Freedom Machine
Freedom Machine
John Hanes, counsel for the defense, watched his spoken beliefs bypass the face of justice unnoticed. Just as it wasn’t to be said or stored, it also was not to be heard. It had to be felt and Hanes, in desperation, played the last of his hand.
“Your honor, I submit that the true experience of freedom a motorcycle offers cannot be conveyed in mere words. Such an exhilarating and moving experience must be felt first hand. Therefore, 1 respectfully request that your honor, Judge Thomas C. Bryan, accompany me on a motorcycle ride of sufficient length to enable the court to know freedom first hand.”
It stopped them all. The California District Court of Appeals stood still and silent. Hanes waited, his pulse pounding visibly at his neck, as Bryan weighed the unorthodox request. Moments slipped by, moments that gave Hanes and the motorcycle a chance. Success so far, reasoned the defense. Time passed and decisions weighed meant life. Hanes was pleased for he had believed this would happen, that the court would grant due consideration to any reasonable proposal. Still, he wanted to prod, to say just a little more to hurry the decision along. Experience held him back. Justice would prevail.
“All right, counsel. The court hereby grants your request. A ride of sufficient length. Just how long do you deem sufficient?”
“Most of a day, your honor. Early morning until mid-evening. Enough time to experience the full scale of sensation the average rider knows, all those relating to differences in time, weather and locale.”
Judge Bryan paused in mild annoyance and Hanes cringed at the visible signs. Perhaps a day was too much. Eor a man of Bryan’s age it must sound an eternity. Their eyes met for an instant of the silence, and judge and counsel simultaneously exchanged trust with a nod.
“Very well. Court is adjourned until 10 a.m., Wednesday.”
Hanes had time only for a short sign of relief when Bryan added: “Mr.
Hanes, I’d like to see you in my chambers.”
“Yes sir,” Hanes replied. He turned and quickly shook hands with the man seated beside him, Anthony Dimeo, the defendant this entire case revolved around, and promised to talk to him later. Time now only for the judge. Dimeo understood fully and congratulated Hanes for a job well done. As he turned to leave, Hanes called after him, “It’s not over yet,” then felt his momentary elation fade as the task ahead settled upon his shoulders.
The courtroom emptied and Hanes, still pondering the ride ahead, stood fixed and staring, absorbing the awe-
some responsibility he had just assumed. He had one day, one ride with one man. He had only that left to defend the motorcycle in its fight to remain a legal vehicle in the state of California. He, John Hanes, had that day and that ride and that responsibility. Now, as he repeated those limitations, he wondered seriously for the first time if he could do it, or if it could be done at all. It had been a desperate move, a last grab at keeping the defense alive. Now that it was real, the challenge grew and a small voice inside John Hanes asked how.
“Mr. Hanes, the judge is waiting.” It was the bailiff conveying Judge Bryan’s impatience and Hanes sprung from his solitary inquisition back to reality. “Be right there.”
He gathered his papers, shoved them unorganized into his briefcase, and made his way to the judge’s chambers. There he met Bryan who gazed at him in silence for a time, then spoke. “So you think a ride will impart this freedom that you speak of to me. What gives you such confidence in your motorcycle?”
“I feel this freedom I speak of every time I ride my machine and I think everyone who rides experiences it alsomost just don’t consciously try to analyze it as I have done. And I might add that I did so long before this case came about. It’s part of what motorcycling is all about and I think you, with your fair minded analysis of any situation set before you, will give due consideration to the reality of this freedom.”
“Well said, counselor. It’s all been well said, but like you say, it doesn’t soak in until it’s experienced first hand. That I can believe. I just hope you understand that although I approach this ride with an open minded impartiality, you must realize that as a man who has never had any specific interest in motorcycling, I may not experience it with the enthusiasm I am sure colors your pleasure and sense of freedom. Still, I’ll give it every chance.”
“That’s all I ask, and I honestly believe that’s all I’ll need.”
