MORE DUNKIN'

   To sell products, more than Timex watches got dunked in the Swamp Buggy track's Sippy Hole. A soap or skin lotion commercial--I forget which--took turns driving two lovely girls through the goop. Again, they did it all day long.

The girls would get all made up, hair coiffed, and dressed in clean shirts and jeans, then mount a woods buggy and be driven through ol' Sippy, coming out soggy and muddy as a ground hog. Then, they'd spruce them up again, and film how wonderful their skin looked after using the soap or whatever they were selling. And they did look wonderful. Never seen such beautiful skin on a human. I told one of the girls so.

She said, "I hope so, that's why they hire me. I'm a skin model."

I must have looked confused.

"I was blessed with skin that has no blemishes," she said. "No freckles, birthmarks, nothing. Thank god, it's very rare and allows a few of us to make a nice living showing how all women can look if they use the product we're advertising at the time. Course it's a lie, but it pays well."

She went on. "There are other models with perfect parts, too. Hand models, hair, eyes, teeth, you name it."

So I learned another trick of the advertising trade that day and answered a persistent question that had bothered me. Why there weren't any really decent toilet paper commercials.

TIMEX VS THE SIPPY HOLE

   John Cameron Swayze said it, and said it, and said it: "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'." The Timex watch tagline was one of the most repeated in its day. On one of those days Timex was in Naples.

  A series of commercials pitted the durable Timex against abuse far above normal. Shown tied to boat bottoms, run over by cars, trampled by horses, after the action was over the camera would zoom in on the watch and show the rugged time piece still running. Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'. And it was all true. Kinda.

  When Timex came to Naples they chose the Swamp Buggy track's Sippy Hole as a suitable challenge for the ticker. Sheriff Doug Hendry was to drive a swamp buggy with a Timex taped to one of the huge airplane tires through the treacherous hole and, emerging on the other side, show the watch was unscathed. He did and this was the shot that appeared on TV. Mostly. The real work, was done by Don Harris, then a Deputy with the CCSO and later with the NPD. Doug was too busy a man to hang around all day driving a buggy in and out of a mud hole.
  So, Don did it. And did it. And did it. All day long until the director finally got the shot he was looking for--a Timex that was still ticking after the thumping and dunking.
  The commercials, you see, were legit. They just didn't tell you how many times it took to get one to survive the beating.
Don was sent residuals--payments of about $30 for every time the commercial was aired--for several years thereafter. He donated them to the Junior Deputy program, as was the deal Doug had set up with the producers.
  Don't know what happened to all the watches that drowned in the Sippy Hole.

INDUCED LABOR

 All guns are dangerous, especially "unloaded" ones. Of those, unloaded semi-autos top the list. Sometimes a round will hide inside and not be detected by even the most experienced gun handler. Chester Keene remembered that such was the case one evening, long ago, at the NPD. 

A Detective, after making a concealed weapons arrest, was checking the gun into evidence with the Evidence Sgt. and Armorer, JD Spohn. Both were experienced with guns, being ex-military and veteran cops.

At the old PD on 8th and 8th South, the evidence closet was in the radio dispatch room. It was a regular closet that besides evidence contained uniforms, a few special weapons, cleaning supplies, and most anything else that needed to be put out of the way. This was not quite the high-security evidence fortresses of today.

The Detective and JD had diligently removed the magazine, and worked the slide several times to eject any bullet that might be in the breach. Nothing. Then the slide was sent home and BOOM the gun fired a live round. The round hit the glass dispatcher's desk top, skidded off, and lodged in the wall beside the Dispatcher, Betty Jo Rankin, missing her by inches.

Betty Jo was nine months pregnant and was due to have induced labor and next morning. But, having a bullet zing by your head has a way of getting your attention. And getting your adrenaline pumping like a broken BP well . Such was the case with Betty Jo who, later that evening, gave birth to a healthy baby boy--induced by a .38. 

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU PRAY FOR

 Chester Keene was a bailiff in the Collier County Criminal Court on the morning this tale took place. As he tells it: 

I was working as Lead Bailiff and a Deputy we'll call Thumper Hopkins was the Assistant Bailiff.  Thumper was controlling the door to the holding cell in the next room where the inmates waited for their appearance before the judge. Thumper wasn't wearing a firearm, as was a rule of the court, and for protection carried a 30,000 volt "stun" baton, a polite name for a cattle prod. Thumper also did the fingerprinting, when required, so he was in close contact with the inmates in court and needed some protection.

