Dawn of a New Day (22 page)

“Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”

Bobby had been well drilled by his lawyer, Errol Baker—Baker, at least, was one of his lawyers. As Lieutenant Scarlotti prophesied, the bust had been highly publicized; the bail had been set at one million dollars, which Bobby had managed to make, and he had been on the program of good behavior ever since his arrest. Baker had told him, however, “It's like locking the door after the chickens have been stolen, Bobby. The damage is done, and that dear lady is going to throw the book at you.”

As Bobby stood before Judge Fryerson, his mind seemed to scramble frantically.
How did I get into all this?
he thought.
I can't go to prison. It would kill me!
He looked up at the judge with a speech ready, the one that Baker had grilled him on, but somehow nothing came. The trial had proved conclusively that Bobby had been guilty of using drugs, although Baker had foiled the attempt to prove that he had been selling them. This was ridiculous, for he had never sold anyone any sort of drug in all his life. He wanted to say, “Judge, you can't put everybody in jail in Los Angeles that uses drugs,” but that thought died stillborn, and he remembered Baker's admonition. “Don't try to sweet-talk that lady on the bench. Don't try to outthink her. Don't try anything. Just tell her that you are guilty of using drugs, and you didn't know what you were doing when you were offering Scarlotti a bribe.”

“Your honor,” Bobby said, his voice so thin that those spectators in the rear of the courtroom had to lean forward, “I've pleaded guilty to attempting to bribe a police officer, and, of course, I was on drugs when I did it.” The eyes of Judge Fryerson bored into his, and panic came to him.
She's going to put me in jail for a hundred years.
He cleared his throat, then shook his head. “I was drunk, your honor, or I would never have tried such a thing. I don't even really remember it. I know that's no excuse, but it's all I've got. I–I would ask for you to show leniency.”

Judge Fryerson had been prepared for more than this. She had never known a rock star, and all during the trial she had been mildly shocked by the manners of Bobby Stuart. He was quiet and subdued, not at all the smiling, frenzied young man she had seen on her screen so often. Secretly she was an admirer of rock music, and Bobby Stuart had been her favorite.

She had also been aware of Stuart's family, for his father, Jerry, and his mother, Bonnie, had been in the courtroom and had served as character witnesses. She had also been aware of Bobby's twin brother, Richard, whom she had met and whose work she knew. He was a genuine young man, Richard Stuart. The judge had pondered over the two young men whose pathways had gone in such different directions. Judge Fryerson had become interested in the family and was impressed with their credentials. Many of the Stuart men had served their country in the wars, and most of them were exemplary citizens, with the exception of Stephen Stuart, who had spent some time in prison.

All of this passed through Judge Fryerson's mind. She had fought with her own conscience, for she never allowed sentiment to interfere with her sentences. Now, however, she looked at the young man who was waiting, his head held high and his lips pulled tight in a line of fear. She wondered if her original idea had been the best. She had a mind that worked like chain lightning, and sitting there she made an instant shift toward a much lighter sentence.

“Mr. Stuart, you've been tried and found guilty, and there is no question of that decision. Your plea that you were under the influence of alcohol and drugs is nothing to the point.” Judge Fryerson hesitated, her eyes turning toward Jerry and Bonnie Stuart. She saw the agony in their eyes and wondered what it was like, as a parent, to be in their position.

“You have more responsibility than most men, for all over this country young people look to you. You have failed miserably to show them what a man of honor should be….”

Bobby stood there facing the judge as his lawyer had instructed him, keeping his eyes on hers, and shame filled him as she continued to enumerate the failures of his life. Despair came to him then, for he could see but one end.

Finally Judge Fryerson said, “I sentence you to five years in the penitentiary.” She waited until the murmur had gone over the room, for it was a stiff sentence for a celebrity. She saw Bobby Stuart's mother drop her head and knew that she was weeping; then she said, “Against my better judgment, I am suspending your sentence, and you will do community service during the period of your sentence.” She saw relief wash over the face of Bobby Stuart, and she leaned forward and said, “Mr. Stuart, I know this sounds very good to you right now, but I will be in touch with your parole officers. I am going to work closely with them, and let me say, if you step outside the line one time—one drug offense, one charge of any sort—you will be inside prison walls, and you will serve all of your term. Is that clear, Mr. Stuart?”

“Yes, your honor,” Bobby whispered, “—and thank you for your leniency.”

Once again the judge looked over at Bobby's parents. “You have a fine family, and you have been a disgrace to them.” The judge's voice rang like cold steel, not loud, but it entered into Bobby Stuart's soul like a sword. “I am giving you a chance to become a decent, respectable member of this family. It will be your last chance, I think, Mr. Stuart.” Judge Fryerson picked up her gavel and smote the surface of the desk in front of her. “This court is dismissed!”

Bobby turned blindly, tears in his eyes, as his lawyer whispered in his ear, “It's great, Bobby! It's great! Couldn't have been better.”

But Bobby paid no attention, for his parents were there, his mother's arms around his neck and tears on her cheeks. He looked into his father's eyes and saw the relief—but he could feel only shame. Others came, and he did not hear them, for he was saying deep in his heart,
I can't take another fall. I couldn't stand it—and neither could my family.

Corporal Mark Stevens had become reconciled to the fact that the men who ran the war did not themselves understand it. When General Westmoreland had been asked to comment, he had said, “This is a different war than the Americans have ever been asked to fight.” When asked, “How is it different?” he had sputtered, “It's just different.”