“Now,” Bryan said. “Time, place, et cetera.”
“Nine a.m. I'll pick you up at your home. Wear warm clothing, a jacket that breaks the wind, boots if you have them, gloves too.”
The judge nodded. “Nine it is. Tomorrow morning then, Mr. Hanes.” “Tomorrow morning, your honor.” A premature sunset behind towering buildings of the Bunker Hill development reminded Hanes it was winter. Bad bike weather, he thought. Short days with cold mornings, cold evenings and no great spells of California’s eternal warmth in between. January definitely was not the time of year to hang it all on a motorcycle ride, but what attorney could choose proper setting for his
defense? Hanes reminded himself how lucky he was to have gotten this far. Now, how much farther?
He turned back to look at the building he had just left-the Los Angeles County Courthouse, an immense building a full block long, but only a few stories in height. How many lives, he thought, how many changes in how many lives came about in that building. Too many, and now the motorcycle, dragged in to stand trial for its right of existence. Hanes felt again the twinge of pain-sympathy pain-that had been with him all through this case, from its first hearing to this present appeal. The pain was twofold-sympathy for the motorcycle, so much a part of him and so many others; sympathy also for the law and the lawmakers who were legislating beyond their realm. They were reaching too far, trying to solve every problem with a law, and their power, the power that had pushed so basic a thing as riding a motorcycle this far. was frightening to contemplate. What next, thought Hanes.
He retrieved his motorcycle from a nearby parking lot and joined the five o'clock wave of commuters that filled streets and freeways to their limits. Deciding against returning to his office in favor of home and plans for the following day’s trip, Hanes threaded his way between lanes of traffic, bypassing the pedestrian pace of the working man’s mass exit. He stayed away from the freeway simply because he was tired of it and chose instead a zig-zag route that wound through high rise, industrial, ghetto, white suburbia, then finally ended in Manhattan Beach.
A pleasant ride as always, Hanes thought as he closed the garage door, leaving his motorcycle to cool in the darkness. Later he would return and prepare it for the ride, but first of all, plans.
Freshly revived from his breezy ride out of the smog filled Los Angeles basin and into the cool dampness of the ocean’s edge, Hanes needed only a change of clothes and a beer to settle him into a totally relaxed state wherein he could contemplate, plan and decide on tomorrow. Plenty of time, he reminded himself, and he eased into a chair to add it all up.
What did he need for Bryan to experience it all in one day? Could it be done? Not as completely as he would like, but in a condensed version, yes. It could include a route down the coast highway, some winding semi-mountainous road, a stretch of freeway, a zig-zag through downtown Los Angeles and back to Bryan's doorstep. That couldn’t capture it all—he would sacrifice the long empty desert highway and the climb of the mountain road, and of course the ride in the rain that was unbelievably pleasant in proper gear.
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Those he would sacrifice, but the rest should be sufficient.
A map of Southern California offered many routes, but Hanes settled on a southerly one. Down Pacific Coast Highway, east along Highway 74 to Elsinore, north on 395 through Riverside and Corona, then back to the Santa Ana freeway, following it north into downtown Los Angeles. Then the zig-zag south again and home. It fit beautifully. Without undue speed and enough rest stops to keep Bryan comfortable, the trip could probably be stretched to include most of the day and a touch of night. Perfection. Hanes felt better equipped now to face his enormous challenge. He had a route that should do the trick. Bryan was bound to get caught up in it all. Hanes felt more sure each minute and by night’s end, he was immersed in over-confidence.
Judge Thomas C. Bryan lived in the surroundings expected for a judge of the California District Court of Appeals. Homes along the Palos Verdes Peninsula were far from cheap and Bryan’s was a little farther than most. Hanes rang the bell and waited before immense white double doors. Expecting a maid, he was surprised to have Bryan come bursting through the door in a flurry of action.
“That it?” he said nodding to Hanes’ motorcycle as he put on a pair of gloves.
