Re: sex on the moon - the amazing true story
Posted: 21 Nov 2016 11:24
Chapter 39
Thad had always been a quick study. At NASA, being quick to pick up how things worked had been important because it had caught the attention of the people Thad needed to impress, and it had given him that extra edge so that he could construct the person he wanted to be, right from day one. In county jail, being quick to pick up how things worked was important because it kept Thad alive. Not only in that clichéd, late-night prison-movie sense—although there was always the very real risk of looking at someone the wrong way, saying the wrong thing, getting inadvertently involved in something that could easily have gotten him killed—but also in the sense that if he wasn’t able to get his head around the new reality of his life, he was going to be lost in a place where even his fantasies couldn’t protect him. It was conventional jailhouse wisdom that it took about two years for a man to reach empty, to finally let go of his old life—hopes, dreams, expectations, family, real contact with the outside world—two years to reset at rock bottom, to become that empty, unimprinted shell. By the end of his first year of being locked up, awaiting sentencing, Thad knew that the jailhouse wisdom was probably correct. He was halfway to becoming that nowhere, nothing man, and if he had to endure another year, the time would shatter him and cause him to shed whatever was left of his old self. The worst moment of each day usually came when he lay down on his hard steel bunk, listening to the incessant buzz from the brightly lit ceiling, waiting for the clump clump clump of the hacks’ boots as they walked along the catwalk, often trying to ignore the horrifying, muted groans of men in nearby cells being abused, beaten, sometimes even raped by other inmates. It was a half-awake, half-asleep kind of place, where it was impossible to shut down his senses but equally impossible to digest what he was seeing, hearing, smelling. The best time of the day was when he found himself alone in the
shower, because it was the only time he could let go and cry. In between, there were moments, good and bad, that marked the monotony of life in a cage. Meals, almost always grits, served on plastic trays that had to be returned and counted. Exercise, in a yard barely fit for a dog, fetid and hot and dangerous, where Thad usually stood in a corner trying not to catch the attention of anyone who might do him harm. TV time, usually those damn Teletubbies, sometimes the news, other times a Christian station spouting Scripture. And then, the card games with his cell mates—during which Thad was often asked to retell the story of the Moon Rock Heist—which inevitably morphed into a discussion of the sort of sentence he was probably going to receive, now that he had pleaded guilty and cooperated with the FBI. Like everything else in prison, the topic of his sentence had become something the prisoners were eager to gamble on; not just Thad’s cell, but all of the surrounding pods got involved, inmates choosing sentences they thought Thad would receive; anyone who missed by more than a year was going to have to do fifty push-ups, one of the few forms of currency allowed in the jail. Although Thad’s lawyer was still convinced that the highest penalty that Thad could receive—no matter how much NASA and the court’s experts finally decided that 101.5 grams of moon rock and the little Martian meteorite were worth—was about three years, a handful of prisoners had guessed as high as five. Thad knew that there was no way he could survive being caged up that long, but even so, he never once regretted pleading guilty, or disallowing his lawyer to argue against his being in the leadership role of the heist. His shouldering that weight had allowed Rebecca and Sandra to plead that they had been misled, coerced, and taken minor roles in the theft. When Rebecca’s sentencing day finally came—a year after the heist—Thad was engulfed by a mixture of feelings. He hadn’t had any contact with her since the day of their arrest, and every passing minute without that contact had been sheer torture. Every time he’d spoken to his lawyer—his only real link to the outside world—he had begged the man to get him in touch with her, to give him a phone number, an address, anything, but the lawyer had explained that it was impossible. Rebecca had been preparing for her own day in court—and as she
had said, her father had banned her from speaking to Thad ever again. But now that she was getting a sentence, Thad allowed himself to hope that afterward, things might change. When he found out that she had received only probation, along with 180 days of house arrest—he was thrilled. She wasn’t going to jail, she was free, and eventually, he believed, she would reach out to him. Sandra, too, had gotten probation and house arrest, having also argued a minor, coerced role in the plan. Thad had been painted as a charismatic Svengali, a goodlooking, fast-talking lothario who had duped the poor innocent girls into following him into Everett Gibson’s lab, but he didn’t care what they said about him because it had gotten Rebecca off, and she wouldn’t have to go through what he was going through. Gordon hadn’t been so lucky, but it had been the stoner’s own fault. He hadn’t shown up for his court date, had instead gone on the run. When they had finally tracked him down in a Utah state park, he had stayed true to form—giving his name as Job, from the Bible, ensuring that the wrath of an angry government was going to rain down on him come sentencing time. But Rebecca was free—and yet, Thad still had no way of reaching her. Over the course of the next few weeks, it became an obsession— and he began to try finding ways to contact her, if only to hear her voice one last time. Every time he heard of a prisoner being released, he’d approach the man, begging that once the man was on the outside, could he look up a girl named Rebecca Moore, and send Thad what he found? Most of the inmates looked at him like he was crazy, some openly laughing at the idea that they would have any more contact with the jail once they were out that door. Realizing he wasn’t going to make any progress that way, Thad created a game to try to achieve the same results. Using a piece of newspaper that one of the inmates had gotten from a guard, he recreated a puzzle he had learned back at NASA—actually, in a study aid designed to help potential astronaut applicants, as it was a test often given during the astronaut application procedure. As the other inmates watched, Thad tore the sheet of newspaper into five geometric shapes. These shapes, he explained, could be rearranged into a perfect square—but there was only one way to arrange them so
