I know this is a long answer, but please bear with me. I went to a pretty dark place in my mind, so dark that I wanted someone badly injured or even killed, and I think it’s important to I explain how I got there.

This happened almost 50 years ago, when I had just turned 18.

My big adventure after high school but before I started college was to hitchhike from Atlanta, Georgia to Riverside, California to see a friend, Bill, who had moved there after 11th grade. Made it in four days. I hung out with him for about a week.

Then I hitchhiked to Colorado to see another friend who was about to start college in Boulder. Again, hung out with him for about a week. At that point, I was going to go home to Georgia, but Bill, my California buddy, contacted me. He wanted me to come back to Riverside, where we would hook up and then hitchhike to Georgia together so he could see all his old friends.

So back to California I went and then Bill and I set out for Georgia. When we got to Phoenix some cops immediately checked us out. Turned out there had been a prison break the night before and something like 18 inmates had escaped, so the police were on high alert. They gave us each a hitchhiking ticket, but otherwise were pretty cool once they confirmed we weren’t escapees. They told us that everyone was being advised not to pick up hitchhikers. Uh oh.

It usually took no more than hour to get a ride, but this time Bill and I stood nearly all day with no luck. Desperation set in and we decided to break up temporarily. Our plan was for Bill to start walking. I would be picked up first, presumably, assure the driver that I wasn’t an escapee and ask him to pick up Bill. In hindsight, not a great plan but as I said we were getting desperate. So Bill started walking.

I finally caught a ride and asked the driver if he would pick up my friend. He said sure. Only we never saw Bill. I later learned that someone had passed me and picked him up. Go figure. I wouldn’t see him again for a couple of years.

After getting another hitchhiking ticket the next day in Tucson, I finally made it through Arizona and into New Mexico, where I spent the night under a bridge overpass. The next morning, I rolled out of my sleeping bag, walked down to the freeway, stuck out my thumb and the very first guy pulled over. In a Camaro. Cool!

Turned out he was a Marine currently stationed in San Diego. He said he was in the process of buying the Camaro from his Sergeant but first had to take it home to San Antonio to get his wife’s approval. I settled in for what was going to be a long and comfortable ride. But when we stopped for gas, he aggressively hit me up for gas money. I only had something like $20 to my name, but I gave him a couple of dollars although he wanted more. Looking back, I suspect he picked me up only because he was looking for major help with gas. He was pretty unhappy about my paltry contribution. But I was nearly broke and really couldn’t even spare what I gave him. I tried to explain this, but he didn’t care and was so angry about it that I thought he might leave me behind, even after taking my two dollars. But he didn’t. In hindsight, I really wish he had.

We were rolling along, mostly in a kind of awkward silence, out in the high desert country of west Texas doing about 75 mph— at that time the national speed limit was 55 mph—when we passed a Texas Ranger going the other way. He was giving us the eye as we passed. I looked back, and sure enough he did a U-turn and turned on his lights. I felt sorry for the driver as I knew he was going to get a speeding ticket. It was his problem, not mine, but I felt bad for him even though he had been a jerk about the gas.

And so began the strangest and scariest episode in my life.

The driver pulls over and rolls down his window. As we’re sitting there waiting for the Ranger to approach, I hear the Ranger shout “Get out with your hands up! Passenger, you first!” I gasped and said to the driver, “What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. This was just a speeding ticket. Why do I need to get out? Why with my hands up? The driver also appeared surprised and yelled out his window, “What?” The Ranger shouts again, only this time even louder, “I SAID GET OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP! PASSENGER YOU FIRST! RIGHT NOW!”

So I struggle to open the door with my foot—it’s not easy to open a heavy car door with your hands up— and got out. As I do, he shouts at me to face away from him and keep my hands above my head. Once I’m out, he ordered me to walk backwards to the sound of his voice. I walked backwards until I’m just past the back of the Camaro. He then ordered me to turn around and keep my hands in the air. When I turn to face him, he’s standing about six feet away with a rifle pointed at my face. From that distance his gun looked as big as a canon. I felt my legs turn to jello and seriously thought I was going to faint. I’m surprised I didn’t pee in my pants.