“Yes, your honor. That’s it. It’s a Triumph 650. I’ve had it for about three years.”
“That going to make a difference?” snapped the judge.
Hanes hesitated, unsettled by this sudden abruptness. Then he felt Bryan’s stare pierce his silence. “No, sir.”
“Well, let’s be off then.”
Hanes started his machine and Bryan climbed aboard. “Do you want to know the route we’ll be following?” Hanes asked.
“No,” answered Bryan. Hanes nodded and set the bike in motion.
Crisp, maybe brittle, thought Hanes, trying to find one word that fit the morning’s weather. Yes, crisp, he thought, then smirked as he realized he thought that of Judge Bryan also. Was it the early hour or the weather that had stolen the judge’s normal calm collection, or was it simply the annoyance of a day on a motorcycle at the hand of someone trying to prove something? Crisp, Hanes thought again, and he turned his thoughts to the weather.
Down off the peninsula and onto Pacific Coast Highway, south. Traffic was thin. The highway was open and free, but Hanes didn’t push. Take it
easy, relax-words of the day. South, past beach cities, in and out from the coast and the fog that engulfed the entire shore. No fresh ocean breezes mingled with sunshine, only the thick dampness and its gray gloom. Near Laguna Beach, Hanes looked up and asked why, then reassured himself that the rest of the ride would compensate with fresh air and sunshine.
“Like some coffee?” he asked over his shoulder to Bryan.
“Fine,” said the man whose words seemed to be dwindling considerably.
In Laguna they pulled off at a coffee shop and went inside to escape the fog. Sipping the too hot coffee for want of something else to do, Hanes felt the weight of silence. Two men, sharing so much—justice, the law -sharing now this venture and growing farther apart for it. Hanes could feel it happening. Bryan was distant, aloof, his only remarks about the briskness of the morning.
Back on the road, Hanes felt only slightly better. He was glad to be out of the awkwardness of the coffee shop and would avoid like situations. If Bryan wanted distance and quiet, he would have distance and quiet.
At Highway 74 Hanes turned inland toward Elsinore which offered escape from the fog and a pleasant winding road leading to a beautiful lake. Sunshine would help.
Within two miles, Hanes had the sun, but its emergence did little to boost his spirits. Bryan was deathly still. Patience, John, Hanes said to himself. Patience.
Leaning the motorcycle around curves, Hanes wondered if Bryan was experiencing the true thrill of it all. Did he let the lean and sway take him over, meshing his body and the motorcycle into a single being? Did he feel the immediacy, the closeness of the power he straddled? Did he like the wind that brushed his face and whisked away life’s concerns? Did he, and what’s more, could he? Did everyone really feel it, like Hanes believed, or was Hanes special?
Climbing higher and higher, the road wound tighter, seldom giving the motorcycle a true 90 degrees. Yellows and browns of dry grasses had broken into scattered greens. Trees grouped and bushes clustered, giving the landscape a fresh view. Higher still they climbed, clinging to outside curves, peering down into canyons, scooping through inside curves, overshadowed by hills above. Hanes wanted to ask Bryan how he liked it—just that one simple question would be enough, but he denied himself
its asking. He had made a promise to himself to let the motorcycle do the convincing, knowing if he said one word it would lead to others and soon he would be pleading his case again instead of letting the motorcycle take the stand.
Lake Elsinore broke into view as they rounded a curve. It was beautiful and Hanes was sure Bryan was impressed. Far below, surrounded by green in varying shades, was the blue mass of serenity. Tucked away back in these hills it didn’t really seem like Southern California, and its sight was refreshing. The water glistened in the morning sun. It looked inviting, invigorating.
The road started downward, still winding, the motorcycle still leaning and swaying, its rhythmic moves accompanied by the ceaseless purr of the smooth running engine. Down to the floor of the valley they rode, then out and across, trading curves for loose bending lengths of highway that bordered the lake. They circled completely, passing the few people who braved the winter cold to vacation at the lake, then stopped at a clearing to rest.