that they fit together as a square, and there would be a time limit involved. Thad knew that NASA applicants usually took about ten minutes to get the arrangement correct. So he gave the inmates twenty, betting them a meal on the result. If they could create the square in under twenty minutes, they would earn Thad’s dinner. If they lost, their dinner was Thad’s. One after another, the inmates failed; each time, Thad traded back the won dinner for a single request—find Rebecca, and tell her that Thad Roberts loves her. That was it, not even an address or a phone number—just tell her that Thad still loves her. But even as a year dragged into fourteen months, Thad never received any indication that Rebecca had been contacted. No mail from ex-inmates, not even a postcard. The only mail he did receive came from Sonya, in fact. Divorce papers, with a blank spot where he was supposed to sign to make the separation simple and final for her, so she could move on with her life. Thad didn’t have to think about it for very long; it was the least he could do, and he knew that Sonya deserved to be happy, and to forget about him. Since he did have her phone number, he decided to call her and tell her himself that he wouldn’t stand in her way, that he would make the divorce as easy as he could. But there was nothing easy about the phone call. From the moment her voice echoed through the cold and heavy plastic hand piece of one of the shared pay phones in Thad’s pod, he felt his chest seizing up. He no longer had the same feelings for her that they’d once shared, but hearing her voice, so bright and alive and normal, filled him with memories: of the apartment they’d shared, of the charity bike ride across the country, of nights spent in a tent, of their rushed wedding to escape his parents’ anger, and most of all, those brief moments when she would warm his hands against her stomach, flesh against flesh. But standing there, with the shouting and howling of the other caged animals all around him, the din of prison life echoing off the metal and cement, he couldn’t say anything to her except that he was sorry, that he hoped she could be happy. And then, when it was her turn, hearing the noise of the prison behind him, she responded with the only words that she could think to say.
“Well, I hope you’re having fun with your new friends.” And that was it; Thad was left standing there holding the dead phone in his hand. Sonya had no way of comprehending how terrible what she had just said had seemed to Thad, how completely alone and separated from the world it made him feel. But he didn’t have that long to dwell on the thought, because shortly after that phone call, he’d gotten word from his lawyer that the time had come. The next morning, Thad would finally get his day in court.
Thad had always been a quick study. At NASA, being quick to pick up how things worked had been important because it had caught the attention of the people Thad needed to impress, and it had given him that extra edge so that he could construct the person he wanted to be, right from day one. In county jail, being quick to pick up how things worked was important because it kept Thad alive. Not only in that clichéd, late-night prison-movie sense—although there was always the very real risk of looking at someone the wrong way, saying the wrong thing, getting inadvertently involved in something that could easily have gotten him killed—but also in the sense that if he wasn’t able to get his head around the new reality of his life, he was going to be lost in a place where even his fantasies couldn’t protect him. It was conventional jailhouse wisdom that it took about two years for a man to reach empty, to finally let go of his old life—hopes, dreams, expectations, family, real contact with the outside world—two years to reset at rock bottom, to become that empty, unimprinted shell. By the end of his first year of being locked up, awaiting sentencing, Thad knew that the jailhouse wisdom was probably correct. He was halfway to becoming that nowhere, nothing man, and if he had to endure another year, the time would shatter him and cause him to shed whatever was left of his old self. The worst moment of each day usually came when he lay down on his hard steel bunk, listening to the incessant buzz from the brightly lit ceiling, waiting for the clump clump clump of the hacks’ boots as they walked along the catwalk, often trying to ignore the horrifying, muted groans of men in nearby cells being abused, beaten, sometimes even raped by other inmates. It was a half-awake, half-asleep kind of place, where it was impossible to shut down his senses but equally impossible to digest what he was seeing, hearing, smelling. The best time of the day was when he found himself alone in the
shower, because it was the only time he could let go and cry. In between, there were moments, good and bad, that marked the monotony of life in a cage. Meals, almost always grits, served on plastic trays that had to be returned and counted. Exercise, in a yard barely fit for a dog, fetid and hot and dangerous, where Thad usually stood in a corner trying not to catch the attention of anyone who might do him harm. TV time, usually those damn Teletubbies, sometimes the news, other times a Christian station spouting Scripture. And then, the card games with his cell mates—during which Thad was often asked to retell the story of the Moon Rock Heist—which inevitably morphed into a discussion of the sort of sentence he was probably going to receive, now that he had pleaded guilty and cooperated with the FBI. Like everything else in prison, the topic of his sentence had become something the prisoners were eager to gamble on; not just Thad’s cell, but all of the surrounding pods got involved, inmates choosing sentences they thought Thad would receive; anyone who missed by more than a year was going to have to do fifty push-ups, one of the few forms