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My brothers had staged a frame-up, called dispatch, and sent me sent to jail.
As we left the property, a sheriff's deputy handed me an old paint-spattered leather jacket and a pair of shoes from the house. I mentioned that I didn't know whose shoes those were. They were very large, and no match for anybody who had ever lived in the house.
On discharge from jail, it was sundown, January, central Oregon. I lived about 14 miles distant. It was getting cold and I had no money so I had to start walking. These shoes were too large for my feet. I kept walking. It was all I could do. I didn't have a phone. I kept my thumb out. I slipped court papers into the shoes, trying to partially fill the space.
I walked most of the way, hitching for about 1/3 of the distance.