Undaunted

At four hundred hours I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. I dreaded the moment the lights would be turned on and another perilous day would begin. Could I catch up academically with the rest of the candidates or would I fall farther behind and inevitably flunk out? I was scared, real scared. Paris Island and Charlie Russell kept coming to mind. I began to feel the pressure that he must have felt and I began to understand why he committed suicide.

When the lights finally jolted me from my troubled slumber, I jumped out of my bunk and hurriedly got dressed. After making my bunk, Randy and I headed to the mess hall. While I was standing in the long line, I noticed two MP's walking toward me.

"Candidate Turner?" one of them said.

"Yes."

"You're under arrest! Raise your hands and place them flat against the wall."

"What's going on?" Randy asked.

"Step aside! Don't interfere," the MP warned Randy as he began to frisk me.

"What's this all about?" I said.

Just then a car drove up and Lt. Burden got out and hurried over to where I was standing up against the wall.

"Is that really necessary?" he said.

"Why are they arresting me?" I asked.

"They've found some incriminating evidence. They can prove you were at the scene of the crime."

"What! That's impossible."

"Well, that's what I thought, but they found your fingerprints on the murder weapon."

"Huh? What murder weapon?"

"The knife that was used to kill Sergeant Foster."

"You've got to be kidding. I don't know anything about any knife."

"Well, we'll talk about it later. Right now you'll have to surrender to these two MP's."

"Jesus! I can't believe this. I didn't do anything."

"Candidate Turner, you are under arrest for the murder of Sgt. Louis Foster," the first MP said as the other one tried to cuff me. "Please come with us."

Adrenalin began to explode into my blood stream. I ripped my hands away from the MP.

"I didn't do anything! You can't do this!"

My eyes began to swell up and I struggled to keep from crying in front of 100 stunned Marines. I looked at Lt. Burden hoping he would some how intervene.

"Come on Stan! There's nothing you can do. Just let them cuff you and take you to the brig. I'll come to see you soon and then we'll figure out a way to get you out."

The MP's escorted me to a waiting jeep and sat me down in the back seat for the ride to the Quantico brig. I sat quietly, my head was throbbing, I wondered how in the hell my fingerprints could have got on the murder weapon? What was going on? I was innocent, this couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be happening.

When we arrived at our destination, they escorted me in the back door and led me down a long corridor to an intake room. At the far end of the room was a thick glass window with a retractable drawer beneath it. Immediately to the right of the window was situated a small intercom. Just to the right of the intercom was a large steel door which apparently led into the main cell block.

I waited nervously until the drawer opened. The jailer instructed me over the intercom to deposit all of my personal belongings into the drawer. After emptying my pockets I continued to wait. Several minutes later the intercom made a popping sound and then the jailer told me to enter after the buzzer went off. I waited and then when the buzzer sounded I heard the locking mechanism in door disengage. As instructed I then pulled open the large steel door and entered the main cell block.

As I walked inside, the heavy steel door closed automatically and I heard the chilling sound of the locking mechanism engaging. Looking back, I starred briefly at the door already longing for freedom. Once inside a jailer escorted me to a locker room where I was stripped, examined rudely by a medic and then dressed in a bright orange jump suit. When they were done with me I was taken to a small cell furnished with a single steel framed bed and a forty watt light bulb protruding from the ceiling.

After the jailer left I collapsed on my bed. My mind raced trying to make sense of what had happened to me. How could my fingerprints be on the murder weapon? I hadn't even seen a knife since I had been at Quantico let alone put my fingerprints on one. Depression overcame me, the tears that I had so valiantly suppressed earlier began to stream down my cheeks.

The days passed by. My sojourn in the Quantico brig was into its fourth week and I was still unable to post bond. A hundred thousand dollars was ten times my father's annual income. My in-laws wanted to help but they could only raise $20,000. That would have been enough if I had been in the Portland County Jail, but I was clear across the country in the brig at Quantico Marine Base, Quantico, Virginia. I was laying on my bunk contemplating by predicament when I heard the jailer calling someone.

"Stanley Turner!"

Startled to hear my name, I jumped up and walked quickly to the bars that incarcerated me.

"Yes, here I am. What do you want?"

The jailer appeared in front of my cell.

"You have a visitor," he said as he unlocked my cell. "Follow me."

The jailer walked down the row of cells to a visitors room, opened it and pointed for me to enter. As I walked in the room I saw an attractive, well dressed middle-aged woman with long brown hair sitting at a table. I sat across from her very curious as to who she was and what she wanted.

"Hi, I am Virginia Stone," she said.

"Hello, Stanley Turner," I replied.

"I am a free lance journalist from Charlotte, North Carolina."

"Really?"

"I know you're wondering why I came to visit you so I'll get right to the point."

"Okay."

"I recently did a story on a platoon of U.S. Marines at Paris Island, S.C. that was the victims of an over zealous drill sergeant. You may have read the story."

"Yes, I did, I read it while I was in the hospital."

"Well, I heard about what happened to you here at Quantico and I was frankly, intrigued. You haven't talked to any other journalist have you?"

"No."

"Good. I want to write your story. I want the whole world to know what you've gone through and what pushed you to kill your drill sergeant."

"But I didn't kill him. I'm innocent."

"Right, I understand. You don't have to confess to me."

"But you don't understand. I'm innocent!"

She smiled and replied, "Of course."

I looked her straight in the eye trying to convince her of my sincerity and continued, "I couldn't kill another human being. I couldn't do something like that."

"What do you mean? You're a Marine."