He then ordered me to lay face down on the ground with my arms and legs spread out. I was so frightened that my heart was pounding through my chest. I could barely breathe and was shaking so hard that I was literally vibrating on the ground. None of this was making any sense. I was proned out on the ground at gunpoint for a speeding ticket that wasn’t even mine. He then did the same with the driver.

I hear a pickup truck rattling down the dirt road that ran along the freeway. The truck stopped, and a man shout something like, “Hey Bob, do you need some help?” The Ranger shouts back, “Sure, take my rifle. If they move, shoot ‘em.” My anxiety level blew through the roof at this point, and I just knew I was going to be shot because I couldn’t stop shaking.

The Ranger says, “You’re both under arrest for Grand Theft Auto out of the State of California” and proceeds to handcuff us. When he comes over to me, I said something like, “Sir, please don't shoot me. I’m only a hitchhiker. I don’t know anything about this car being stolen.” He basically said to shut up and put me in the back of his car.

A Deputy Sheriff arrived and the driver was put in the back of his car. The Ranger asked me if I had any property in the car, and I told him just my backpack, which he retrieved and put in his trunk. After a tow truck arrived, we took off. I had no idea where we were going. We took the next exit off the freeway and drove for maybe 15 minutes into the small town of Pecos, Texas. At that point I assumed we were probably headed for the police station, but as it turned out we were taken to a small house in an old residential neighborhood. I have no idea why. As we were escorted up to the front door, I spotted a small wooden sign that read “Justice Of The Peace.” They knocked, and an old, stooped man opened the door. They asked if they could borrow a room for a few minutes. He invited us in.

They left me handcuffed to the kitchen table in the company of the presumed JP, who was watching a rerun of All In The Family (Archie gives Edith an Eiffel Tower clock for her birthday) with a canned laugh track that seemed just so out of place for my situation. It all felt very surreal.

They took the driver down the hall into a room and shut the door. I wasn’t sure what they were doing back there and half expected to hear screams and the sounds of a beating. After what seemed like forever but was probably more like five minutes, they came out and the driver and I switched places. I was relieved to see the driver looked ok. Into the room we went, and again they shut the door.

They told me to take a seat at a table, and they sat down across from me. One of them read my Miranda rights to me. They told me the driver had exercised his right to remain silent and didn’t answer any questions. I, on the other hand, willingly answered every question put to me and then some. I told them everything about the driver and the car that he had told me. I told them I was just a hitchhiker picked up by the driver that morning in New Mexico. I told them I had just graduated high school in Georgia and was on my way home after hitchhiking around the country to visit friends before I started college. I swore on a stack of Bibles—ok, not literally but only because there wasn’t a stack of Bibles in the room—that I didn’t steal the car and in fact had no idea the car was stolen.

They went through my backpack and were particularly interested in my two hitchhiking tickets. In terms of a timeline, they established that I had gotten the Phoenix ticket on Day One and the Tucson ticket on Day Two, which showed that I was traveling east. The info they had was that the car had been stolen off a used car lot in San Diego by a lone black male on what would be Day 3 and then we were arrested on Day 4. The driver, who was black, really was in the Marines and stationed in San Diego but, again per their information, had gone AWOL shortly before the car was stolen. Although I’m a male, I’m not black and had no connection with the Marines, San Diego, the car or the driver other than catching a ride with him that morning.

All of this along with my backpack/sleeping bag and Georgia driver’s license made it pretty obvious that I really was just a hitchhiker and that I didn’t steal the car. They said that if the driver had been willing to confirm that he had picked me up hitchhiking they would have released me but since he didn’t they would have to get California’s permission to let me go.

Up until I was arrested I had no idea that the car was stolen, and I still found it hard to believe that I would be so unlucky as to get caught up in the middle of this. In fact, when we were first arrested I thought it was probably some big mistake somehow, but in any case from what the Ranger and Deputy were saying the driver was a lot more connected to stealing the car than me. And of course, if what they were telling me was true, and I had no reason to doubt it, then the driver had left out the part about bailing on the Marines and had lied when he told me he was buying the car from his Sergeant.