“How’s it feel?” Hanes asked, determined to break the silence that had driven him to distraction.
“It’s not the most comfortable, but then it’s not the least, either.”
Impartial to a fault, Hanes thought. “Motorcycle’s running good,” he said aloud. “Couldn’t ask for more.”
“Do you get pretty good performance out of it?” Bryan asked.
Hanes jumped at the bit of conversation. “Very good. In the three years I've had it, repairs have been only minor. It’s never had a major overhaul-never needed one. Runs great all the time. I ride it to work most days. Great in traffic.” “Yes, well ...” Bryan cleared his throat and let silence fall.
Hanes kicked himself mentally. Oversell. Don’t oversell.
Bryan walked near the lake and sat down. Hanes left him to his thoughts. Important ones, no doubt. Walking a little way, Hanes fried to get away for a moment. But the situation wouldn’t leave. He turned to watch Bryan and reminded himself just how important that man sitting on the bank of the lake was to the motorcycle. How ridiculous that was-one man to decide the fate of the motorcycle. One man as human as any other. Was that his qualification? Perhaps that was the best after all.
Hanes had often wondered about being a judge, if he would ever want to be one. He had always come to the same conclusion: no, he would not. He preferred the fight, not the decision. Yet with the fights so many, and the decisions becoming increasingly important, wouldn’t it be good to be the one? To be the final judgement?
Still, one man, one solitary man-was it right? When laws were passed by
groups of men, masses of men, should it come down to the judgement of one single man to decide right or wrong? Sometimes —like now —it seemed it should go higher. But where? A higher court? Eight or nine men? Or God perhaps. Would God allow the motorcycle its life?
Slow down. John. Hanes calmed himself, pulled a tighter rein on his mind, and sifted back to the beginnings. Getting to this point wasn’t an overnight occurrence. It was a trip of several year’s duration-fought all the way by loyalists to the cause, pushed over the edge by the enemy, the lawmakers. Two years ago the first line of defense had fallen when motorcycles were banned from off-the-road areas, unless specifically designated a motorcycling area. Those areas were so few that the law meant, simply and plainly, you couldn’t just hop onto a dirt trail and go. That law’s passage had amazed Hanes. He had thought it the most unjust law enacted yet, and he was no less amazed when it was appealed all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, only to be upheld as constitutional. That victory by conservationists had given proper precedent, and thereafter every state in the U.S. had passed a similar law, bringing offroad activities to a bare minimum.
That one had been a real trauma, but the world still turned and life moved on. Then the same bright senator who championed the cause of conservation to the farthest degree had penned a law to remove the menace of motorcycles from the street. How absurd! Unbelievable, Hanes had said, and he had laughed and assured himself that it couldn’t happen. But motorcycle lobbies had proven weak in the face of the ever growing ranks of conservationists, and the motorcycle had been legislated off the streets, highways, and freeways, in the ever-noble name of environmental conservation. Noise pollution, people destruction, undue hazard, all the same old arguments that had been around for years suddenly rose up an ugly giant and stepped on the defenseless motorcycle.
There had been no real defense, Hanes believed. Lobbies, concerned motorcyclists who visited legislative sessions to speak as public representatives, those who wrote thousands of letters, all had not been enough. No one, Hanes believed, had talked of freedom. Not the freedom guaranteed us on paper, but the personal, feeling kind of freedom that only the motorcycle offered. No one ever mentioned it or tried to prove it and it was so important. So Hanes had used it. When approached by one of the motorcycle lobbies to take on the defense of Anthony Dimeo— ticketed for riding a motorcycle on the street-Hanes had accepted immediately, anxious for a chance to prove his freedom theory. But now, watching a
man try to absorb it in a single ride, Hanes felt it giving way. Maybe it wasn’t everyone. Maybe just him.
