Jacumba Connection Read online

  Jacumba

  Connection

  David C. Taylor

  Copyright ©2016 David C. Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published in the United States by E-Magination Publishing.

  ISBN: 9780996987202

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918789

  Book cover art by: Jose E. Torres

  Book cover design by: Katie Mullaly, Faceted Press

  Interior design by: Katie Mullaly, Faceted Press

  For my mother and father.

  I finally found my hallelujah.

  Who knew?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Working with a writer in prison is difficult at best. It takes patience, creativity, and dedication. So I’d like to thank my teachers, colleagues, friends, and family, as follows:

  First to the “Memoir Midwife” Stacy Dymalski and to Keltin Barney (You’re the man!), my editors extraordinaire, thank you for your guidance and the extras on my behalf. The reams of paper. The runs to Staples for printer ink. Bonzi runs to the post office, and of course, the midnight editing sessions. All things you do to accommodate a writer in prison. Your smooth style guided me in the margins and taught me what it means to be a writer. Also, many thanks to my copyeditor, Elizabeth Evachuck, who soldiered through thousands of pages of my barely decipherable handwriting.

  To Doug Hoffman, thank you for creating a website and blog so that my voice may continue to be heard in the free world, even though my physical presence remains locked away. And to his wife Corinne Nareau who made several passes through the book to ensure every “t” was crossed and every “i” dotted.

  Many thanks to my book designer, Katie Mullaly, for taking all the work we’ve done and assembling it into something that goes far beyond my wildest dreams. Who knew that what started out as a pile of handwritten pages could end up as a beautiful book?

  Speaking of which, thank you to Jose E. Torres for creating cover art that fully captures the essence of all 400 pages of my story.

  I’d also like to thank Stephanie and the girls for their love and support on this project. And of course, big gratitude to my “Down Brothers” and independent readers: Adam Teague, Bill Gregory, Earnest Hearing, and Sam Grey. Thank you for your time, enthusiasm, and endless engagement in my personal story.

  Lastly, and most importantly, my biggest gratitude of all goes to my mom, Ellen Taylor, the Queen of my Heart, whose unconditional love and unwavering support has brought me peace in a place of chaos.

  --David C. Taylor

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Foreword

  What If…

  Introduction: The Ride of Your Life

  Prologue: The Hunting Ground

  Chapter 1: Yin to My Yang

  Chapter 2: Life is Short - Make it Sweet

  Chapter 3: The Law of the Unintended Consequences

  Chapter 4: Hotel Mexico

  Chapter 5: Where Rubber Meets the Road

  Chapter 6: Five Finger Death Punch

  Chapter 7: The Night Belongs to Wild Things

  Chapter 8: Naked Time

  Chapter 9: Can’t Touch This

  Chapter 10: Free Fire Killing Zone

  Chapter 11: Pauline Pure Heart

  Chapter 12: Little Running Squirrel and the Big Yellow Bus

  Chapter 13: The Universal Smile

  Chapter 14: Love is Not a Suicide Pact

  Chapter 15: Wanda World

  Chapter 16: Ghosts and the California Highway Patrol

  Chapter 17: Clint Eastwood and the Tallest Mexican in the World

  Chapter 18: She’ll be Comin’ Round the Mountain

  Chapter 19: Flying Blind

  Chapter 20: Strictly Business

  Chapter 21: Pastor Charlie DeVille

  Chapter 22: Faster Than a Speeding Helicopter

  Chapter 23: Poolside Paradise, Palm Springs

  Chapter 24: Yearning to Breathe Free

  Chapter 25: Which is Justice and Which is the Thief?

  Chapter 26: Been Fooled Or Just Being One?

  Chapter 27: Get Your Kicks on Route 66… Thousand

  Chapter 28: The List To Do, Don’t Forget

  Chapter 29: Send in the Clowns

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  In the spring of 2014 my phone rings. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end is a woman named Ellen Taylor. She tells me, “My grown son has written a book and I need to know if it’s any good.” It makes sense that she’d reach out to me on the Internet because I’ve branded myself as The Memoir Midwife. I’m a film producer, story editor, teacher, and author, and as such I help people find, write, and share their stories. In other words, I’ll help you give birth to your story, but I won’t write it for you.

  I quickly learn Ellen’s son’s name is David Taylor and he’s greatly changed the lives of many people in his 50-plus years.

  Well, heck yeah, I’m in! What is he? A humanitarian? An inventor? One of those new age thinkers who spouts pearls of wisdom that get turned into cat memes on Facebook. This is what I call real social work.

  However, in David’s case it’s what the Federal Government calls human trafficking.

  What? (Cue the needle scratch across the record.)

  David is in federal prison for conspiracy, related to his conviction of smuggling undocumented aliens into the United States. At the time Ellen contacted me he was on year two of a 10-year sentence.