They also said they would recommend to California to release me, but I would have to spend the night in jail before they would hear back. So back in the cars and off we went to the Reeves County Jail. I was scared to death but figured surely California would agree to let me go and I could make it through the night. After all, we’re all in this together, right?

Wrong.

It was a nightmare, especially the first two days.

We arrived at the jail, a fairly new looking modern facility in what looked like downtown Pecos. Concrete block was the building material of choice. We changed out of our clothes and into what I would call blue pajamas, the standard inmate uniform. I was allowed to make the proverbial one phone call, so I called my parents. They weren’t home, but luckily my brother answered and took the down the information as to how I happened to now be a guest of Reeves County. I promised to call as soon as I got out.

The driver and I were put in the same 8-man “pod,” which was a central room made of concrete block with two small stainless steel picnic-style tables with benches on either side bolted to the floor in the center. There were eight individual cells, four on each side of the pod. Each of the cell doors had a small window. The doors and lights were controlled electronically by the jailers from switches just inside the door into the pod. The area in front of that door was separated from the central room by floor to ceiling iron bars, so the jailers could safely come in to flip the switches and to transfer inmates in and out of the pod through a locked gate in the steel bars.

In the morning, the lights were turned on and the cell doors were opened, which allowed us out of the cells and into the central room. This would prove to be unfortunate. At night we were told to “cell up,” the doors were closed and the lights turned off. Otherwise, there was no supervision of the pods, and the inmates could do pretty much as they pleased during the day.

I quickly learned that the other inmates in our pod were all multi-convicted felons awaiting trial for various major violent crimes like murder, robbery, assault and rape. Basically, this was just a pit stop for them on their way back to prison. Of course, they wanted to know what we’re in for because, as I also quickly learned, this establishes the food chain among the inmates.

The food chain works like this: Violent offenders or frequent flyers are generally at the top. All six of these inmates were at the very top: violent frequent flyers facing long prison sentences, including life, and had little to lose if they got in further trouble. Non-violent inmates and petty criminals are below them. And at the bottom are first-time people who have no prior criminal record to brag about.

But you’re even lower if they think you “ratted” or “snitched” on another inmate. This would be the sewer scum of the inmate world, the lowest of the low, worthy of scorn and severe physical abuse.

So as far as the inmates were concerned, we were new-to-their-neighborhood fresh meat and the food chain needed to be established right away.

The driver tells them that he went AWOL in San Diego and stole a car so he could get to San Antonio. They aren't impressed and threaten to kick his soldier boy ass. I’m up next. I tell them that I was just a hitchhiker who had no idea the car was stolen. They really don’t like hearing this because if I’m a first timer and actually innocent then I’m not even a criminal. I’m just a punk at the bottom of the food chain, even lower than the driver.

I’ve now been in jail all of maybe five minutes and already I’m in big trouble. But it was about to get a lot worse.

The driver pipes up that not only am I just a punk but that I’m soon going to be a college boy. I sink even lower in their eyes. But he’s not done yet.

The driver then tells them I’m a snitch. He says that he didn’t tell the cops anything when we were arrested but that I ratted on him, which technically wasn’t true as this was the first time I heard him say he really had gone AWOL and really had stolen the car. I had just told the Ranger and Deputy what the driver had told me and it certainly didn’t include anything about him being an AWOL car thief. In fact, at the beginning of the interview I thought I was kind of sticking up for him since surely a Marine, one of our nation’s “few good men,” wouldn’t go AWOL and steal a car, right? Although I protested that wasn’t the case, that I hadn’t ratted on him, it didn’t matter. The inmates quickly go into a rage, and all of their anger was focused on me. It was six sociopaths versus one very naive young man with the driver looking relieved in the background. They didn’t like him, but they hated me.

