Wanted - Reward 25 cents

By Dave Lemay

This book reads like fiction but it's a true life story. Just when you begin to think that the main character is about to get a break, his life is once again turned upside down and inside out. Escape from prison, life as a fugitive and illegal alien assures that his life will never be easy. In the back of his mind there is always a yearning to have a more normal life but marrying the wrong woman placed him yet again in conflict with the law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781678095710

Book preview

Reward 25 cents       by Dave Lemay

Version Publishing date February 2021

Older titles and versions will not be current

Copyrights @ 2013-2021 Dave Lemay All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior permission of the publisher/author. ISBN- 978-1-6780-9571-0

Dedicated To:  My wife Denise who assisted with proof reading and put up with watching me write for endless years.  My mother Rita, my brother Ernie, who were somehow always there in my time of need and my sister Helene, died at age 63, who assisted me greatly to eventually attain a newfound semblance of freedom in my home country.  My brother George, died at age 54, my Dad, Lionel, died at age 86 and all of my true friends, whom you'll find, herein.

About the Cover

The artwork on the cover of this book is something that I forever cherish.  Unfortunately, I’m not sure, just who, I have to thank for it.  In the early seventies, I used to hang out at a restaurant at the corner of Young and Bloor streets in Toronto.  Guess that statement really dates me.  Anyway, one day, I was sitting there having a soft drink and when I looked up, a man was busily drawing something.  When I got up, he handed me this sketch of myself, drawn on a napkin.  At the time, we both got a laugh out of it but he never knew what an accurate depiction he had just handed me.

I tried to remember who this person was but so many had passed that my memory was fogged.  The first and most likely possibility was a guy named, Sonny.  We often had coffee together and years later, when I’d returned home again, I learned that Sonny’s real name was, Leon Redbone, a secret that he never revealed back then.  I've always wanted to ask him if he were my artist but he's become a bit hard to reach due to his musical career and stature as an entertainer.

Anyway, I saved that napkin, mailed it home to my sister and seventeen-years later, she gave it back to me.  That little sketch hit the nail on the head, especially the part that read Reward 25 cents.  I later added, Wanted to the cover, simply because it seemed a more complete title.

Introduction

It doesn't matter if you call it marijuana, grass, pot, or even the killer weed, like they did in that really old movie, Refer Madness.  It's always been a controversial subject and it's taken many years to finally see the laws begin to change.  Some of us were  personally affected by those irrational laws and we understand full well what it was like to be singled out for punishment, for petty amounts of marijuana and consequently, to then have your entire life, forever altered. 

The story that I am about to relate to you is true to the best of my recollection.  Some of the names have been changed, some have not.  Coming into contact with the law and being penalized for a crime can have ramifications that last a lifetime, which is a very important point of this book.  As you'll see, an arrest record can follow an individual for the rest of his/her life.

In this book, the laws of two countries are examined and scrutinized.  You will see a people variation, as well as, legal variations.  You will get to compare the differences in arrest and convictions, when residing in the USA, as compared to Canada.  Though both countries may appear similar at first glance, the rights of the individual, as well as the treatment of individuals, differ considerably.

It is said that the USA houses more people in jails and prisons than any other country in the world.  Worse yet, jails hold large numbers of inmates that are not yet convicted, while prisons have terms that far exceed the length of time that would be allocated anywhere else in the world.  It's commonly known that there is virtually no emphasis on rehabilitation for those incarcerated in the USA and that most convicts released will be back.  Essentially, jails and prisons actually stack the odds against the offender, which pretty much assures that his chances at a normal life will never again be possible. 

What many fail to see or comprehend is that prisons are a business.  Without customers, inmates in this case, the business of incarceration would fail, so concentrating on rehabilitation serves no purpose.   

The long and the short of it is that we lock people up for silly and absurd reasons and without a plan that will reap positive results.  My knowledge of this was unfortunately, acquired first hand.

As this story unfolds, ask yourself these questions; if I found myself in his shoes, in his predicament, what would I do?  If you think that what I did was insane, illogical, irrational, then you just might be right.  Next, ask yourself, is this the kind of legal system that I would want in the event that I were in a similar circumstance? 

