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145 Chapter 15 Thumbing to Jail Toward the end of summer 1943, about three months after the U.S. Supreme Court decision, I was in Spokane doing my work with the American Friends Service Committee. I was out on bail at the time but still faced a ninety-day sentence. One afternoon as I was mowing the lawn, a couple of guys walked up, identified themselves as FBI agents, and asked where Gordon Hirabayashi would be. I said, “I am he.” They said, “Well, we’re supposed to bring you in.” I told them I was expecting them. “What took you so long?” District Attorney Connelly said, “It’s time to serve your sentence. You’ve got ninety days, so you can do it at the federal tank of the Spokane County Jail.” I protested, “It cost me dearly to have the sentence increased in order to serve it in a road camp, and it’s unfair that I be sent back to jail.” He said, “You’re not allowed to go to Military Area No. 1, and the only other one in the west is near Tucson. That’s 1,600 miles away, and I don’t have travel funds.” I argued that I had purposefully asked for an additional thirty days on my sentence because I wanted to be in a prison camp so that I could do outdoor work. Although sympathetic to my plea, he replied, “Too bad. I can’t help you.” Impulsively, I asked if he would approve my going to Tucson if I went on my own. He not only would approve but said, “I will write a 146 Thumbing to Jail ‘To Whom It May Concern’ letter to describe what you are doing so that they know you’re not just roaming around illegally.” I told him I appreciated that and picked it up the next day. I didn’t want to pay my way to prison, so I guessed I’d have to hitchhike. Who in the heck would have the stupidity to hitchhike on an intermountain road during a period when there was gas rationing? It took me two weeks. From Spokane, down through Pendleton, down to Boise, to Salt Lake, Las Vegas, Phoenix, to Tucson—that was the route I took. Near Umatilla, Oregon, there was a friendly half-moon giving me light and warmth. By 10 p.m., cars were coming every thirty minutes or so. I stood hoping until nearly midnight, then decided to call it a day. A little exploring, and I soon found a very shallow ditch, grooved, well padded with grass, and I slid down to spend the night. It was quite comfortable, and I must have dozed off for a couple hours. I awoke with my knees icy and teeth chattering. A neighbor dog was barking his head off. I lay quietly, but I guess the pooch smelled me and didn’t like the whiff. Disgustedly, I grabbed my suitcase and climbed out of the ditch. There was a gently invigorating if not freezing breeze coming from the south. I sat on the baggage, waiting. In a position and circumstance like that, a fellow has a chance to do a lot of meditating and reflecting. Things that are ordinarily overlooked are viewed in the proper perspective. Frogs sounded friendly and happy. Flickering lights in the distance seemed to be giving me a come-hither wink. Even the stars that I have seen for years had a fresh appearance. They seemed beyond approach and yet within comprehension . They seemed to be viewing the feverish ways of man, saying , “When will he ever learn?” I looked up and talked to the brightest star near the Dipper: “Dear star, will you always keep me close to the real values of life? Keep me strong so that I may live in spite of contemporary lack of understanding? Bring me the charm that will bring understanding to others, the understanding of the beauties and fullness of real living?” I guess it was 2:30 a.m. or maybe 3:00, perhaps the darkest moments of the night. From then on, things would loosen up and dawn would come. As the forerunner to dawn, a big diesel freight Thumbing to Jail 147 truck came roaring around the corner. He stopped and took me to Pendleton. Getting out at Pendleton, I was standing in front of a gas station. I aired my thumb as occasional cars sped by. Finally a car...

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