After spending some time describing in great detail some pretty horrible things they had done to snitches in the past and how they were going to do the same to me, each one trying to outdo the other in terms of pain about to be inflicted, they decided to get high first. So off to a back cell they went while I sat on my bunk, hopelessly waiting for the torture contest to commence. Luckily, after they got high on what I guess was heroin, they seemed to forget about hurting me and just nodded out for the evening. But it was made abundantly clear that I had no friends, including the driver, and it was just a matter of time until I was going to get a beatdown or worse. At this point, I’m really, really hoping California is going to let me go first thing in the morning. All of this made for a very long night, and I didn’t get much sleep.

The next morning, we’re woken up when a jailer comes in, flips the doors and lights switches and yells, “Breakfast.” Some inmate helpers, called “Trustees,” are with him and they roll in a cart with breakfast trays that they slide one at a time through an opening in the bars. You grab a tray and sit at one of the tables to eat. The jailer and trustees return about 15 minutes later, collect the trays and leave. Lunch and dinner would be a rinse and repeat of the routine at breakfast. Meal times would prove to be the highlight of the day as there was never much food at any one meal so you were always hungry and besides, there was nothing else to do. No phones, no pen and paper, no books, no tv. No nothing.

Apparently the driver was still tired from all the hard work that it took to abandon his military service, steal a car, flee halfway across the country and screw me over because he didn’t wake up. One of the inmates grabbed his tray and put it on the table. But the driver continued sleeping so the other inmates ate his food before the jailer and trustees came back to collect the trays. He woke up later, and when he asked about breakfast the other inmates laughed and told him too bad, they ate it, literally you snooze you lose. They were very pleased with themselves and took a lot of pleasure rubbing his nose in it. I was fine with it because it drew their attention away from me.

Then a jailer came and escorted me and the driver to the courthouse across the street. He said we were going to see the Judge to sign extradition papers. On the way there, I ask whether they had heard from California. No. The driver tells the jailer he didn’t get breakfast because he didn’t wake up in time. The jailer asks what happened to it, and the driver tells him the other inmates said they ate it. The driver asks if he can get another breakfast. No. But the jailer did seem to be very interested to learn that the other inmates had eaten the driver’s breakfast. I didn’t know it at the time, but this would prove to be A Pivotal Moment for me. Twice.

We sat in a holding cell for a while, then one at a time were escorted into a Judge’s chambers. The Judge looked to be 90 years old. He told me that if I signed the paper waiving extradition then California would have a month to come and get me but it would probably be more like a week. If I didn’t sign, it could take months and they would eventually get me anyway. Sounded like a no-brainer so I didn’t hesitate to sign. Besides, I’m thinking I’m getting out as soon as they hear from California.

I thought about telling the Judge I was an innocent young man going through hell in his jail and begging for his help. But he didn’t seem all that interested in me or why I was there, and with California surely releasing me at any moment there just didn’t seem to be any point.

We’re escorted back to the jail. When we return to the pod, we discover that the other inmates are locked in their cells as punishment for eating the driver’s breakfast. They are beyond pissed and start screaming at us that they’re going to kick our asses for snitching on them when they get out.

The driver immediately tells them that I was the one who told on them, that I’m the snitch, that I’m just a punk who talks to cops. I was stunned as this time there was not even a “technically not true” argument. This time it was absolutely not true. This was completely on the driver, and I had nothing to do with it. Frankly, given how my relationship with the driver had deteriorated almost from the very beginning, I couldn’t care less if he starved to death. If the other inmates had been the sharing types, I probably would have eaten some of his breakfast, too.

So again I protest my innocence but again it didn’t matter. The inmates go absolutely berserk this time, pounding and kicking their cell doors while screaming how they are going to break my arms and legs, rip off my ears, bite off my nose, poke out my eyes, rape me, kill me, etc. It was pure pandemonium and I could barely hear myself think. One by one each inmate made me stand in front of his door and look him in the eye through the window as he screamed all the terrible things he was going to do to me. They were like a pack of wild dogs going crazy. I just remember lots of bared teeth and bloodshot eyes with just a thin piece of chicken wire glass between their noses and mine. It was terrifying. I had to resign myself to the fact that this was about to happen, that it was going to be really, really bad and that there was even a chance I might not live through it.

I could feel myself going numb with fear.