The Battle of Hue had been a hellish struggle for individual and corporate survival. It was not the bloodiest battle of the Vietnam War, but it was the hardest and bitterest, and even the coldest chronicles somehow revealed the white-hot fury of the battle that had raged.

Now, after Hue, there had been some lessening of the pressure, and Mark was sitting on the ground with three members of his squad wondering how they had made it through alive. He studied the face of Harold Stasom, the tall, blond wheat farmer from Minnesota; his glance moved to Johnnie Mayfield, a minor league pitcher for the Arkansas Travelers, and finally to Ike Cantor, an aluminum siding salesman from Detroit. The four of them were survivors, and bitterness rose up in Mark as he thought of the men who were not here but who had been carried away in body bags for burial back in the States.

The jungle around them brooded, it seemed, with some sort of tenacious threat that never left. Mark had forgotten what a full night's sleep was like, and glancing at the strained faces of his buddies, he knew they were all stretched out tight.

Johnnie Mayfield was speaking of his days as a pitcher. He was a left-hander, and said, “I'm gonna play for the Washington Senators one of these days. You guys will say, ‘I knew him when he was only a hero in Nam.'”

The others all grinned, and Ike Cantor said, “I guess I must not have been there. When was all this heroic stuff that you pulled?”

“Why, you just don't pay attention, Ike. I must have saved your life at least a dozen times, and you never even noticed.”

Ike Cantor summoned a grin and shook his head, saying nothing. He had a wife back in Detroit and a baby son he had never seen; Mark knew that his mind was preoccupied with his family, and he wished that the mail would come with good news.

Harold Stasom picked up a handful of dirt and let it run through his fingers. He watched the thick, gray soil as it fell to the ground and said in a discouraged voice, “I'd hate to try and farm this land.”

“Tell us again about that farm of yours,” Johnnie Mayfield said. “We haven't heard it but about a thousand times.”

“Go on and laugh.” Stasom shook his head. “It's all I want. Just let me get back to that farm and grow some wheat.”

The four men sat there knit together by the dangers and horrors of war. Finally after a time, Captain Sipes appeared, walked over, and stood looking down at the four men, keeping them at ease. “How's it going, Corporal?”

“Fine, Captain.” Mark nodded. He was aware of the officer's eyes fixed on him, and he tried to sit up straighter. Lately he had been falling asleep even with his mess kit full of food. That was during the daylight hours, but during the night he often had nightmares, and Stasom or Mayfield would have to hold him down until they passed.

Sipes finally said, “That's good.” He turned, walked away, and went at once to the command tent, where he found a short, stocky lieutenant named William Jefferson. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I think Stevens has gone almost his limit.”

Jefferson looked up in surprise. “Why, he's the best man we've got in the company. Always out there on point, ready for any patrol.”

“I think he's pushed himself too hard. Look at his eyes sometime.” Sipes nodded. “He looks just like Bristol did before he went off the deep end.”

Lieutenant Jefferson paused, thinking. He finally scratched his bearded face and said, “You're right about that. I had noticed he's moving slower, but we all are.”

“Well, just keep your eye on him.” He hesitated, then said, “I want him sent to R and R just as soon as this next patrol is over.”

“Yes, sir, and the rest of the squad too?”

Sipes hesitated. “I think we can work that. They've been together a long time. Yes, set it up right after this next patrol.”

“Shouldn't be much of a problem. Don't expect any VCs in that area.”

Moving carefully through the jungle under the tall trees, Mark was strangely at ease. He was happy, or as close as he had come to it in some time, for Lieutenant Jefferson had prompted him. “Just one more milk run of the patrol, Mark, then you and the rest of the squad go back of the lines for R and R.” He had grinned, seeing the light in Mark's eyes. “You could use a little of that. I guess we all could.”

Now as they moved forward, Mark walked upright, and his eyes were not as alert as they should have been, for the lieutenant had spoken of this patrol as being mere routine. They were fanned out but came to a thick portion of jungle with one trail. “I'll take the point,” he called out, and he watched as the squad formed behind him. He started moving through the trees, looking up at the sun that glittered through, almost blinding him. He thought suddenly of Prue and wondered what she was doing at this exact moment. He had learned to take refuge in thoughts of his family, and now as he seemed to see her strong features, her dark eyes, and black hair, a smile touched his lips.

The shattering outburst of fire came as such a shock that for one split second he could not think; then his training came to his aid and he whirled, saying, “Ambush! Take cover!”

But then as he looked down the line, he saw all three of the other squad had been cut down by the automatic fire. He saw a flash of movement up in a tree and opened up on it. He saw one body fall but had no more time. The fire was increasing, and he ran back and fell down beside Harold Stasom. “Harold!” he cried out. He rolled the man over and saw that a bullet had taken him in the temple. Stasom's eyes were open, and Mark knew he was dead. Rage and anger came to Mark then as it never had, but he moved along until he found the other two men, Mayfield and Cantor, also dead. Madness came to Mark Stevens then. He was aware of shouts from behind him, that help was coming, but he straightened up, walked back into the fire of the VC, shooting when he saw a flash of movement knowing that he was a dead man, but not caring. The loss of his three friends had pushed him over the edge, and he wanted to kill every Vietcong he could before they got him.