 Suddenly, there arose a commotion coming from the holding cell that was so loud it was disruptive to the court proceedings. An inmate was giving a fire and brimstone sermon that Cryin' Jimmy would have been proud of, screaming with all the lung power he could muster: "The Lord will take his vengeance on those in this courtroom by striking them down with a bolt of lightning. Take my word, sinners." 

 The overwhelming uproar continued until the judge demanded that the inmate be brought before him, forthwith.

 Thumper disappeared through the connecting door, there was bloodcurdling howl, then silence and Thumper reappeared in the doorway.

 "What happened?" the judge asked.

 "He got that bolt of lightnin' he was prayin' for." Thumper said, holding up his electric cattle prod.

SUPER FUZZ

  The most unusual vehicle to ever wear the NPD silver badge  had to be Super Fuzz. It was a racing buggy that for some reason I had to have. It had a blue light and siren and a terrible paint job.
 This was one of the old style racing buggies, before they got sleek and really fast. Later, we built one of the faster variety which allowed me to drive it off the track and into the fence a lot quicker.
 Pictured is yours truly at the wheel exiting the Sippy Hole after yet another second place finish. We had all second place finishes, which doesn't sound too bad unless you know there were only two buggies in a heat race.
 Riding behind me is Bill Beatty. At the time buggies all carried a co-pilot. In my case he was necessary because the shifter for the automatic transmission was where he sat. He did the shifting. I know, don't ask.
 Bill survived my wild driving and is now the Chief of Police in Wauchula, Florida.

 This is what my new, fancy buggy, which cost thousands of dollars looked like after my last race. We were both glad to be shut of each other.

SWAMP BUGGY DAZE Part Four

 Nowadays, some of the best swamp buggy drivers are women. Men and women race equally. There was a time women could only run in a special race called The Powder Puff. And compete for the highly coveted title of Mud Duchess. 
 The majority of these races were won by Liz Chesser, wife of Leonard, or Bonnie Hancock, wife of Lee. Both of these gents are legends in the grimy sport.
Most of the other women in the race had no experience, making the event exciting and unpredictable. My wife Sandy, was one of those who succumbed to the madness. With her passenger, Charlene Graham, she piloted one of Lee Hancock's buggies, the six-cylinder version. They are pictured in the thick of the action above.
 In those days, the track was not as smooth as it is today. There were boulders, logs, and God knows what else hidden under the soupy mud. Driving a high-powered buggy, at speed, through this obstacle course caused many a causality. Broken off wheels were common. Flipped buggies not unusual. Crashes commonplace.
 Sandy and Charlene made a good start, plowed through the Sippy Hole, hit a boulder, bounced high is the air, and landed on a steep bank, where they perched, half tipped over. The crowd oohed and aahed when, with each of their movements, the buggy teetered and seemed ready to tip over, dumping them in the water with the huge beast on top of them.
 Sitting there, afraid to move, waiting for rescue, there was conversation.
 Charlene: "Hope this doesn't tip over, I can't swim."
 Sandy: "If it tips over and lands on us, swimming isn't going to be an option. Besides, I can't get out anyway."
 The reason Sandy couldn't get out was that being diminutive her legs wouldn't reach the gas pedal. We solved that by duct taping a 2"x4" block on the pedal then taping Sandy's foot to both of them.
 I know, I know, it was a stupid thing to do. But with all the excitement, and the mud, and the beer, it seemed like a real good idea at the time.

SWAMP BUGGY DAZE Part Three

  The Swamp Buggy Parade meant a ton of extra work for the NPD each year. Most cops, however, loved the event as it guaranteed the kind of off-the-wall action and dark humor cops thrive on.

 The parade itself was unique. Starting at 3rd Street South and 12th Avenue, it turned the corner at 5th Ave, marched up the main business drag to 8th St So and disbanded in Cambier Park. Aside from the bands, commercial floats, politicians, and array of traditional wood's buggies and racing buggies seen nowhere else, there were other unique participants.