of currency allowed in the jail. Although Thad’s lawyer was still convinced that the highest penalty that Thad could receive—no matter how much NASA and the court’s experts finally decided that 101.5 grams of moon rock and the little Martian meteorite were worth—was about three years, a handful of prisoners had guessed as high as five. Thad knew that there was no way he could survive being caged up that long, but even so, he never once regretted pleading guilty, or disallowing his lawyer to argue against his being in the leadership role of the heist. His shouldering that weight had allowed Rebecca and Sandra to plead that they had been misled, coerced, and taken minor roles in the theft. When Rebecca’s sentencing day finally came—a year after the heist—Thad was engulfed by a mixture of feelings. He hadn’t had any contact with her since the day of their arrest, and every passing minute without that contact had been sheer torture. Every time he’d spoken to his lawyer—his only real link to the outside world—he had begged the man to get him in touch with her, to give him a phone number, an address, anything, but the lawyer had explained that it was impossible. Rebecca had been preparing for her own day in court—and as she
had said, her father had banned her from speaking to Thad ever again. But now that she was getting a sentence, Thad allowed himself to hope that afterward, things might change. When he found out that she had received only probation, along with 180 days of house arrest—he was thrilled. She wasn’t going to jail, she was free, and eventually, he believed, she would reach out to him. Sandra, too, had gotten probation and house arrest, having also argued a minor, coerced role in the plan. Thad had been painted as a charismatic Svengali, a goodlooking, fast-talking lothario who had duped the poor innocent girls into following him into Everett Gibson’s lab, but he didn’t care what they said about him because it had gotten Rebecca off, and she wouldn’t have to go through what he was going through. Gordon hadn’t been so lucky, but it had been the stoner’s own fault. He hadn’t shown up for his court date, had instead gone on the run. When they had finally tracked him down in a Utah state park, he had stayed true to form—giving his name as Job, from the Bible, ensuring that the wrath of an angry government was going to rain down on him come sentencing time. But Rebecca was free—and yet, Thad still had no way of reaching her. Over the course of the next few weeks, it became an obsession— and he began to try finding ways to contact her, if only to hear her voice one last time. Every time he heard of a prisoner being released, he’d approach the man, begging that once the man was on the outside, could he look up a girl named Rebecca Moore, and send Thad what he found? Most of the inmates looked at him like he was crazy, some openly laughing at the idea that they would have any more contact with the jail once they were out that door. Realizing he wasn’t going to make any progress that way, Thad created a game to try to achieve the same results. Using a piece of newspaper that one of the inmates had gotten from a guard, he recreated a puzzle he had learned back at NASA—actually, in a study aid designed to help potential astronaut applicants, as it was a test often given during the astronaut application procedure. As the other inmates watched, Thad tore the sheet of newspaper into five geometric shapes. These shapes, he explained, could be rearranged into a perfect square—but there was only one way to arrange them so
that they fit together as a square, and there would be a time limit involved. Thad knew that NASA applicants usually took about ten minutes to get the arrangement correct. So he gave the inmates twenty, betting them a meal on the result. If they could create the square in under twenty minutes, they would earn Thad’s dinner. If they lost, their dinner was Thad’s. One after another, the inmates failed; each time, Thad traded back the won dinner for a single request—find Rebecca, and tell her that Thad Roberts loves her. That was it, not even an address or a phone number—just tell her that Thad still loves her. But even as a year dragged into fourteen months, Thad never received any indication that Rebecca had been contacted. No mail from ex-inmates, not even a postcard. The only mail he did receive came from Sonya, in fact. Divorce papers, with a blank spot where he was supposed to sign to make the separation simple and final for her, so she could move on with her life. Thad didn’t have to think about it for very long; it was the least he could do, and he knew that Sonya deserved to be happy, and to forget about him. Since he did have her phone number, he decided to call her and tell her himself that he wouldn’t stand in her way, that he would make the divorce as easy as he could. But there was nothing easy about the phone call. From the moment her voice echoed through the cold and heavy plastic hand piece of one of the shared pay phones in Thad’s pod, he felt his chest seizing up. He no longer had the same feelings for her that they’d once shared, but hearing her voice, so bright and alive and normal, filled him with memories: of the apartment they’d shared, of the charity bike ride across the country, of nights spent in a tent, of their rushed wedding to escape his parents’ anger, and most of all, those brief moments when she would warm his hands against her stomach, flesh against flesh. But standing there, with the shouting and howling of the other caged animals all around him, the din of prison life echoing off the metal and cement, he couldn’t say anything to her except that he was sorry, that he hoped she could be happy. And then, when it was her turn, hearing the noise of the prison behind him, she responded with the only words that she could think to say.
“Well, I hope you’re having fun with your new friends.” And that was it; Thad was left standing there holding the dead phone in his hand. Sonya had no way of comprehending how terrible what she had just said had seemed to Thad, how completely alone and separated from the world it made him feel. But he didn’t have that long to dwell on the thought, because shortly after that phone call, he’d gotten word from his lawyer that the time had come. The next morning, Thad would finally get his day in court.