And that is as much as I remember from that period of my life.

My next clear memory is of waking up in a jail cell feeling like I had just been run over by a truck made of hatred and knives. I tried to sit up on my cot, but my ribs screamed at me and demanded I lay back down. I complied.

Lying there, I decided that someone needed to come up with a stronger word for hangovers. The hangovers I woke up to, especially that morning, were much too powerful for the common definition to suffice. They should be called death-overs, or annihilation-overs, or I-just-got-eaten-and-shit-out-by-a-tyrannosaurus-overs, or something.

Turning my head, I thought something was wrong with my vision, but then I raised a hand to my face and understood the problem—one of my eyes was swollen shut. The rest of my mug was not in much better shape.

Then came the headache, the nausea, the shakes, the clenched bowels, and the thump, thump, thump of my pounding heart. The usual suspects.

Worse, there was always a delay after I woke up, just long enough to make me feel like I had become inured to the abuse I was heaping upon my body. But then the package would arrive and detonate on my proverbial doorstep, and I would be reduced to a moaning ball of agony. Most mornings, the best I could do was crawl to the nearest bottle and pour it down my throat and wait for the symptoms to abate. Repeat as necessary.

There were no windows in the cell, so I had no idea what time it was. I also had no idea why I was in my own cell and not in the tank with the rest of the drunks. Whatever the reason, I had a feeling I was not going to like it.

I searched my hazy memory, trying to remember what happened to me the night before, but mostly drew a blank. I remembered waking up in my own bed the previous morning—a rare occurrence in those days—having my first five or six drinks, and then stumbling down the street to The Amber House, the establishment ran by William No-Last-Name, owner and proprietor. But that was all. Meaning I had, as usual, blacked out.

Not for the first time, I wondered at the fact I was still alive.

An agonizing eternity passed, which was probably not more than an hour, and then a voice spoke to me through the bars of my cell.

“You awake in there?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I croaked. Christ my throat is dry.

“Then get up, Caleb.”

Jeez, I’ve been here enough times I’m on a first name basis? I turned my head to see a uniformed sheriff’s deputy standing at the door. I did not recognize him.

“I’m not sure if I can, officer.”

A shake of the head. He looked both ways down the corridor to make sure no one was coming, then unlocked my cell and stepped inside. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small flask. “Here. This’ll help get you moving.”

“God bless you, you beautiful man.”

It was grog, but did not taste half bad. The deputy helped me sit up far enough I would not choke on it. I took two long pulls and felt the old familiar burn in my stomach, a delightful comfort only those who have endured severe alcohol addiction can fully appreciate.

“Thanks,” I said, sitting up the rest of the way. “I think I can move now.”

“Good. The judge wants to see you right away.”

I looked at the deputy, and the expression on his face was not a happy one. “Oh shit,” I said. “What did I do?”

“You don’t remember?”

I shook my aching head.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.”

*****

The Honorable Judge Jack MacGregor was not what I was expecting.

When you hear a name like Jack MacGregor you think of a stern old Irishman with silver hair, eyes the color of the sea, and a South Boston accent. But that was not what I saw when I stepped into the large office that served as one of the building’s courtrooms.

For starters, Jack MacGregor was neither old nor white, but a smallish black woman. I guessed Jack must have been short for Jaqueline or some other similar name. She was sitting down, not on a platform like you see in the movies, but behind an ordinary-looking desk. She was, however, wearing the black robe of her office.

I could tell she was sturdy of build, pretty in a severe sort of way, and could have been anywhere between thirty to fifty years of age. A pair of intelligent brown eyes peered out from behind wire rimmed glasses. She did not smile. The eyes appraised me coldly and thoroughly, peeling away my defenses and laying the entirety of my existence bare with one sweeping glance. My legs felt weak, but I met her gaze anyway.

Hers were the eyes of someone who had seen and heard too much, of a woman who understands the dark motivations of the human heart and can no longer be dismayed. There would be no lying to this woman, and no talking my way out of whatever trouble I was in.

In a calm, even voice dripping with authority, she said, “Sit down, Mr. Hicks.”

I complied. The deputy had put me in irons before bringing me to see the judge, making sitting uncomfortable. But I did not dare complain. Not in front of this woman. A young man who I assumed by his demeanor to be my public defender was already seated to my left. An older man with graying hair, a patrician nose, and a hard flat line of a mouth sat to my right. He did not look at me.

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Hicks?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Honor,” I said. “I don’t remember much from yesterday.”

The eyes flicked down to a piece of paper, and I realized she was wearing bifocals. “According to those who witnessed the incident, at approximately 10:30 pm last night, March the 24th, you had a verbal altercation with a man named Alex Cannon. The argument took place in a tavern registered under the name The Amber House. The argument between the two of you escalated until the owner of the establishment had his security personnel escort the both of you from the premises.” She looked up again. “Any of this ring a bell?”

I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I don’t remember any of that.”

“Once outside,” she continued dryly, “you and Mr. Cannon engaged in a fistfight. Several witnesses reported that despite Cannon being significantly larger than you, you managed to get the better of the altercation, although you did suffer a few minor injuries.” She flicked a hand to indicate my battered face. “Mr. Cannon’s injuries, however, were not so minor.”

My heart sank. The room was cool, but sweat broke out on my forehead anyway. I looked down and closed my one good eye. “What did I do to him, Your Honor?”

A shuffle of papers. “One crushed left orbital socket, four missing teeth, a jaw broken in two places, several fractured ribs, and a dislocated right shoulder.” She put the paper down and glared sternly. “And he will most likely lose his left eye.”

I groaned. I wanted to sink down through the floor. I wanted lightning to strike from the sky and burn me to cinders. I wanted to climb down a hole and pull it in after me. It was bad enough what I was doing to myself, but now, I had ruined someone else, maimed him for life. I thought about my first day with the militia, and the prison labor detail, and the man who fell to the ground exhausted and gasping like a fish, and I imagined his face as mine. I hung my head and said nothing.

The judge gathered the papers in front of her, tapped them on the desktop a few times to straighten them, and returned them to a manila folder. She set the folder aside. “To be honest, Mr. Hicks, Alex Cannon was no better than you. But he wasn’t any worse, either. According to your record, you’re simply a useless drunk who occasionally urinates in places where such actions are forbidden by city ordinance. A nuisance to be sure, but until now, a mostly harmless one.”

I could find no fault with her assessment, so I stayed quiet.

“Cannon, for his part, is simply a man who lost his job as an engineer for the Civilian Construction Corps and decided to drown himself in a bottle, much as you have been doing. However, despite his current low station in life, he comes from a rather prominent family within the community. His father, who is very angry over his son’s injuries, is a member of the new city council.” At this, she leaned forward and pointed at the older man seated to my right. “And a friend of District Attorney John Crouch.”