THE LUNAR REPORT - "JAILED" May 10, 2010
I called my Mom yesterday. We had a good talk. As she has done often throughout the years, yesterday she took advantage of the opportunity to tell me once again how proud she is of her three children and their children. As she always says, “None of my kids or grandkids has ever been in trouble.” Usually, it ends there. Yesterday she continued, “Except that one time you were arrested.”
I have a prison record. There was no conviction. But I guess I am still on record as having done time in the Duval County, Florida jail.
My crime spree began on Airport Road in Chapel Hill, North Carolina in the spring of ’76. I was living with three other degenerates in a trailer off Highway 54 seven miles west of town. It was in the “country.” One of my roommates had a dog. I wanted one, too. I found McFee at the animal shelter on Airport Road.
McFee was way overdue for being executed. Well, by a couple of weeks anyway. The really good folks at the shelter just couldn’t bring themselves to put McFee down. He was a good dog. So I took him.
After summer school in Chapel Hill and after I was finished with my schooling, I loaded up my green Pinto. Stuff in the trunk and back seat. McFee up front with me. Together we drove the 470 miles home. To Jacksonville. My Dad, ever the comedian, remarked many times, “Yeh, most kids come home from college with high grades, a job and a wife. Mine comes home with a damn dog.”
McFee and I lived with my parents and sister in Jacksonville for several months. For a year and a half to be exact. Then I moved out. To a modest rental with over sulfarized water on Bishop Estates Road in
St. Johns County. In Mandarin. Some say I fled to avoid arrest and prosecution in Duval. They had it all wrong.
When I moved, I took McFee with me. Truth be told, the entire move had a great deal to do with him. He was a country dog. My folks lived in Avondale. That neighborhood is for city dogs. I wanted to give the country back to McFee. What I did not realize was that the 6 months McFee and I lived together in the “country” in North Carolina had pretty much been forgotten by McFee. He, in fact, had become a “city dog.” In Chapel Hill, he got his exercise chasing wild rabbits. In Avondale, it was bicyclers. He only knocked a few cyclers to the ground in Avondale.
After a few days at my new place, I noticed that McFee just wasn’t himself. He really wasn’t happy at all. I think he missed good water. He missed Schwinns. He missed my parents and sister and napping on
the landing upstairs and on the front lawn. So I took him back to his “home.” I think my Dad and others missed McFee, too.
Shortly after I returned my dog to the city life, he disappeared. I looked for him, but I wasn’t too worried. He still had country dog instincts, so I kind of felt like he would find his way home. Besides, I knew all about the 72 hour grace period they give dogs at the Jacksonville pound. I took that grace period to the limit. I really didn’t want to go there and look for him. That dog pound was so depressing. Even to hardened criminals like me.
But after a couple of days, I went there. And there he was. The Jacksonville pound guys would never have extended the execution date like the Chapel Hill folks did. I made it just in time. I was so happy to see him and so anxious to bust him out of there, that I did exactly as I was told and asked no questions. I paid the $11 fee and signed a couple of forms as quickly as I could. And I took McFee back home. To my parents’ house.
Some time then passed. I don’t know how much. All I know is that enough time had passed to make McFee pretty much of a fixture on that block in Avondale. The regular cyclers had even, for the most part, learned to ride on the south side of the street opposite McFee’s yard. He now belonged to my Mom, Dad and sister. He loved it there.
But while all that time was passing, my Dad kept finding “business” cards from a Duval County Sheriff’s Deputy wedgd into the front screen door of the house. On the cards were written notes, asking me to call the deputy. The last note my Dad found asked that I be at the Deputy’s office at 7:30 the following Friday morning.
My Dad put two and two together. He suggested very strongly that I go there and deal with the situation. “Get it over and done with, “ he said. “To heck with that,” I thought. “I’m a St. John’s County resident now. What? Are they going to extradite me?” But my Dad’s request had a serious tone about it. A tone I only recall having heard a few times. So, mostly out of respect for my Dad, and not the screws, I went to meet with the Deputy that Friday morning.