He walked back to Bryan who rose and walked to the motorcycle. “The rest felt good,’’ he-said.
“Right,” replied Hanes, still weakened by his own thoughts.
They continued their journey north on Highway 395 to Riverside, then west to the Santa Ana freeway and north again toward Los Angeles. The freeway felt good-speed cleared the mind. Hanes let the bike open up and blow away his troubles, reassuring him that the freedom was still there and that it would get through, somehow, to Bryan.
Hunger forced a stop in Anaheim, only this time Hanes chose a hamburger stand. Closed spaces and four walls weren't right for this trip, so he and the judge ate hamburgers sitting on a bench in the mid-afternoon sun.
“How long have you been a motorcyclist, counselor?” Bryan asked.
“Since l was about 18. I bought an ancient bike from a friend for $100 and rode it to the ground. Erom then on I've always had a bike.”
“1 guess I was about 18 when I first rode one,” Bryan said and Hanes’ surprise registered visibly. “Yes,” Bryan continued, “I have ridden before, but it’s been a long time. I think it was a Harley-Davidson, a 1920-odd model. Belonged to a friend. We rode out across the farmlands—Nebraska—dirt roads, of course. I remember I loved it, said I’d have one of my own someday, but somewhere along the way I forgot.”
Hanes felt himself relax and was aware for the first time just how tense he had been. Bryan was human after all. There was a chance.
“Like to see that bike now,” Hanes said. “Be worth something.”
“A good antique,” Bryan nodded. “I wonder, when does a man become antique?”
Eye contact was momentary, but as in the courtroom, it was enough. Bryan was still there, always had been, and now Hanes was reassured.
Back on the freeway, still north, they made short work of the miles, spilling onto the streets of Los Angeles as the Santa Ana freeway ended in an interchange. One last area to traverse-the city. One last sensation-night riding. The two could combine in the zig-zag leg of the trip that would lead from downtown to Palos Verdes.
Traffic was at medium density-the commuters were still caged in their offices, so Hanes took advantage of the street space and rode around, meandering from block to block, past the civic center, past the missions and drunks of skid row, past the bus depot and its throngs of transients, past the industrial sections, then back by the department stores, the police building, the hall of
records, and the courthouse. Here Hanes stopped, leaving the engine running, and turned around to Bryan.
“Different?” he asked.
“It’s not different,” the judge said. “Maybe I am, but it’s not.”
Hanes smiled and moved off. They cruised the city a while longer. Hanes wished it was Sunday. That was his favorite day to wander the streets of downtown Los Angeles because then they are empty and real. No temporary people remain on Sunday, just the inhabitants, and they are few. On Sunday you can hear just the city-not the people or the thousands of cars and busses. On Sunday you can hear the silence, the cold silence that is really the city. But, like the desert or the mountains or the ride in the rain, he couldn’t have it all. Today was today, and it was enough-he hoped.
Shadows were increasing, the sun was slipping westward and Hanes left the wandering and set off for home. The zig-zag was a favorite; two blocks south, two west, a block south, three west, whatever struck his fancy. The traffic was loose now, choking the streets, sending policemen into whistling frenzy. Cars choked and clogged until they stood still while the motorcycle kept on going. Hanes was aware of Bryan’s head, viewing the situation actively, turning from side to side amidst the normal weekday chaos of five o’clock.
They rode west and south, mostly south, slipping past the cars and busses, keeping a slow but steady pace. They were close to the people now, on side streets where children of all races play in tiny yards or on dirty sidewalks, where workers who don’t enjoy the luxury of cars wait for eternally late busses, where women laden with grocery bags hurry toward their homes and families and cooking chores. It was noisy now-honks, whistles, roars, rumbles, screeches, shouts, and occasionally, laughter.