I know, I know, it will never happen to you.  Well, open your eyes, because it could, even if you are a law abiding individual.

If you read this story and you can sense and feel the highs, the lows, the pain and even the pleasure of a very different kind of life, then this book has been worthwhile.

Chapter 1 - Small Town – Small Minds

Yes, I went to prison but don't be too quick to judge.  I was young, naive and not, very worldly, to say the least.  You get to decide if my crime was so heinous as to deserve such a plight, or if what I did, should even be considered a criminal act.  First, just a bit of background.

I grew up in a small rural town and making it out of high school was my only goal at the time because I had no plan in mind whatsoever, for my future.  I was an honest and trust worthy kid and so the thought of ending up in trouble with the law seemed preposterous.

Just out of high school and in need of earning a living, I got a job as a Psychiatric Attendant at the State Hospital, with a referral from my Dad who also worked there.  I was hired, trained and officially employed in a new career in just a few short weeks.  It was OK but I just kept thinking that there must be more to life.  If there were anything good or positive about this job, it was that I could at least say, that I was the guy with the keys.  You have to admit, that's an important distinction.

Sometimes, I worked the prison ward and for whatever reason, I wound up feeling sorry for the men who had wound up here.  That was far from being a universal feeling however, because there were some really bad individuals in here who may well have deserved far worse than this.  I met one guy who was a pretty good artist with a pencil.  He did a sketch one day that so caught my eye that I decided to purchase it for a pack of butts.  It was a hand, holding onto the bars from within but there was something about it that vibrated with incredible feeling.  In this simple sketch, he was able to relate the loneliness and desperation of confinement, the sensation of loosing one's freedom and the pain of incarceration.  It was eerie.  When I viewed this sketch, I felt somehow linked to his misfortune.  When I went home after a day's work, I now had a greater comprehension of what it must feel like to remain in lock up. 

I was but one of the small cogs in the wheel of this system, whereas the courts and psychiatrists made all of the decisions.  It wasn't my job to feel or care about these people but rather, merely to perform my function.  My involvement was not supposed to run deep and when my hours were over, I was supposed to forget that my day involved working with real people.  Theoretically, that sounded like the logical way for things to be but somehow, the bars were getting to me, too.

These were the days when The Beach Boys were on the radio singing songs about California, beaches, and lots of blond young ladies.  I was still young and the idea of working the rest of my life really hadn't caught up with me.  When I weighed my options, it seemed ridiculous to be working, when I could be seeing the world and maybe traveling.  When a friend suggested a trip to the west coast, he didn't have to ask twice.  I quit the job after only having been there for a half-year or so and a few weeks later, I joined my buddy, Johnny Z. who was already residing in that land of sunshine.  When in New Hampshire he’d met up with two brothers who were originally from Laguna Beach and they had offered us a roof over our heads until we got settled in.  Neither of us had ever experienced living away from mom and dad before, so this turned out to be our very first venture away from the nest.

The first thing I learned in California was that most kids were into smoking marijuana, whereas I had never done that before and I still thought having a few beers was a pretty big deal.  Other than seeing posters about marijuana, I had no notion of what it was.  I couldn't figure out why, Johnnie and our friends had begun to smoke but for now, I was leery of it, so I opted to stick with my beer.  Besides, it seemed like when people smoked, everyone became quiet and often went to sleep, which just didn't strike me as a great way to party. 

Johnnie and I weren't rich kids and if we were to survive on our own this far from home, then we had to find jobs.  This was not an easy task and frankly, being out of our normal element, we had a pretty tough time of it, which translated into little money for paying rent and getting enough to eat.  We lasted approximately ten months but finally, we had to admit defeat and headed home again.  I returned to my safe harbor, my folk’s house and of course, I went back to the same old job, because it was easy to get back into. 

