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What would happen if a slight, but attractive gay guy fell in love with a
good-looking straight Hispanic man and had to deal with an
anonymous slasher targeting gay inmates? What are prison camps
like? Find out without asking Martha Stewart!
This 83,000-word murder/mystery/gay romance novel, The Happy
Campers, takes place in country-club-like Texarkana Federal Prison
Camp, an unusual setting for a novel. The main characters are two
men down on their luck: a lonely, 52 year-old, white gambler, KENT
WESCHESTER, and a depressed, 31-year-old, drug dealer, DON
VILLANOVA.
Although the camp is for nonviolent offenders, a gay black man is
murdered. BUZZ, the dead inmate’s innocent, wheelchair-bound lover
is blamed, until Kent tells his psychologist about threats made by
RAZOR RAY.
With no place to run, Kent overcomes prejudice against straights and
finds help for life-long depression through cognitive therapy and
Prozac. After fearing he may have fingered the wrong man, Kent
works to unpuzzle the mystery before another inmate dies. The book
is filled with twists and turns, plus a heart-wrenching love story.
Everything is solved at the last possible moment, just before Kent’s
release.
Federal Courthouse; Denver, Colorado; April 14, 2000
“Try to relax,” my public defender whispers. “The judge oughta be
walking through those hallowed doors any minute, Kent.”
Taking a deep breath while leaning back, I close my eyes, allowing
my mind to reminisce about the recent past, when I still had a lover, a
business, a home. I see it clearly, like I’m in the house right now—
"Snap out of it, Paul!"
Tears track down my cheeks like cracks on a mirror. as I search Paul’
s pale blue eyes for signs of reality. Exasperated, I shake him by the
shoulders. “Don’t you realize it’s all in your head? The neighbors
have their own lives to take care of. They are not talking about you!
Damn it, you aren’t that important to them.”
“I heard them, Kent.” Paul faces me without making eye contact. “The
lady across the
good-looking straight Hispanic man and had to deal with an
anonymous slasher targeting gay inmates? What are prison camps
like? Find out without asking Martha Stewart!
This 83,000-word murder/mystery/gay romance novel, The Happy
Campers, takes place in country-club-like Texarkana Federal Prison
Camp, an unusual setting for a novel. The main characters are two
men down on their luck: a lonely, 52 year-old, white gambler, KENT
WESCHESTER, and a depressed, 31-year-old, drug dealer, DON
VILLANOVA.
Although the camp is for nonviolent offenders, a gay black man is
murdered. BUZZ, the dead inmate’s innocent, wheelchair-bound lover
is blamed, until Kent tells his psychologist about threats made by
RAZOR RAY.
With no place to run, Kent overcomes prejudice against straights and
finds help for life-long depression through cognitive therapy and
Prozac. After fearing he may have fingered the wrong man, Kent
works to unpuzzle the mystery before another inmate dies. The book
is filled with twists and turns, plus a heart-wrenching love story.
Everything is solved at the last possible moment, just before Kent’s
release.
Federal Courthouse; Denver, Colorado; April 14, 2000
“Try to relax,” my public defender whispers. “The judge oughta be
walking through those hallowed doors any minute, Kent.”
Taking a deep breath while leaning back, I close my eyes, allowing
my mind to reminisce about the recent past, when I still had a lover, a
business, a home. I see it clearly, like I’m in the house right now—
"Snap out of it, Paul!"
Tears track down my cheeks like cracks on a mirror. as I search Paul’
s pale blue eyes for signs of reality. Exasperated, I shake him by the
shoulders. “Don’t you realize it’s all in your head? The neighbors
have their own lives to take care of. They are not talking about you!
Damn it, you aren’t that important to them.”
“I heard them, Kent.” Paul faces me without making eye contact. “The
lady across the
The Happy Campers By Gale Chester Whittington (Torquere Press 2005-2006. This book needs a new publisher) an excerpt follows this Short Synopsis |
| Chapter One The Sentencing |
Gale Chester Whittington, Gay Author
Free Novel Excerpt
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....................................................................back yard fence called me a faggot from her kitchen
window and the.kids playing soccer in the street stopped and yelled, ‘Queer, queer,
queer!’ as I drove by.” Shaking like a man freezing to death, Paul.crosses his arms,
wrapping each hand around the opposing neighborhood any longer, Kent. I’ve gotta get
the hell outta here before I go nuts.”
Why’s he saying “I” and not “We?”
Wiping the tears from my cheeks with my sleeve, I suck in air and blow it out like a
tormented bull. “You know this is our dream home. Can’t just up and leave something
we worked our whole lives to get. This house is proof we made it. Remember, Paul?”
Silent, he stares down at our impractical off-white Berber carpet.
I grab his shoulders again, frantically exploring his eyes. “Please tell me you remember,
Paul.”
