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At thirty-five, Channing Hart was starting to reap the rewards of hard work and sound investing. He revelled in sitting around the big table at Clancy’s Tavern. Talk radio without the microphones. The last place you could mouth off without being scolded. Weekends revolved around matching wits and trading barbs over drinks on Friday night and then reassembling for steak and eggs on Saturday morning before putting a few bets down. Hart gloried in taking on the experts and calling them out on their nonsense - until he woke up bruised and hungover in a police holding cell. I asked a policeman for some water and he gave me a Dixie cup. I asked for another and he told me to shut up. So I ask him, ‘When do I get out? Why am I here?’ I was hoping for a smart answer, but this guy looked grim. He said, ‘Don’t you remember?’ The life flowed out of Hart like air out of a balloon. I don’t think there’s a question I hate more than that one. ‘Buddy, ’ he said, ‘you killed a lady. The detectives want to talk to you.’ Rattled by a long stay in the Don Jail and traumatized by his treatment in the press, he despairs and agrees to read a statement prepared by his lawyer. The words choke him. The judge, suspecting corners have been cut, sends Hart to Punanai House as a part of a pre-sentencing deal. There, Reg, Kaiser, and Paul have twenty-one days to teach Hart the fundamentals of addiction. Can he see through the whirlwind of competing and contradictory points of view in so little time? Can he find his voice and speak the truth that needs to be spoken without giving it that little twist that would serve his best interests?