What surprised me most about returning was that marijuana was now gaining acceptance here, too.  I never did understand why they called it, the Killer Weed or why the posters stated, One Toke and You're Hooked.  I'd seen an awful lot of people indulge and none of them ever died.  In fact, no one even got sick.  Everyone said that it was more relaxing than drinking alcohol and that it made them feel at peace, which didn't sound so bad.  Strangely, where adults were concerned, it was often compared to heroin, and even considered an addictive narcotic.

In almost every respect, there appeared to be two completely opposing viewpoints.  Those who hadn't tried it were usually afraid of it, while those who had, described it as a pleasant and mellow event.  I'd personally observed that the common signs of trouble, so often prevalent at parties where booze was present, simply did not exist when marijuana was the only indulgent.  Likewise, confrontations, fights and verbal abuse, always seemed to be replaced by a sort of calm and overall peacefulness.

The only negative that I could perceive, as being real, was that marijuana was illegal but then, so was drinking under age.  All facts considered, marijuana appeared to be no worse than drinking and in many respects, less complicated.

Finally, it seemed pointless to resist any longer, so when visiting a friend one-day and it was offered, I broke down and had a toke.  It was interesting, it was pleasant and relaxing and it didn't kill me, nor did I feel, hooked, or any intense need to get more.  In short, marijuana just wasn’t that big of a deal.

So far I had only smoked other people's pot but then I figured maybe it was time to buy a little for myself.  My first purchase was an ounce of Acapulco Gold.  After having smoked just a few joints from my small purchase, an old friend from grade school approached me one day and said that he wanted to try it.  At first, I thought it best to ignore his wishes but whenever he'd see me again, he would pester and plead with me to turn him on.  I'm not sure why I chose to accommodate this guy because he had always been a bit of a reject but I guess I just felt sorry for him.

Dick did a lot of strange things and certain aspects of his personality really concerned me, particularly in regard to his attitude with the opposite sex.  He didn't do very well with girls and he'd concocted his own method of getting what he wanted.  He'd drive his dates to a nearby mountain, so that if they declined to have sex with him, he'd simply tell them to walk home, which would have been a very long walk.  Apparently, this got him laid but never twice with the same girl.  I guess you can't expect too much from a guy whose favorite hobby was bumper jumping.

I finally let him try a few tokes and though it was obvious to me that he was a little buzzed, he claimed not to have had any reaction and so he wanted to try it again sometime.  Like I said before, we weren't great buddies, so I told him I'd have to think about it.

Everyone knew that marijuana was illegal but as far as I could tell, no one had ever been arrested for it, so the severity of the situation remained undetermined.  Kids sometimes got caught drinking under age and they’d had to pay fines and that was more of an embarrassment, than a punishment.  From my perspective, it seemed to me that marijuana was the lesser of the two evils, even though not everyone had the same opinion.

I'd acquired a somewhat lackadaisical attitude about concealing my newfound pleasure, so when I'd visited friends one-day, without forethought, I spoke about my recent purchase and even mentioned keeping it out of doors, under a boat.  This was a pretty stupid move, especially considering that a complete stranger had been in the room.  It was probably nothing to be concerned about but you never know.  I could have easily changed my hiding place but it didn't seem that important.

While I'd been on the west coast I'd seen a lot of cars that were painted in bright and vibrant colors, so now back home again, I had painted my car, canary yellow, thinking it was the cool thing to do.  Well it quickly became obvious that I was driving a police magnet because in those days, there were no yellow cars to be seen in New Hampshire and I was constantly getting pulled over for no reason, every few days or so, but at the time I thought that that was just part of being a teenager. 

Chapter 2 - Rude Awakening

I had no idea that the cops were out to get me and that I'd painted the target on my own back, simply by virtue of a paint job.  It was something that I found out the hard way because on October 21, 1967, when I was only nineteen years of age, the ax fell.  I was sitting at home with my folks when suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door.  As I stood, I could see a police car out in the yard.  My parents were in the room and gave me a quizzical look.  I went to answer the door with my heart palpitating heavily and I feared the worst.  A policeman came inside and handed me some papers.  He said, this is a warrant to search this address for narcotics.

