I met Dwight Duke in Salvador. He had ridden an old Honda 750 from San Francisco to Brazil — part of the journey by boat. He stopped in Ilhéus for a few days on his way south.
He called me a week later and asked if I could bring him some cigarettes. He was in prison.
I brought cigarettes to the prison. Dwight didn't smoke. But some of his new friends did.
He was arrested at a gas station just outside of town. The clerk was slow giving him his change from filling up the motorcycle. Dwight reached into the cash register and took his R$5. The camera caught him. Flagrante delito. Go directly to jail. Do not collect $200.
"You were arrested for stealing less than two dollars?" I asked.
A prison acquaintance had referred him to a local attorney. I suggested my attorney friend instead. Dwight wasn't interested. I wondered why you would take a referral to a lawyer from a man in prison. Hadn't his attorney already failed him?
On my next visit I brought loose tobacco. More efficient than pre-rolled. I picked up Dwight's belongings from the warden. He showed me that the iPad was still with the other things in the bag. Friendly guy.
Dwight said that prison life wasn't so bad. He had a mattress in a hallway, not in a cell — the prison was full. But the cells weren't locked in this part of the prison. He said the food was good.
I had planned to have lunch at the prison with Dwight and the warden on my third visit. Instead Dwight was released. After a couple of days at my apartment, he decided to go back to Salvador rather than continue on to Santiago.
When he left, he offered me money for my hospitality.
I refused. He had insulted me. If I wanted his money, I would have told him up front what the daily rate was.
A few weeks later I received a photo: Dwight in a hospital hallway, handcuffed to a bed. A car had struck him from behind at a traffic light. Broke his leg. His tourist visa had expired.
He was going to be deported.
Contact: alan@alanhalley.com