and much wringing of hands and idle threats, we got married anyway.

!

There were no Brothers at the wedding, nor in the procession that followed. However, word had gone out that the Brothers were not after me and that I was not a rat.

On the day of our wedding, after the ceremony, a procession of hot rods, muscle cars, and junkers were following Cindy and me from the church to Cindy's parents’ house for the reception. Cindy's mother had told me, "Lead them on a merry chase so we have time to set things up." So I did.

California City Boulevard is a wide street. It runs east/west through town with parallel service streets on both the north and south side, plus bike lanes in both directions. In actuality, it is 10 lanes wide plus a center divider. We took it over and paraded up and down it until all the available California City Police came out to break us up. The cops did what cops do.

Their lights were flashing and their sirens howled, so I stopped, and that meant everyone else did, too. There were four cop cars and four cops. There were probably fifty cars in our group and likely one hundred fifty half-stoned partiers, and we all hated the cops. The cops were visibly afraid, as they should have been. We literally had them outgunned, to say the least, and they knew who they were dealing with. Things could have turned real bad, when the ranking cop started to try to talk tough. I had dealt with him many times, but this time, I decided to follow a hunch. I stepped over to him and quietly asked if it was him that warned the growers back at the ranch house early that morning of the raid. His face went white! I stared into his eyes and I didn't blink, but I smiled. Then I jumped up on the trunk of my Fairlane and yelled at the crowd, "Is anyone getting arrested today?"

They shouted back, "NO!"

I looked down at the pig, "What're you gonna do?" His face still pale, he said, "I can't let you keep this parade going."

I answered, "We'll go straight to the reception in single file under the speed limit, and the parade is over, I promise."

He answered, "Good, then we're done."

Just like that, it was over, and I knew who had a connection to the Mob. I knew who to talk to. As it turned out, they never blamed me for ratting them out. They knew it was Roy the whole time, but they didn't retaliate because Roy was a civilian. They burned my dad's ranch because of the robbery, that was their strike at me, but that was it. They held nothing against my dad, again a civilian. I was not forgiven, but the incident was closed. It was over. No blood was spilled, so no blood was needed. The Mob's justice was fair and without ego or emotion. I had the honor of explaining this, and apologizing to Dad for getting his ranch burned down, before he passed in 2012. He laughed and forgave me. What a great old guy!

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