Yikes, narcotics?  Yes, in this day and age, grass was legally equivalent to heroin, at least as far as the law was concerned.  The other cop stayed outside, which of course was my main concern.  The one who had entered the house told my parents that they were searching for marijuana and that they believed that it was hidden on the property.  The look on my parents’ faces left me feeling horrible and embarrassed because they had no idea that I had just recently purchased my first weed.  If the cops found the stuff, I would have to face my folks and there would be no denying it.

In moments, the front door opened and the officer came in with a small plastic bag.  My worst fears had just been realized.  He held it up so that I could see it and said, you're under arrest.

I'd never been arrested before and I had no idea what that meant and then, I felt handcuffs being placed around my wrists.  My mother looked worried and concerned but my dad seemed calm, almost as though he felt that I was getting what I deserved.  Really?

None of this seemed possible and now my mind was spinning.  I knew that other people got arrested but surely, not me.  However, as I lingered in disbelief, one of the officers placed his hand on my arm and led me to the police car.  As he ordered me into the rear of the vehicle, I felt apart from myself, as if watching a movie from afar.

As the car rolled away, I sat quietly, trying to comprehend what was happening but this wasn't like anything that I'd ever experienced before and I was consumed by a new found horror.  It seemed like marijuana was a petty matter to me but not so to these policemen.  Sure, I'd smoked a bit of pot but I couldn't see that that was reason enough to go and treat me like a common criminal.  I mean, I knew that it was illegal but I never thought that they'd handcuff you and haul you away for it.  If it sounds like I was incredibly stupid and naive, I fully admit, I surely was.  Truly, at this moment, I was already rehabilitated.

Of course, that didn't matter and the process, much to my dismay, moved forward.  I was fingerprinted and photographed, but I really didn't understand, why?  I'd always had admiration for the police but now, things seemed to be changing.  This entire incident was quickly becoming a very bad dream.  I was horrified and I just didn’t know what to make of this.  My one hope, my one desire, was that my Dad would come through for me, just this once.

He arrived at the station a short while later, accompanied by one of my uncles.  I got quite a speech and of course I had to promise never to go near marijuana again.  Done deal, that's for sure.  My uncle posted the five hundred-dollar bail and I was released into his custody.

This had been a horrific experience and though I was free for the moment, I wasn't out of hot water, just yet.  Sometime within the next few months, I'd have to go to trial, a concept that totally eluded me.  It seemed to me that punishment had already been delved and that this should already be concluded.  No more pot for me.

Since my bail was $500., my greatest fear was that I may have to pay an equivalent fine and at the moment, I didn’t have that kind of money.  Another issue was that being found guilty of this offense would also assure a criminal record and as you'll see, that can last a lifetime.  Unfortunately, I wasn't capable of deducing that this was just the beginning.  When you're a kid and you screw up, your parents generally delve out instantaneous punishment and then it's over but what would come out of this was really going to sock it to me.

Chapter 3 - Big News

Up to now, the extent of my confrontations with the law  had been a few minor traffic violations.  In essence, I had a virtually clean record.  After my arrest however, the local newspaper had printed an article about me that placed me a horrendously dark light.  To me, this seemed like pure fiction, written expressly to sell papers.  It stated that the police had carried out a substantial drug bust and to prove it, those cops were pictured in black and white, with what appeared to be lots of dope spread out on a table in front of them.  Somehow, they'd managed to display, less than one ounce of weed and made it look like over a pound.  There was no mention that I had never been previously arrested and that I had never been in trouble with the law.  The gist of it was that the cops were heroes who may have just saved this town from total disaster and possible, annihilation.

Getting arrested for possession of marijuana was a brand new concept around here and I had the dubious honor of possibly becoming the first person, ever to do so.  I was inexperienced in legal matters and I was still more of a child, than I was an adult.  In this veil of ignorance, I visualized this entire incident as merely an irritation that would soon be over and I believed that rationale and common sense would eventually prevail.  Boy, was I wrong.

I'd quit the attendant’s job recently and my most recent job had me working as a grounds keeper at a local Inn.  Since this arrest was an embarrassment, I hadn't bothered to mention it at work.