It was a cordial visit. I remember thinking to myself, “I've beaten this rap. This guy is being too nice for anything bad to happen.” Then, with a wonderful and warm smile, the deputy said to me, “Now I’m going to have to take you across the street and book you. But don’t worry, you will probably get out on a signature bond.”
“What?” I thought. My Dad had told me to just go pay the fine and be done with it. “Can’t I just pay the fine and be done with it?” I asked. “This is just a formality,” the deputy said. “But I parked at a meter in front of the courthouse,” I said. “You’ll be out in plenty of time to take care of that,” he said.
Be out? Be out of what? So I was booked. Into the Duval County jail. I was photographed. Finger printed. Given a medical exam. Issued a bedroll. We were served turkey and dressing for lunch. If my situation hadn’t already caused me to lose my appetite, the sight of cranberry jelly on a metal prison tray certainly did. There was no “signature bond” opportunity.
I needed a mouthpiece. I used my one call to phone my Dad. He sent his company attorney. We met in a cold and windowless room. I explained the situation to him. I told him all I knew about the case. He
seemed satisfied. He left. I would see him again in the courtroom that afternoon.
At some point after I gave my tray of turkey and jelly to some old cellmate named Willie, they took me away. To one holding cell after another. I was on my way to the courtroom. Along with others. Car
thieves. Armed robbers. Drug dealers. Each of them was framed. And each of them, it seemed, asked me, “So, what you in for?” I told each of them. They each had a good laugh. I was glad. If I could keep my cellmates laughing, they would do me no harm.
Finally we made it to the final holding cell. "My Dad’s attorney must have been a pretty good one," I thought at first. He arranged for me to be the second perp into the courtroom that afternoon. I think one of the car thieves’ attorney’s had slightly more influence. He was first out.
When my turn came, I entered the courtroom. I saw my attorney at the defense table. I saw my Dad. On the back row of the courtroom. With his arms folded across his chest. He usually sat that way when things were serious.
Then the trial began. Maybe it was just a hearing. I don’t know. At the time, to me, it was a trial. It sure felt like “Perry Mason” to me. The judge read the charges. Then he asked me to stand. And he said, “So how do you plead?” I looked at my attorney for the answer. “That’s Perry’s job,” I thought. “Perry ALWAYS does the plea thing.” My attorney looked at me and nodded, saying with his body language, “Go ahead. Tell the judge how you plead.” I thought I was speaking just as loudly, body-language-wise, “I don’t know the answer! Help me Perry!” My mouthpiece clamed up big time. Della Street would’ve hated this guy.
I looked at the judge. I looked at Hamilton Burger, the DA. This one was female. And she was licking her chops. Finally she had a fall guy. A win. I gave Perry one more chance. Nothing. So I looked at the judge and nervously said, “Not guilty.” Burger was shocked. She threw her glasses on her table and called for a courtroom timeout. I forget the term she used. But she got the time out. She rushed to the defense table and asked Perry, “What the hell is going on here?”
Now my Perry was pretty good, I guess, at running the legal affairs of a furniture store like my Dad’s. He was terrible at discussing or entering pleas in a trial or whatever. But he was very good at playing the cards I dealt him when I pled innocent. That poor man was told by my Dad earlier in the day that I just wanted to pay a fine and go home. We never discussed even the possibility of what would actually take place in that courtroom that afternoon. But the man stepped to the plate. And he hit a home run.
Perry: “The dog doesn’t even belong to my client,” he said. “It’s a family dog. My client lives in another county, and his sister let the dog out.” Burger: “Oh for God’s sake.” The case was thrown out. I beat the rap! Too bad again Burger.
It seems that I, or someone, had violated Jacksonville’s new leash law. When I sprang McFee from his imprisonment, one of the forms I signed was an agreement to appear in court. Oops. I missed the court date. Who reads those things?
At any rate, now you know why all those car thieves, armed robbers and drug dealers laughed so hard when I told them each, “I let my dog run loose.”
And I guess my Mom is right. Her youngins really never got into that much trouble. Still, I’m guessing that my Dad, on that one day in the Duval County Courthouse anyway, really was wishing I had brought home from college a wife instead of McFee. On the other hand, our family has shared many a laugh about all this.
