5 FEBRUARY 1896 SAINT DENIS, LEMOYNE
The doctor’s hand shook as he struck a match and pulled an acrid tasting cigarette to his lips. The one thing he wanted right now he couldn’t have, and that made it all the worse. The cigarette was a pale substitute, but it would have to do.
He sat alone in his apartment and listened to the whine of the pipes and the creak of floorboards some stories above him as the old restless gentleman who seemed to suffer from some kind of lung ailment paced around his room coughing. The streets were mostly quiet, as it was the middle of the night, and Dr. Kane sat wide awake, staring into the dying moments of amber light that flickered from his shrinking candle. What kept him awake was the sense of impending doom that now hung over him like a guillotine.
It started a week prior, and at first seemed to be nothing more than a power play on the part of the West Elizabeth Sheriff’s Office to regain some control over Saint Denis’ wild tendencies. It had come to Kane’s attention that the law might be trying to pin some or all of the drug sales in the city on him. Kane scoffed at this absurdity, naturally, but the detail of which their plan was described still gave him pause.
The tip had come from none other than Deputy Drew MacDonald – a Lemoyne native himself, and disgruntled member of the department. He was undoubtedly one of WESO’s finest, and had a tendency to burn the midnight oil at the expense of his own health and mental wellbeing. Blessed with fiery red hair, broad shoulders, and a towering frame, Drew MacDonald was equally as insightful as he was physically endowed, and little went unnoticed when under his watchful eye. On the note of watchful eyes, Dr. Kane knew Drew better than most other lawmen, for he had been his primary physician and more recently conducted Drew’s surgical enucleation and placement of an ocular prosthesis. Over time, the two had grown to know and respect each other, and Dr. Kane had come to consider Drew ‘one of the good ones’ that were so rare amongst the constabulary.
Recently, the department had lost a number of its deputies for various reasons, some citing philosophical differences and others unhappy with the handling of the Grayum Roberts case. Mr. MacDonald had even attempted to put in his own resignation, but it was denied by Sheriff Barnes–if you are wondering how one declines a resignation, you would not be alone. Drew begrudgingly agreed to stay on and even accept a promotion to Corporal. It was this series of events that led to their conversation in the medical office in which Drew informed Dr. Kane of law’s suspicion that he was involved in the rash of drug deals going on in the city.
Kane had shrugged it off, but a few days later Drew returned to him. This time, behind the stables, he emphasized that while the law was acting friendly, things were heating up. They intended to catch him off guard and bring him into the office for questioning. While the doctor insisted there was no evidence of such, he had begun to feel a creeping sense of uncertainty.
He decided it was better safe than sorry, so with no small difficulty, he disposed of the eight remaining vials of cocaine he had in his bag reserved for personal use. Then meticulously, he went through every nook and cranny of his possessions to eliminate the possibility of the authorities stumbling across anything. A drug peddler he was not, but his few interactions as defense counsel had informed him that the law did not take into account the intent of possession, merely the possession itself. In what became a sort of feverish mania, the doctor managed to find one more vial of cocaine and one cannabis cigarette amongst his belongings which he unceremoniously discarded into the Lannahechee River.
Satisfied there was no evidence to connect him to any contraband, he slept soundly in comfort that whatever political move the Sheriff was attempting against him was sufficiently thwarted. And had that been the end of it, he might be sleeping yet. Instead, there we sat staring into the long and waking night, numb with fear, his hands quaking as he puffed hopelessly on a cigarette.
It was only hours earlier that very same night that he had been responding to a letter when none other than the former District Attorney Novak appeared in the post office. He had stood beside him to receive his communiques and Kane took no real notice of him, but the longer he stood there, his posture shifted uneasily. Kane felt this discomfort and paused his writing to look at him. Seized by opportunity the finely-dressed man addressed him in a shaken and hurried cadence, or as hurried as his molasses-thick Southern drawl would allow.
“Doctor, I’ve been told not to tell you this, but you’re under investigation for smuggling.”
“Smuggling?” Galen replied in utter shock, “What do you mean? I have a special exemption.”
Novak nodded as if he had expected this response, and his reply was just as bewildered, “Apparently there was a file in the docket outlining a procedure wherein you were required to contact me regarding the importation of coca leaves into the country.”
“This is absurd! I have seen no such thing! I would think that if there were such a requirement, I would have been informed, and had I known, I surely would have complied to the letter.” The doctor felt a searing heat creep up his shirt collar, a sinking feeling in his gut that perhaps he had truly made some grievous error that the law now sought to exploit.
“I was equally as uninformed and I regret that my ignorance may bring harm upon you,” Novak replied in a thin timbre, holding the letter aloft, “Deputy Dattoli said if I told you, they’d charge me with a crime – though what crime I could not say – we have no law or statute for ‘obstruction’ in the Five States. Thus, I feel no shame in divulging it to you. It is the least I can do for my part in this.”
“Thank you, sir,” Galen replied, though by this point he could not hear his own voice, for it was drowned out by the ringing in his ears. The room seemed to wobble as Kane strode out of the office, the doorway sideways on its hinges and undulating in unnatural ways. He tried to clear his thoughts, but he felt like he was clinging to a runaway stagecoach bound for a canyon’s edge.
He stumbled down the road to the Gilded Goat. Now more than ever, his body ached for chemical relief, but he had just destroyed all of what he had. Salena Galanis knew that look, and quickly supplied him with a large glass of whisky. He imparted on her the knowledge which he had just gleaned which now clarified all of the inconsistencies of their previous conjectures. Kane was not wanted for dealing, they were going to prosecute him on a technicality of his bookkeeping. This explained why they would be pursuing him so fiercely despite his seven week absence over the winter and utter lack of evidence – it was because that was never what they were looking for. He cursed himself for being so short-sighted and over-confident that he had not considered any other possibility.
His mind worked overtime as he attempted to project out the next sequence of events, but every way he imagined it, he came to the same conclusion – he was guilty of smuggling, and that was a major felony in the Five States, a federal crime, the kind of crime that could cost him his career, office, and reputation. He wanted to vomit.
Seeing no avenue by which prosecution could be avoided, he turned his thoughts to mitigation. The greater portion of Cocalixir he conveyed to a hidden location, reasoning that if the authorities attempted to estimate the scale of his imports by reconciling his stock against ingredients, they would find only the scant few displayed upon the general store shelves. He estimated that the provable evidence would result in fines of $100-$300: enough to deplete his savings account, but not enough to bankrupt him. Were they, however, to fine him for the full extent of his stock, he had no doubt the fine would reach a thousand dollars or more – a sum he must flatly refuse, thereby incurring a second arrest for nonpayment. Two arrests in short order would surely result in his utter ruination.
There remained but one course of action yet open to him, but even that was barred by circumstance. He thought to go at once to the lawmen and speak plainly with them, but such an act would have betrayed those who, by their own peril, had entrusted him with the truth. So he was condemned to inaction, and so he sat in the dark, watching the last flicker of candlelight expire, his thoughts fixed upon the single consuming dread that he could neither reason away nor escape: prison.