  I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the idea of working with a federal prisoner, but at the time I was jumping through hoops trying to navigate a devastating divorce that swiftly drained my bank account. And since I had sole custody of my two kids I didn’t have a lot of time to devote to billable hours.

  In all honesty, I agreed to read David’s story purely for mercenary reasons.

  Obstacle number one: The manuscript is handwritten on random pieces of paper. Apparently they do not have laptops or iPads in prison. “Ellen, you have to get this mess transcribed before I can read it.” Honestly, I thought that would get me off the hook right there. However, Ellen rises to the occasion and when that beast of a manuscript is finally printed out on 8.5 x 11 paper it’s 478 pages long.

  I reluctantly start reading.

  As expected, David’s manuscript is a royal mess; full of typos, bad grammar, misspellings, and a shaky story structure at best. It meanders between first person and third person and has so much chit-chatty dialog you’d think the characters get paid by the word to speak.

  And yet, I can’t put it down. In all that jumble of a literary mess is a riveting, funny, poignant, character-driven story of a middle-class, white bread couple, who because of their own financial struggles, wake up one day entrenched in the human smuggling business.

  At first the main characters break the law because they need the money. But in a very short time their cargo evolves from shipping a commodity to helping people embark upon a trip that brings about hope and purpose. As I read David’s story suddenly these people have names and faces, families, hopes, and dreams that are not unlike mine. And the only baggage they bring with them are their own stories; stories that don’t necessarily fit into the criteria of an immigr
ation form, but nevertheless are just as important as anyone else’s.

  David’s story reveals the war on illegal immigration told from a boots-on-the-ground insider, who just happens to be born a white, U.S. citizen in middleclass America. It’s a perspective on immigration from which we’ve never heard until now.

  I wanted to hate David’s story. It would’ve made it so much easier to walk away from what was undoubtedly a weird situation in terms of a client. But for some reason I can’t dismiss an authentic story… because it’s truth. And that’s all I ever want.

  I come clean and tell Ellen, “There is something here that needs to come out.”

  So for the next two years we embark upon a creative process that is so wacky and backward, no one would believe me if I made it up. To help me streamline the process I enlist the help of another story editor (Keltin Barney) and a copyeditor (Elizabeth Evaschuk). Every time I send a re-edited manuscript to David, I have to reprint all 400-plus pages. David edits by hand, sends it back, we edit on the computer, reprint, and start the whole process all over again.

  This all goes back and forth by snail mail, and the Feds inspect everything. Sometimes it takes weeks before the manuscript arrives at its final destination.

  And if I want David to study a book, his mom has to send it directly from Amazon. Only approved vendors are allowed to mail anything to a prisoner, other than letters or pages.

  And after over a year of not being able to email David, one day I was magically allowed to do so. I still have no answer for that. Email is spotty to this day.

  David was able to call me three times to clarify some of our manuscript notes, but we were only allowed 15-minute phone calls. At 15 minutes on the dot the line goes dead. And every few seconds a recording reminds me I’m talking to a federal prisoner, which ironically eats up precious phone time.

  Working with David in this manner routinely reminds me how we on the outside take our simple freedoms for granted.

  But in spite of all that David finished his book. I helped Ellen start a small publishing company, E-Magination Publishing, which she used to turn David’s pile of handwritten scribbles into the book you now hold in your hands.

  As David’s book project neared the end, I suggested he write a blog, because just like immigration, he now has an insider’s view of prison. David agreed, and with webmaster Doug Hoffman’s help, PostcardsFromPrison.net was born. I highly recommend you check it out.

  In the end, helping David tell his story allowed me to regain my creativity during one of the darkest periods of my life. And by his own admission, committing his story to paper saved David’s soul from spiraling down a black hole of the deepest, darkest despair. Even though he was in prison when he wrote Jacumba Connection, getting up every day to work on his manuscript gave David hope and purpose, which in turn gave him a reason to get up everyday.

  We all have unique passions that burn within us. Although those passions are different for everyone, it’s what we rely on to get through the worst challenges in our lives and bring about change in the world. It’s a superpower that unfortunately remains dormant in far too many people. But when it finally emerges, it cannot be repressed. Not even by prison.

  Even though I was reluctant at first to take on this project, I can now say with zero uncertainty, it’s been an honor and a privilege to help David find, write, and share his story. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as this eclectic team of people miraculously came together to write and produce it.

  Sincerely,

  Stacy Dymalski

  May 2016

  WHAT IF...

  If you were living in abject poverty, and your average income was just two dollars a day, but just across the river, or just across the fence, was advantage, opportunity, food, healthcare, and free education, as well as law officials that catered to minimal corruption, my question to you is this: Would you risk everything to put your family and children on the right side of that fence?

  Of course you would.

  Anyone in their right mind would try.

