The Kantaberry Tales

I had arrived in Spanish Wells on a forced vacation about a year and a half ago. I’d been told to get lost by my ‘business’ associates. I met a pretty girl, robbed the local bank, bought a yacht with the money, traded the yacht for some diamonds then sold the diamonds for a substantial profit, incriminated my best friend for the theft and returned the stolen portion of the money to the bank. I wrote a book about the caper, named it ‘Malice in Pinderland’ and I thought that that was the end of it.

Boy was I wrong!

The sound of the judge’s gavel still echoed in my ears as I heard him say “Will the defendant please rise”.

It seemed as though I was in another world, an out of body experience. I slowly rose to my feet in unison with my attorney. I could hear my heart beating and I was sure that most of the assembled crowd in the courtroom could also hear it. I wasn’t sure if I supposed to look at the judge or hang my head in shame. It probably made no difference now anyway, his decision had been made, where I looked or how I looked didn’t matter. All I could think of was let’s get this over with; I’ll face the music, whatever it may be but don’t draw the decision out any longer. In actual fact I was quite calm. I suppose that when you are faced with the inevitable, when you are unable to have any effect on the result and knowing that there is absolutely nothing more that you can do; then there is no point in agonizing over the problem.

The Judge peered at me from his seat on the bench as if he was seeing me for the first time. Maybe he was, for during the brief trial, I had been convinced that for most of the time he had been asleep. I had hoped that he had just closed his eyes to help with his concentration but I knew that I would always think about that and wonder if he had his mind made up long before my case came to trial.

“This has been a most unusual trial” he began “the defendant may either be one of the most repentant men I’ve ever had the occasion to have in my court, or he may be one of the most foolish. I’m not sure. I hereby sentence you to three years!”

One hundred and fifty six weeks! One thousand and ninety two days! If you say it quickly it doesn’t sound like much, but if you’re in the prime of your life, three years is a long time. Imagine waiting at the airport for a connecting flight that has been delayed for three or fours hours, you know well the feeling of exasperation, the frustration over the waste of time. If you multiply this slight inconvenience to your schedule by a factor of five thousand, you’ll have some idea of what I was feeling as the sentence was handed down. I’d be an old man by the time I was released. And what would my daughter think of me? And Melanie? Would she forgive me? Was it asking too much to expect her to wait?