No response, not even a flinch. I shake him firmly but lightly again. At last, he faces me
Anyway, everything’s changed. The house is a prison now. We’re surrounded by people
full of hate.”
“Paul! The neighbors love us. They love the way we take care of the yard. They love our
over-the-top Halloween display that scares the be-jesus out of their kids every year.
They—”
“Yeah. As long as we’re court jesters, they tolerate us.” Paul shakes his head and
shudders. “If we keep our place—entertain the troops—we’re okay. Well, I’m sick—sick
and tired—of playing the clown... I quit!”
“Please don’t do this to me, Paul. Please. I don’t think I can take another lover goin’ crazy
on me.”
“Don’t say that. Maybe your ex went nuts. Maybe you drove him that way. But me—I’m
not insane. I know what I heard. Anyway, what do you care?”
“Sixteen years! We’ve got sixteen years under our belts. How can you sit there and tell
me I don’t care?”
* * * *
Dr. Manscribe’s office is one of several in an old converted Denver Square house.
Everything in the building is old, including the doctor. His first questions are about
insurance.
“That’s why we’re here,” I tell him. “You were the only gay psychiatrist on the plan’s
approved list.”
“You’re his lover?” The doctor’s tone is decidedly not congratulatory. “Would you say
you control the relationship?”
“No.” I wrinkle my forehead and glare at the doctor. “Our relationship is 100% mutual.”
“So Paul came here on his own?”
“Well, I had to drive him. We agreed he needed help. That’s all.”
“I see.” Dr. Manscribe lifts papers from the waiting room table. “I think it would be best if I
meet with Paul in private.” The doctor nods sideways toward a double sliding door. “We
have better results in situations like these if the patient can talk in a completely open
environment without anything inhibiting the discourse.”
My brain boils as I watch them disappear behind the mammoth sliding doors, leaving me
in the one place I’ve always hated to be—on the outside in the dark.
He’s going to blame me. I can feel it.
I slink into a hard metal chair, fighting the growing pain in my eyes.
Suddenly, I hear bewitching sirens from Blackhawk’s Gold Mine Casino calling my name.
Everything else recedes to the distant background.
“Come to the party!” they scream. “We have flashing lights, ringing bells, and soul-
soothing jackpots to make you feel alive again.” Magnetically pulling me in, they promise
to melt away all the crippling troubles permeating the real world, which I’ve grown so
very uncomfortable around recently.
It matters little that the sirens’ promise of exhilaration will prove fleeting. The hunger of
escape requires satiation and now is the only measurement Necessity understands.
The memories of the past slowly fade as my mind returns to the trepidation of the
present.
“Kent Weschester.”
Robert Ott, my appointed attorney, lifts his briefcase with one hand and my elbow with
the other. “Come on.”
Once we’re at the podium, Judge Marx is silent, perusing papers—my permanent record,
I presume.
After what was probably only thirty seconds but felt like a dangerously long time, the
judge speaks. “Mr. Weschester has not only gambled away the two hundred thousand...
let’s see, how much was it exactly?” Judge Marx shuffles through the documents on his
desk. “Here it is... hmm... it appears the defendant took nearly a quarter million dollars
from Keystone Bank... with a scheme involving an ATM card, no less... I see his record
includes drunk driving charges, too... The defendant must have had a good ol’ time... at
these casinos... partying, drinking...” He drops the papers and looks directly at me. “This
high-on-the hog kind of living appears to have gone on in excess of more than seven
months. I have no sympathy for this kind of behavior whatsoever.”
Oh, God, he’s gonna throw the book at me. The possibilities, “Not more than thirty years,
one million dollars, or both,” swirl around in my head.
The judge’s relentless hard-line tirade certainly preserves his tough reputation, but my
pre-sentencing report clearly states I’ve been sober many years now. Aren’t judges
required to do their homework?
As I stand, quietly biting my tongue and trying not to shake, the judge continues to
explain why he’s denying our motion for a downward departure from the plea-bargain
guidelines. Less time would make me eligible for a halfway house or home confinement.
“First of all, vulnerability to sexual assault is not a valid reason to avert a prison
sentence, especially for a felonious crime. Even though the defendant is blond and has a
slight build, I’ve sentenced others to do time who were more likely to be sexually
assaulted than Mr. Weschester. It’s just the nature of the beast.”
Is he insulting or complimenting me?
Judge Marx bends his head and peers over the top of his horn-rim glasses. “And
certainly you are not the first defendant to come before me with frail, elderly parents.”
He turns to face the Assistant U.S. Attorney, William March. “Does the prosecution agree
a sentence of twelve months and one day is appropriate for this crime?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Judge Marx, if I may?” Mr. Ott interjects with an elevated voice. “My client has prepared
a statement to the court he would like to read.”