Pivotal Moment Number 1:

Luckily, they made so much noise that a jailer showed up to see what was going on. I figured it was now or never, so I told him they were going to kill me if he didn’t get me out of there. I truly felt like I was begging for my life and practically got down on my knees while doing it. I didn’t even know if there was anywhere else they could put me, so this was taking a big chance since now I really was “snitching” and doing it right in front of them. I don’t like to think about what would have happened had he just turned around and left.

But much to my relief, he pulled me out and took me to another pod. I didn’t know what to expect but it certainly couldn’t be any worse than where I had just been. Luckily, it turned out the difference in pods was like night and day. The inmates in the new pod were non-violent types, mostly petty thieves and marijuana dealers, which is where I should have been put in the first place.

They knew about the pod I had just come from and were impressed that I managed to get out of there without first getting a serious beatdown as it had happened to a couple of them. In fact, at least one of them and maybe both, I can’t remember, had to go to the hospital as a result, which only confirmed for me that I had just narrowly avoided being seriously injured or worse. The only issues in my new pod would prove to be boredom and worrying about my long-term future, both of which were a welcome relief compared to what I had just gone through.

Later that day, the Ranger stopped by to tell me that they can’t let me go because California wanted to talk to me in person. He said he would vouch for me when they arrived. I think he felt sorry for me. Like the Judge, he said California had up to 30 days but it would probably be more like a week. I was definitely crushed—how could they not have understood that I was innocent?—but at least I now felt relatively safe and was extremely grateful for that. I wasn’t sure if he would really vouch for me, but he had taken the trouble to come by to tell me the news so I took that as a sign he would follow through. But given that he had told me that he recommended to them that I be released in the first place, I wasn’t sure how much of a difference it would make.

All of the above was to explain to you how I got to such a dark place in my mind and how for the one and only time in my life I came to truly hate another human being.

In jail, you have a lot of time to think because, after all, there’s really nothing else to do. I thought about the set of circumstances that led to me being there. Bill asking me to come back to California. The delay getting through Arizona. Waking up that last morning just in time to catch a ride with the very first car that went by.

And I thought a lot about the driver. How he picked me up knowing he had fled from the Marines and stolen the car, putting me smack dab in the middle of his criminal conduct. How he had gone from pretending to be a nice guy to revealing himself to be a jerk by aggressively demanding gas money. How he had lied by not telling me he was AWOL and by telling me he was buying the car. How he could have at least told the Ranger and Deputy that I was just a hitchhiker and I would have been out of there and on my way home. How he went out of his way to feed me to the wolves that first night so the other inmates wouldn’t pick on him. How he did it again after we got back from the courthouse. How he had lied about me twice, and how close I came to being seriously injured or worse both times as a result. I even wondered if he was going to try to blame me for stealing the car.

I don’t engage in hate as a general rule. It’s a bad way to go through life. But I have to be honest here: I hated him. Still do almost 50 years on. But I also figured there was nothing I could do about it.

Turned out, I figured wrong. My Second Pivotal Moment was about to happen.

The next morning, I have to get a haircut because inmate heads were shaved to avoid potential issues with lice. I’m escorted downstairs by the same jailer who had taken the driver and me to the courthouse the day before, the same one to whom the driver had complained about not getting breakfast. We walk into a small room, just big enough for two chairs and the barber, who is standing there waiting for me. I immediately recognize him as one of the inmates from the first pod. In fact, he was one of the most vocal in describing all the different ways he was going to torture, then kill me. This guy was a complete psycho. I sat down in the barber chair, and the jailer sat directly across from us.

I immediately realized that here’s my chance for revenge.

Pivotal Moment Number 2:

I didn’t say a word to the barber, and of course he’s on his best behavior in front of the jailer. Instead, I started talking to the jailer while the inmate was shaving my head. I had to be careful because I didn’t want the jailer to know what I was doing, which was getting a message to Mr. Psycho to take back to his buddies. So in a roundabout way, I asked the jailer if he remembered taking me and the driver to the courthouse the day before. He said he did. I asked him if he remembered who complained about not getting breakfast. He said it was the driver. I asked him who said that the other inmates ate his breakfast. He said the driver told him. I asked him if I had ever said anything about breakfast, the driver or the other inmates. He said no, you only asked about California contacting the jail.