I'd met a young lady recently and I was giving serious consideration to settling down.  I'd moved away from my folks and she'd moved in with me.  Our existence was humble but we were happy and comfortable.

I was a new person and I steered clear of marijuana.  Drinking seemed less of a risk and it became my weekend entertainment but only at home, to reduce the risk because I was of course, still under age.

Ever since the day of my arrest, I'd been bothered by a particularly nagging puzzle.  I would have thought that my little hiding place would have been considered at least, moderately difficult to locate, but the police found it within mere moments, without dogs, or anything like that.  Obviously, an informant had to be involved.  This was a depressing thought but if true, then the possibilities were limited to only two individuals. 

The first was Dick, a person that I had known since grade school and the other was a stranger who had overheard me speaking, when I shouldn't have.  It was easy to imagine a stranger being an informer but nearly inconceivable that Dick was responsible, even if he was a bit odd.  As ridiculous as it may sound, I just couldn't picture Dick turning me in.  The stranger had apparently left the area, so there was no way of deciphering if he were the informant.  That gave me reason to approach Dick and try to assess if he had become, foe. 

I went to visit him at his home and questioned him privately but he was unyielding.  Eventually, after talking for some time, Dick did a pretty good job of convincing me that he would never do something like that.  He insisted that he was now and had always been, my friend.

So, had I accused him unjustly?  I just wasn't sure but I felt compelled to leave him a message to remember.  I said, If I've accused you wrongfully, then I apologize.  I hope with all of my heart that you're not the kind of person who would do this to me and I don't think you are, however, I'll obviously find out in court.  If you're an informant, just remember, I know where to find you.

I was upset and the days of waiting to go to court were taking a toll on me.  I had no funds for a lawyer, so the court appointed one for me.  As I understood it, it was his job to defend me to the best of his ability, no matter what.  Wow, was I ever off the mark.

My first time in court was for a preliminary hearing, which was merely to assess, if there were enough evidence to hold me for trial.  The cops immediately stated that they had an informant and the judge took mere moments to dictate that I'd have to return, whereas my lawyer sat back without objection, or any obvious concern.  Never having been witness to such proceedings, I had no idea if my lawyer's behavior were normal, or not.  Therefore, ignorance led to blind acceptance.  After all, I'd entrusted my fate to an expert, or so I thought, so why should I worry?

A short time after my arrest, the police in my little town struck again.  This time they arrested a local girl, only eighteen years old and by all appearances, she was in for big trouble. They got her for possession of an entire pound of grass, which was pretty much an indication that she intended to distribute her goods.  For that reason, I deduced that she was in far more trouble than I was. 

Our trials were scheduled close to one another but I would be going to court first.  A real lawyer may have told me that being first for something like this might be a really bad idea but he never mentioned it.

The wait for a court date became tedious and difficult and the time spent not knowing what the future had in store, evolved into punishment unto itself.  Having to face a judge seemed an absurd fate and there was no way that I could view what I had done, as being a crime.

I was so disillusioned that I kept hoping that maybe the police would decide that this was too petty to be bothered with and just drop these absurd charges.  I couldn't fathom that anyone would really want to prosecute someone for such frivolous reasons.  I just couldn't wait to get over this hill and put all of this behind me.

Chapter 4 - Nightmares Do Come True

My day of reckoning was scheduled for February 14, 1968 and I had no idea what I was in for.  I got the day off work and I hadn’t mentioned any of this to my employer.  I’d like to say that I was living in denial but in reality, the truth was, that I just didn’t comprehend the seriousness of my situation.  As far as I knew, this was only going to be a minor inconvenience and nothing more.

On the night prior to going to court, I tossed and turned most of the night and in the early morning hours, I'd had a terrible nightmare.  I dreamed that I'd already gone to court and in addition, that I'd heard the judge pronounce sentence.  It was incredibly eerie and ever so real.  In a clear and concise tone of voice, I heard the judge state, this court finds you guilty as charged and I hereby sentence you to one year and one day in State Prison.  Woe, that was freaky and scary. 

Recently I'd heard that if sentence exceeded one year, that an individual would be sent to prison and not jail.  Though the gist of that was clear, I had never