Before their deaths, McFee and my Dad became great friends. And my Dad and I became better friends. It didn't seem to matter to my Dad that his dog and his son were both ex-cons. That’s something to be proud of.
I have a prison record. There was no conviction. But I guess I am still on record as having done time in the Duval County, Florida jail.
My crime spree began on Airport Road in Chapel Hill, North Carolina in the spring of ’76. I was living with three other degenerates in a trailer off Highway 54 seven miles west of town. It was in the “country.” One of my roommates had a dog. I wanted one, too. I found McFee at the animal shelter on Airport Road.
McFee was way overdue for being executed. Well, by a couple of weeks anyway. The really good folks at the shelter just couldn’t bring themselves to put McFee down. He was a good dog. So I took him.
After summer school in Chapel Hill and after I was finished with my schooling, I loaded up my green Pinto. Stuff in the trunk and back seat. McFee up front with me. Together we drove the 470 miles home. To Jacksonville. My Dad, ever the comedian, remarked many times, “Yeh, most kids come home from college with high grades, a job and a wife. Mine comes home with a damn dog.”
McFee and I lived with my parents and sister in Jacksonville for several months. For a year and a half to be exact. Then I moved out. To a modest rental with over sulfarized water on Bishop Estates Road in
St. Johns County. In Mandarin. Some say I fled to avoid arrest and prosecution in Duval. They had it all wrong.
When I moved, I took McFee with me. Truth be told, the entire move had a great deal to do with him. He was a country dog. My folks lived in Avondale. That neighborhood is for city dogs. I wanted to give the country back to McFee. What I did not realize was that the 6 months McFee and I lived together in the “country” in North Carolina had pretty much been forgotten by McFee. He, in fact, had become a “city dog.” In Chapel Hill, he got his exercise chasing wild rabbits. In Avondale, it was bicyclers. He only knocked a few cyclers to the ground in Avondale.
After a few days at my new place, I noticed that McFee just wasn’t himself. He really wasn’t happy at all. I think he missed good water. He missed Schwinns. He missed my parents and sister and napping on
the landing upstairs and on the front lawn. So I took him back to his “home.” I think my Dad and others missed McFee, too.
Shortly after I returned my dog to the city life, he disappeared. I looked for him, but I wasn’t too worried. He still had country dog instincts, so I kind of felt like he would find his way home. Besides, I knew all about the 72 hour grace period they give dogs at the Jacksonville pound. I took that grace period to the limit. I really didn’t want to go there and look for him. That dog pound was so depressing. Even to hardened criminals like me.
But after a couple of days, I went there. And there he was. The Jacksonville pound guys would never have extended the execution date like the Chapel Hill folks did. I made it just in time. I was so happy to see him and so anxious to bust him out of there, that I did exactly as I was told and asked no questions. I paid the $11 fee and signed a couple of forms as quickly as I could. And I took McFee back home. To my parents’ house.
Some time then passed. I don’t know how much. All I know is that enough time had passed to make McFee pretty much of a fixture on that block in Avondale. The regular cyclers had even, for the most part, learned to ride on the south side of the street opposite McFee’s yard. He now belonged to my Mom, Dad and sister. He loved it there.
But while all that time was passing, my Dad kept finding “business” cards from a Duval County Sheriff’s Deputy wedgd into the front screen door of the house. On the cards were written notes, asking me to call the deputy. The last note my Dad found asked that I be at the Deputy’s office at 7:30 the following Friday morning.
My Dad put two and two together. He suggested very strongly that I go there and deal with the situation. “Get it over and done with, “ he said. “To heck with that,” I thought. “I’m a St. John’s County resident now. What? Are they going to extradite me?” But my Dad’s request had a serious tone about it. A tone I only recall having heard a few times. So, mostly out of respect for my Dad, and not the screws, I went to meet with the Deputy that Friday morning.
It was a cordial visit. I remember thinking to myself, “I've beaten this rap. This guy is being too nice for anything bad to happen.” Then, with a wonderful and warm smile, the deputy said to me, “Now I’m going to have to take you across the street and book you. But don’t worry, you will probably get out on a signature bond.”