I knew the barber heard every word. I was banking on the fact that not only had the driver been the snitch but that the driver had played the barber and his buddies by fooling them into thinking it was me. After all, inmates may hate snitches but nobody likes to get played so I thought this would be more icing on the cake. I figured the barber would share this new information with his pod pals and that there would be some sort of serious consequence for the driver. I thought I would probably never know, but at least I had given it a shot.

I should be clear: by “serious consequence” I mean a beating, the more savage the better as far as I was concerned. They could have killed him, and I would have been glad to hear it. Like I said, I hated that guy.

After my haircut, as we were getting up to go back to the pod I gave the barber a quick glance and raised my eyebrows as in, “Did you get it?” He gave me a small smile and a nod. I quickly smiled and nodded back.

Bingo!

At least, I hoped so. After all, it’s not like we had been buddies so there was no other reason for us to smile and nod. My last interaction with him had not been exactly warm and friendly. But based on my experience with the barber and the rest of those sociopaths, I really thought the driver was now in big trouble and I took a lot of satisfaction in that. I also took a somewhat perverse pleasure in that I had managed to “smuggle” a message to the psychos in that pod, earning back some respect for playing the inmate game. Kind of stupid, I realize, but nevertheless a small point of pride. I told the other inmates in my new pod what I had done, and they thought it was hilarious. They all agreed that the driver was going to get the sh*t beat out of him.

As an aside, my new pod inmates kept telling me I really needed to get an attorney. But to me it seemed pointless. I had already signed the waiver of extradition, so I was pretty sure I would either be released or taken back to California within the week. Even if an attorney could get me released from jail, I literally had nowhere to go and was almost out of cash so a hotel was out of the question. Nevertheless, they kept telling me I was going to get screwed since I didn’t have one. A couple of them told me they had hired the same lawyer (I don’t remember his name but it might have been “Rodney Scott,” so let’s go with that). They constantly bragged about how Rodney Scott was the best lawyer in town, how he always got them off, how he cost a lot of money, blah blah blah. I just shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t have a lawyer, and I certainly wasn’t in a position to hire this Rodney Scott, and that was just the way it was.

But somewhere around Day 3 or 4, a jailer opened the pod door and announced “Bethune, You have a visitor.” In walked an older gentleman wearing a suit and tie and holding a coffee mug like he owned the place. I was stunned. Who was this Big Shot and why would he visit me? I walked up, and the man in the suit stuck his hand through the bars, shook my hand and said in a deep Texas drawl, “Mr. Bethune, I’m Rodney Scott, a lawyer here in town. Your Daddy called and asked me to check on you. Are you doing ok, son?”

I said I was alright and that I was just waiting to be released or taken to California. We chatted for a minute or two. Like the Judge and the Ranger before him, he told me that the California cops would arrive within the week. Mr. Scott also told me that the Ranger who arrested me was a “good man and a good Ranger and if he said he would vouch for you then he will definitely vouch for you.” This made me feel a little better. And he said that if I needed anything just to let one of the jailers know and he would come right over because his office was right across the street. He said he would call my Dad to let him know I was ok. I said thanks, we shook hands again and then he turned around and left.

Given that there was no privacy at all in this jail, this conversation took place not only right in front of the jailer but everyone in my pod saw and heard us, too.

I turned around, and all the other inmates were now wide-eyed staring at me with their jaws on the ground like “Whoa, Rodney Scott’s your lawyer and you didn’t even have to hire him!” My stock shot up in everyone’s eyes, and I didn’t have to listen to their incessant bragging about him any more. I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Scott didn’t even acknowledge his other two clients, which made me wonder if they really had hired him.

[At the time I had no idea how my father had managed to contact Mr. Scott. When I returned home, Dad told me that he had an old friend from his student days at Duke University who went on to become a lawyer in Dallas. My Dad called him, and this person put him in touch with Mr. Scott. He never charged my parents a dime despite my father telling him to please send a bill for any services rendered. He really didn’t do any legal work other than that one visit, but he did help me cash a Western Union check my parents sent to me a few days later—see Comments below.]