Farther south, through the massive ghetto, then suddenly white suburbia and out of Los Angeles proper, through small cities called Inglewood, Lennox, Hawthorne, Lawndale and Torrance. Up suddenly, up along the cliffs rising out of the ocean, up, still with the traffic, to Palos Verdes Peninsula as the sun ended its day. The last miles were in darkness with a cold wind blowing in from the ocean. A deep breath and you were at sea, miles away.
The house came upon them too quickly and Hanes felt a sudden urgency-he hadn't done enough, Bryan hadn’t seen or felt enough. At the double doors Bryan said his good-bys— short and simple. He would see Hanes in court the following morning. A thank you for the ride, then a closed door. Hanes felt defeat welling inside, so he
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sought his motorcycle to escape.
On around the peninsula he rode to a spot that was a favorite. Stopping to enjoy the solitude, he let the motorcycle rest and walked along the edge of the cliff.
Did I do enough, he asked himself again, and again his answer, can any one man-any one man? Always that “any one man.” Could any one man defend? Could any one man decide? How could it have come to this—one man!
Realizing he was talking himself into a sleepless night, Hanes gave up the solitude and rode toward home. Once there, he bedded down the bike, then himself, and fought for sleep all through the night.
Anthony Dimeo was back at his side in the courtroom and behind, in the spectator’s area, were the now familiar faces of motorcycle lobbyists, tradesmen, enthusiasts, along with conservationists and other foes. Hanes was restless in his chair as he waited for the judge to get through the lengthy discussion that was part of his decision. Hanes was listening carefully, even though he fidgeted noticeably, but he listened mainly for the key phrases that would spell out victory or defeat.
Bryan’s voice raised a slight notch in tone as he delivered the final words of his decision and Hanes listened with no more tension than he had borne the rest of the morning. He was at his limit in that respect, all the nerves were stretched their length, all the muscles tightened hard as rock.
Murmurs among the spectators rose in volume, but it was the slap on the back from Dimeo that snapped Hanes from his intensity back to normal awareness.
“You did it, man. We’re saved!”
Dimeo was laughing and patting. Others from the lobbies and trades were offering congratulations until Judge Bryan asked for quiet and the next case. Hanes stood and gathered his papers and tried to accept the victory. He had won. Bryan had been convinced. Freedom was there. As that thought penetrated, Hanes looked to the bench to find Bryan watching him. They exchanged glances, then lost each other in the shuffle. Hanes knew he had to find out for sure, so he asked the bailiff to see about an appointment for him later in the judge’s chambers.
“It’s a hard question to answer, counselor,” Bryan began. “I handed down a decision I believe in, but I still wonder if freedom is the proper word. My decision was based on the other
type of freedom, that guaranteed by law, the freedom of a man to pursue happiness. I truly believe the motorcycle, while suffering some social problems, is nevertheless a vehicle for happiness.”
“But that feeling, that happiness,” Hanes argued. “Didn’t it make you feel free? Just out there soaking up the world, feeling, smelling, seeing, knowing it all so close and immediate. Can’t you call that real freedom-not freedom to do or say or pursue, but simply freedom? To me a motorcycle says freedom.”
“Counselor, you’re still pleading your case and it’s already been decided.”
Hanes’ enthusiasm stopped cold. He had no words to offer.
“I believe,” Bryan continued, “it truly is freedom to you, Mr. Hanes. I can see it in your face and feel it in the way you handle that motorcycle, like it was part of you. I’ve watched the battle you’ve waged to save your freedom machine, to keep it free, and yes, I believe in it all, but remember one thing. I still also believe that it doesn’t happen that way for everyone. Do you honestly think I felt exactly what you felt on that ride?”
“Well, you decided in our favor, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, but not because I was overcome by this awesome sense of freedom you have come to know. Don’t you see, counselor, you’re an enthusiast.
I am not. I’m a judge and I gave due consideration to all aspects of the case and decided accordingly. As for the freedom, I think it is fine that freedom for you can be felt so intensely. Perhaps there are others like you, but sir, I can tell you this, you are not the common man.” [Ö]