  THE RIDE OF YOUR LIFE

  Introduction

  “Fly the highway but don’t see the road signs, you can’t read in between the lines…”

  Blind Highway blares out of the Kenwood as Denice seductively blows a plume of smoke from her nose. It drifts towards the headliner of the big K-5 Blazer.

  Charlie thinks to himself, God, she’s so sexy when she does that.

  “…but you would see the buckshot if you opened up your eyes.”

  Denice, a.k.a. Dee-Dee, gives her man Charlie a little wink and a smile as they crest the hill racing toward the little town of Jacumba. The Golden Acorn Casino is a distant shadow in the rearview mirror.

  Like spheroids in darkness, the only light is in the full moon dead ahead, shining off the glossy black pavement. Surrounded by desert on both sides at 2:00 a.m. in the high desert above San Diego, the spirits of a thousand souls wander about, seeking freedom they’ll never find.

  Hundreds of jackrabbits race across the road from both sides, causing Denice to ask, “What’s with all the freaking rabbits?”

  Charlie slows down the Blazer, which is unusual for him. Slow is typically not on Charlie’s radar. “Beats me,” he answers.

  The night wind blows off the desert from Imperial Valley through the open window on Dee-Dee’s side. Creeping along on the glossy blacktop, Charlie gives a low whistle. “Baby, this is some spooky shit. You hear that?”

  Denice turns to face him. “Like a moaning on the wind. I can feel the sadness.” She shakes her head, “Ghosts of failed attempts to cross.”

  Coming up to The Bridge of Sighs, an eighth of a mile from the Jacumba Elementary School, the two-way radio crackles to life: Five for the ride, señor.

  Charlie keys the mic, “Ten-four,” he replies nonchalantly. “Thirty seconds to Wiley.”

  Wile E. Coyote (or just “Wiley” for short) is the best in the business; fearless and tough as the desert he calls home. Years of the six-mile run from the Mexican border, through the hostile desert of the Kumeyaay Reservation, to the sleepy little town of Jacumba has turned his body into hardened brown steel. Mescal’s his only true friend – besides Charlie and Denice.

  Charlie flashes his lights three times as he comes round Fortress Hill to the front of the school. Right on cue, five shadowy figures run down from the top of the hill. Denice jumps out two feet before Charlie brings the big K-5 to a halt. She runs around to the back and drops the tailgate.

  “Pronto amigos. Ándale, for chrissakes.” She slams the tailgate shut as Charlie raises the electric tinted rear window. Denice jumps back into the passenger seat, smiles at her man and commands, “Haul ass, lover boy.”

  Charlie’s already burning rubber, as he shifts into second gear. He looks in the rearview mirror at the wide-eyed, exhausted men in the back and says, “Okay, boys, hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. We should be arriving in Los Angeles inside of two hours. Enjoy the ride and welcome to the Jacumba Connection.”

  Denice rolls her eyes. “Very funny Captain Clown.” Throwing her left arm over the back of the seat, she turns to the group and says, “Hey, y’all hungry? You like Jack in the Box?”

  Charlie cuts in, “Oh, sure, maybe they’d like a taco, honey. Jack’s got tacos.” And then under his breath, “Jesus. And she calls me Captain Clown.”

  “This ain’t the first time it won’t be the last, you fly down that highway going nowhere fast.”

  THE HUNDING GROUND

  Prologue:

  Indian Gaming Facilities. That’s the politically correct verbiage for Native American-run casinos, which are the perfect hunting grounds for illegal alien trafficking and drug smuggling brokers.

  People gamble for all sorts of reasons: excitement, financial gain, self-abuse,
obsessive-compulsive disorder brought on by one’s addiction to one’s own physical chemistry. Endorphins versus adrenaline, a classic cocktail brought to you by the almighty gamble.

  Bet a dollar on your machine and 5cc of adrenaline races into your bloodstream as you anticipate your big win. Then the wheel...slowly...spins...to the top. LOSER! Your pancreas adds a little insulin to the mix. Suddenly you’re over it; and not just because of insulin shock, but because now you’re a mere twenty-three dollars away from blowing this month’s mortgage.

  Perfect.

  Time to bet another dollar. Please, please, please, toss in a little more adrenaline. Your arms nervously roll around to the back of your head as the wheel spins. When that third seven creeps to the centerline, Mother Nature’s morphine kicks in. Sweet. Like Charlie Sheen: “Winning!”

  That happy rush envelopes your better judgment, so you collect your 800 bucks, hit the head for a couple tokes, and plan your next run at another machine for the big jackpot. After 18 hours of this chemical roller coaster your decision making process is toast. Not only have you lost this month’s house payment, but your credit cards are maxed out and you’re left sitting in front of a mocking machine, smiling at you after consuming every last cent you have.

  As you mindlessly thumb through a pamphlet entitled Responsible Gambling, your thoughts turn to the idyllic, blissful marriage you used to have before you made the decision to gamble away the diaper money.