Five very long but uneventful days after I had my head shaved, I’m finally told to roll up because the California cops have arrived. I had practiced my “I’m innocent” speech all week, listing all the reasons that showed I didn’t have anything to do with stealing the car. I’m escorted downstairs, determined to give the speech of my life. Two California cops were sitting at a table having coffee with the Ranger and Deputy who had arrested me. I walk in. They look up, and one of the California cops immediately says, “Mr. Bethune, we’re going to let you go.”

I guess they just needed to hear my story in person from the Ranger. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to give my speech but was happy to finally be going home. Looking back, I’m extremely grateful to the Ranger for keeping his word. If it weren’t for him, for all I know the California cops would have said something like “Wow, that’s a great speech! Now shut up and get on the plane.” I was then given a bag with my clothes and told to go change in the holding cell.

A jailer opens the door to the cell and much to my surprise there was the driver, sitting on a bench, dressed in his street clothes and wearing leg irons. I had just assumed I would never see him again but instead he was sitting right in front of me, all packaged up and ready to go. Obviously, they had brought him down first.

Much to my delight, he didn’t look too good, which is a bit of an understatement. In fact, he looked like he’d been in a major car accident. His head was the size of a basketball, his cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. One of his arms was in a cast. In addition to his street clothes, he was wearing some sort of padded jacket around his chest. Faking sympathy, I said something like, “Oh man, what happened?” When he opened his mouth to answer, I could see that he was now missing his top front teeth. He said, with his mouth kind of clenched, that the other inmates had beat him so bad that they gave him a concussion, broke his nose, his jaw, his arm and some ribs and knocked out some teeth.

He didn’t really want to talk—I think it hurt too much—but I kept asking him questions while I was getting dressed. I was curious, but I also was enjoying seeing and hearing him in so much pain. He told me that he had to be taken to the hospital, where they wired his jaw, put a cast on his arm, gave him the padded jacket for his ribs and some pain medication that wasn’t really working. It was clear this guy was hurting bad.

Me, on the other hand, I was feeling Grrrreat! (nod to Tony The Tiger)

I said wow, when did this happen? Was it the day I was taken out of the pod? He said no, it was the next day. This would coincide with when I got my head shaved, had the conversation with the jailer and exchanged secret knowing nods with my new pal, the psycho barber.

Sweet!

I have to hand it to those guys in the first pod. They were very good at what they do. This was five days after the beating and the driver was obviously still in a lot of pain—the very sort of pain he tried twice to have inflicted on me. Plus now he was going to have to deal with missing teeth, a life-long souvenir compliments of the Reeves County Jail. And who knows, with any luck maybe his head injury would come back to haunt him later in life. Sadly, I’m sure his head, face, nose, jaw, arm and ribs must have healed at some point but hopefully there was a lot more suffering before that happened.

As I was changing into my clothes, I thought about telling him that I was the one who had caused him to get that beating, but he probably already knew it anyway. I thought about telling him that I had hoped that they would kill him so that I could piss on his grave, but he probably already knew that, too. And I even briefly entertained the notion to hit him on his broken jaw as hard as I could.

But I didn’t. I didn’t want to get into any further trouble, and besides, I’m just not a violent person. What was done was done. He had screwed me over multiple times, and I had gotten revenge, served cold so he never saw it coming.

Now it was finally time to move on.

So I just finished getting dressed, knocked on the door and left. My parents wired some money to me, and Rodney Scott kindly called the bank to vouch for me so I could cash the check. I bought a bus ticket to Las Cruces, where I flew to Dallas and then on to Atlanta, arriving home the next day. My guess is that the driver was kicked out of the Marines, did some jail time and eventually made it back to San Antonio, where I hope he endured a short, miserable little life and came to a bad end that involved a lot of pain and agony. That is, when I even bother to think about him at all, which is hardly ever.

This is my “sweetest revenge story.” Thanks for reading.