"Well, if I were in combat I guess I would . . . for my country. But I wouldn't kill someone in cold blood just because I was angry with them."

"It doesn't matter. If you're innocent the story will be great anyway."

"What I'm trying to tell you is there isn't any story. It's all a big mistake. In a week or two my lawyer will have me out of here, I'm sure."

"You're pretty naive Mr. Turner. They found your finger prints on the murder weapon for godsakes! You're not getting out of here unless you can post bail, and if you haven't been able to do that in over three weeks I seriously doubt that it will ever happen."

Her chilling argument decimated my usually optimistic demeanor. I sunk back in my chair in acknowledgment of the veracity of her words. She smiled at me sympathetically revealing a trace of remorse for the jolt of reality she had inflicted upon me.

"Why should I give you the story?" I said trying to withhold my anger at her words.

"Because I'm the only journalist in the country that wants to write this story right now?"

"Oh really. So why do you give a rats ass about me?"

"Two years ago my nephew was killed in a bizarre accident at Paris Island. He was two weeks into boot camp when allegedly he fell to his death from a tower on the obstacle course. We probably would have accepted the story except that several days later we received an anonymous letter advising us that Stewart's death was no accident. Of course we contacted the proper authorities but they just dismissed the letter as a prank."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"No, except his Drill Sergeant. No one else claims to have seen it happen."

"Gee, I'm sorry."

"Thank you, but I've gotten over it pretty much."

"Do you think he was murdered?"

"It was a possibility I couldn't ignore so I took a few weeks off and went to Paris Island to investigate in person. I didn't learn much about what happened to Stewart but I learned a lot about the Marine Corps. Then when I heard about the forty-four Marine recruits being hospitalized, I talked one of my editors into commissioning a story on what happened to those recruits."

"So what does that have to do with me?"

"I haven't been able to create a lot of excitement over the Paris Island incident as most of the Marines involved have recovered. The brass at Paris Island have done a good job at putting a lid on the incident. I was at a dead end until I heard about you and your situation."

"I see."

"Your story could be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country, if you'll only let me jump on it."

"I don't know. If my story gets a lot of publicity it could be pretty embarrassing for my family."

"Wouldn't you like to get your side of the story out? If you don't get someone on your side now the Marine Corps, sooner or later, is going to tell this story to the press as they see it and it won't be pretty."

"Ever since I was twelve years old I've wanted to be an attorney. I've geared my whole life to going to law school and fulfilling that dream. If this story gets out, I may be finished before I even get started."

"Don't you see, if you are innocent and you're acquitted you'll be a hero. You'll get a million dollars of publicity and it won't cost you a dime."

"I don't know. Right now all I want to do is make bail and see my wife, Rebekah."

"If I can make bail for you, will you do it?"

"You would do that?"

"Absolutely."

The thought of being free excited me. A sudden rush of hope overwhelmed me.

"Huh. . . . Then how could I refuse?"

"You're right, you can't. . . . That's good. . . . Okay, I'll post your bond as an advance on the contract. Of course you'll get the standard royalty from any news stories, books, endorsements or movie contracts."

"Damn, you're pretty ambitious, aren't you?"

"I've been waiting a long time for this story. . . . I can't wait to write it."

"Well I hope you're not disappointed."

"Don't worry about that just start collecting your thoughts because I want to know everything about you. I want the whole story of your life from the very beginning."

"So how will all this work?"

"I took the liberty of writing up a little contract. Look it over and if it's okay then sign it. Then I'll get you out of here and we can get to work."

"That sounds good to me. Too good as a matter of fact. Is there a catch?"

"No, no surprises. All I want is your story. Nothing more."

I read the contract, we signed it and then Mrs. Stone got up to leave.

"Thank you so much Mrs. Stone for coming, I feel so much better now. For the first time in weeks I might be able to sleep tonight."

"Don't thank me, it's just business. You got lucky; we both got lucky. Good bye Mr. Turner."

"Hey, Mrs. Stone. Your Nephew-"

"Yes."

"It wasn't murder."

"Huh?"

"It was suicide."

"Suicide? How do you know?"

"I've seen it happen. Your nephew was driven to suicide. I'd bet this book contract on it. The Marine Corps kept it quiet because it's not good for recruiting. You know-DRILL SERGEANT DRIVES NEW RECRUIT TO SUICIDE-not the kind of headlines the Marine Corps likes."

Mrs. Stone stared at me emotionless and then turned and left. Within two hours she had posted my bond and I was a free man. Just as unexpectedly as I had been imprisoned, I had been liberated. What a bizarre turn of events. I wondered what new surprises might lie ahead. The next day we met in a room at the Holiday Inn in Woodbridge, Virginia to start work.

"Now, just start from the beginning. Tell me about your childhood for starters."

"Well I grew up in a lower middle class neighborhood in Ventura, California. My father was a clerk for an insurance company and my mother was a school teacher. I had a younger sister and a dog. What else do you want to know?"

Virginia smiled and said, "Well I'm going to need a little more detail than that, Stan."

"Well, I hated school, I loved to play baseball and I was a Boy Scout."

"Okay. . . . How about if I just ask you some questions?"

"Sure."

"Now I want you to just relax and tell me everything you remember."

"Alright."

"Okay, when did you first decide you wanted to be a lawyer?"

"Ah . . . let me see . . . I guess it all started when I had my first brush with the law. I was twelve years old and it happened during the Ventura County Fair."

"Okay, good. . . . That's a good place to start. Tell me all about that incident."