“What?” I thought. My Dad had told me to just go pay the fine and be done with it. “Can’t I just pay the fine and be done with it?” I asked. “This is just a formality,” the deputy said. “But I parked at a meter in front of the courthouse,” I said. “You’ll be out in plenty of time to take care of that,” he said.
Be out? Be out of what? So I was booked. Into the Duval County jail. I was photographed. Finger printed. Given a medical exam. Issued a bedroll. We were served turkey and dressing for lunch. If my situation hadn’t already caused me to lose my appetite, the sight of cranberry jelly on a metal prison tray certainly did. There was no “signature bond” opportunity.
I needed a mouthpiece. I used my one call to phone my Dad. He sent his company attorney. We met in a cold and windowless room. I explained the situation to him. I told him all I knew about the case. He
seemed satisfied. He left. I would see him again in the courtroom that afternoon.
At some point after I gave my tray of turkey and jelly to some old cellmate named Willie, they took me away. To one holding cell after another. I was on my way to the courtroom. Along with others. Car
thieves. Armed robbers. Drug dealers. Each of them was framed. And each of them, it seemed, asked me, “So, what you in for?” I told each of them. They each had a good laugh. I was glad. If I could keep my cellmates laughing, they would do me no harm.
Finally we made it to the final holding cell. "My Dad’s attorney must have been a pretty good one," I thought at first. He arranged for me to be the second perp into the courtroom that afternoon. I think one of the car thieves’ attorney’s had slightly more influence. He was first out.
When my turn came, I entered the courtroom. I saw my attorney at the defense table. I saw my Dad. On the back row of the courtroom. With his arms folded across his chest. He usually sat that way when things were serious.
Then the trial began. Maybe it was just a hearing. I don’t know. At the time, to me, it was a trial. It sure felt like “Perry Mason” to me. The judge read the charges. Then he asked me to stand. And he said, “So how do you plead?” I looked at my attorney for the answer. “That’s Perry’s job,” I thought. “Perry ALWAYS does the plea thing.” My attorney looked at me and nodded, saying with his body language, “Go ahead. Tell the judge how you plead.” I thought I was speaking just as loudly, body-language-wise, “I don’t know the answer! Help me Perry!” My mouthpiece clamed up big time. Della Street would’ve hated this guy.
I looked at the judge. I looked at Hamilton Burger, the DA. This one was female. And she was licking her chops. Finally she had a fall guy. A win. I gave Perry one more chance. Nothing. So I looked at the judge and nervously said, “Not guilty.” Burger was shocked. She threw her glasses on her table and called for a courtroom timeout. I forget the term she used. But she got the time out. She rushed to the defense table and asked Perry, “What the hell is going on here?”
Now my Perry was pretty good, I guess, at running the legal affairs of a furniture store like my Dad’s. He was terrible at discussing or entering pleas in a trial or whatever. But he was very good at playing the cards I dealt him when I pled innocent. That poor man was told by my Dad earlier in the day that I just wanted to pay a fine and go home. We never discussed even the possibility of what would actually take place in that courtroom that afternoon. But the man stepped to the plate. And he hit a home run.
Perry: “The dog doesn’t even belong to my client,” he said. “It’s a family dog. My client lives in another county, and his sister let the dog out.” Burger: “Oh for God’s sake.” The case was thrown out. I beat the rap! Too bad again Burger.
It seems that I, or someone, had violated Jacksonville’s new leash law. When I sprang McFee from his imprisonment, one of the forms I signed was an agreement to appear in court. Oops. I missed the court date. Who reads those things?
At any rate, now you know why all those car thieves, armed robbers and drug dealers laughed so hard when I told them each, “I let my dog run loose.”
And I guess my Mom is right. Her youngins really never got into that much trouble. Still, I’m guessing that my Dad, on that one day in the Duval County Courthouse anyway, really was wishing I had brought home from college a wife instead of McFee. On the other hand, our family has shared many a laugh about all this.
Before their deaths, McFee and my Dad became great friends. And my Dad and I became better friends. It didn't seem to matter to my Dad that his dog and his son were both ex-cons. That’s something to be proud of.
Please visit the sites of some of my friends.
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