The judge nods and my lawyer gestures for me to come to the podium.
I make sure to lock eyes with the judge before I pull out my prepared text. “There are
many disorders in the world that invoke sympathy in people. Gambling isn’t one of them.
It’s not even considered a mental ailment by the courts. Yet, it has destroyed thousands
of lives. I believe it’s an obsessive-compulsive disorder, and, at least in my case, is
triggered by depression. That’s why I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”
I look up to find the entire courtroom assembly eerily quiet, all eyes riveted on me.
Startled and self-conscious, I depart from what I’ve written. “Your Honor, I want you to
know I didn’t go to the psychiatrist just so I could come here and look good. Rather, I
finally figured out I’ve been depressed my whole life and thought one of the new
antidepressant drugs might be the answer.” My eyes unexpectedly grow moist and my
voice cracks. This isn’t calculated; it’s real. But at the same time, I’m aware it can only
help, as it shows genuine remorse.
Although I feel a lump in my throat, I manage to continue. “I have a history of beating
other addictions. I haven’t taken a drink for over fifteen years and I licked a hundred
dollar a day cocaine habit twenty years ago…”
Fifteen minutes pass before I realize how long I’ve talked. Time to wrap it up. “Your
Honor, the bank already took Colorado Ranch and Pet Supply, my business of twenty-
eight years; I have nothing left to offer as further compensation. After two years of
continuance... es....” I take a big swallow. “... waiting for this to come to trial, I’m anxious
to receive my punishment, so I can salvage the remainder of my life. I ask the court to
help me in any way it deems appropriate.”
Slowly, I lift my head and make eye contact with the judge. The courtroom’s stone cold
quiet. A minute passes before he whispers to an assistant and then focuses back on me.
“I am going to grant your motion for a downward departure by one level, which will make
you eligible for a split sentence. I hereby sentence you to ten months total, five months
in a community correction center or a prison camp and five months home confinement.
You will report to the Federal Bureau of Prisons on May 15, 2000 at twelve noon sharp.
Court is adjourned.”
I whisper to my attorney, “Is a community correction center the same as a halfway
house?”
He smiles and whispers back, “Yes, yes, yes. This is good. This is good.”
Suddenly, there’s an eruption of activity around us; we’re surrounded by all the defense
lawyers in the courtroom. “Brilliant!” is the first exclamation I hear.
Another attorney, eyes sparkling, works her way up to me. “In my seventeen years as a
lawyer, that’s the most articulate, most effective statement to the court I’ve ever heard.
You said everything you needed to and properly apologized to all the right people. You
turned that judge completely around. Congratulations!”
“Thanks!” I say, unable to quell the big Cheshire grin on my face. “But it’s all true! This
hasn’t been a performance!” Even so, I feel jubilant, like an actor who has just received
an Academy Award.
While we leave the courtroom, an idea grows in my head. I’ll write a book about my
struggle with gambling and how I deal with whatever horrible things happen to me in
prison. Maybe I can bring a bit of clarity or at least a little comfort to all the other
frightened people of the world.
As the crowd thins and we find ourselves in the hallway, my lawyer looks at me and
smiles. “Wow, that was something. You did a good job, man. Powerful statement.” He
sits in one of the waiting room chairs, motions for me to do the same while he opens his
briefcase. “Listen, I checked a map of all the federal prisons—the ones with camps.
Looks like they’ll probably send you to the one in Texarkana. It’s the closest.”
“Texarkana?” I cock my head. “Sounds familiar.”
“Well, the prison there has been in the news. You probably saw it. Some inmate was
found with his throat slashed—a few weeks ago. But don’t worry. I think I read they
caught the guy. Anyway it happened in the main part of the prison, not the camp.” He
pats me on the back. “You’re going to love the camp, man. It’ll be like visiting a country
club. Be over before you know it.”
“Yeah? I hope so.” Oh, God! Did he say he thought they caught the guy?
One of the lawyers from the courtroom who happens to be walking by stops and looks
at me. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Listen, I have a client in Texarkana—medium
security—and he told me they haven’t figured out who did it.”
“Oh, jeesh.” I roll my eyes. “But thanks for the info.”
“Yeah, sure! But your attorney’s right. You shouldn’t have any problems in the minimum-
security camp. I wouldn’t worry about it. Good luck to you, guy.”
After he’s out of earshot, I stand and stretch. “Good luck?”
My lawyer laughs. “Poor choice of words, I think.”
“I’ll say! If I had any luck left, I wouldn’t be standing here in this courthouse talking to
you and I certainly wouldn’t be heading to a prison with a slasher on the guest list.”
| Gale, a.k.a. Sun Man, Texarkana Federal Prison Camp, July 2000 |
| SOOTH YOUR SOUL |