 Some found it strange that the mobile units that drew the most cheers were the City Of Naples garbage trucks. The crowd lining the street, roared their approval. And, it seemed genuine, not mock, furor. 
 In any parade mistakes occur. The Swamp Buggy had their share. On one float, there was a minature shrimp boat with a smoke stack that puffed white smoke. Somewhere along the parade route, some rascal slipped a condom over the stack, and as the parade proceeded the thing grew to gigantic proportions, delighting the crowd.
 Then there were the "arrests" made out of the crowd by the Bush Patrol posse attending the Swamp Buggy jail. Some folks didn't see the humor in being rousted from the crowd and protested with vigor. There were times, when the arrests turned into near bar-fight bedlam. (We tried not to "see" these things)
 There were also lessons to be learned. Each year, one of the floats had a "swamp creature" who'd roll off the float and terrorize watchers. The critter was actually a man, covered with Spanish Moss until he looked like a dangerous clump of weeds. Occasionally, about halfway through the parade, the critter would begin an impassioned dance, ripping off the Spanish Moss and his clothing. Crackers knew the problem and roared with laughter.
 Using Spanish Moss for a body decoration is fine if you first boil the stuff. This kills the chiggers that infest the moss and soon, if not killed, will burrow deep in the wearer's hide.
 Yep, there were lessons to be learned, especially if you want to insure all those majorettes and parade marchers don't slip an' slide along the route. That lesson? All the horses in a parade go last.

SWAMP BUGGY DAZE Part Two

  Each year another Swamp Buggy Days tradition took place. The mobile jail cell, used to raise money for charity each year, was owned by the Naples JayCees. Somewhere along the line it became tradition for local high school students to steal the jail.  And place it in the damnedest places.

 No matter how inventive the JayCees were in hiding the jail, the students were just as sly in finding it. And where they moved the jail to caused some of us to wonder how they pulled it off. I suspect collusion on the part of some of the  NPD cops. How else could you drag a jail cell on a trailer around town in the middle of the night and not be seen?
 Where did it appear? Once the missing jail was found at the end of the pier. Several times in local parks. Another time in front of the NPD headquarters building. And Dave Dampier remembers perhaps the most baffling; on the roof of the Sunshine Hardware on 5th Ave South.
 How'd they do that? Damned if I know but it was always fun trying to figure it out.

SWAMP BUGGY DAZE Part One

  During the first week I lived in Naples, I got involved with Swamp Buggy Days. It was 1956 and, having taken the five minutes necessary to see the town, I was wondering just why my Dad had decided to move here. There was nothing. Maybe a couple thousand folks, tops. Two traffic lights. 
 When evening came, I moved with dejection to the solace of an ungentlemanly bar on the East Trail called The 41 Club. I was nursing a beer I'd never seen before or since. It was called Old Dutch Ale and the bottle seemed to be made of clay.

 I was wondering if I should risk gaging down another when the Hank Williams on the juke box was overwhelmed by the entrance of  three bearded, rowdy men. They proceeded to question each bar patron, soon coming to me. "Where's your badge?" One asked me.

 "Don't have one," I said, wondering why he though I was a cop.

 "Don't mean that kind. Your Swamp Buggy Badge."

 I just looked at him, having no idea what a Swamp Buggy Badge was.

 "You don't have a beard, so you have to have a badge," he explained. "If not, you're gonna have to go to jail."

 What the hell was going on.

 "Okay, then," my interrogator said, taking me by the arm, "let's go to jail."

 Before I knew what was happening, I was taken outside and placed in an all-bar jail cell on wheels, being towed by a pickup truck. There were three others in there with me, all drinking beers from a case on the floor, and having, a grand time.

 When we got underway, one of the other prisoners explained what was going on. During the weeks before Swamp Buggy Race Day, all adult men were required to either grow a beard or pay one dollar for a Swamp Buggy badge sold by the JayCees. It was a popular Naples tradition, the money going to charity.

 After I realized what was going on and relaxed, it turned out be a great evening. We bounced along to every bar in town, collecting badge-less and beardless errants, all the while being supplied with an endless supply of beer. When the bars closed at two, we were released, by now as rowdy as our jailers and drunker than Hogan's Goat. It was an introduction to Naples I'll never forget.
 Somewhere over the years, the tradition has died. No beards. No badges. Since the Bush Patrol gents put you in the jail using whatever force was necessary, I suspect some sleazy lawyer sued and ruined it. 
 We're the less for it. 

BOSS TRUSTEE

 Some accepted procedures in jails a few years ago would, today, land Sheriffs and Chiefs in their own jail. Today, we've oversteered in the other direction: too many rights. But, you can see where it came from.

 A good friend of mine got in the law enforcement business because of his size, considerable strength, and ability to open up a barrel of whupass. He was hired at the Immokalee Road Camp when it was privately operated by contract with the County. Being physically in control of the prisoners was very important in those days. Still is, but jailers aren't allowed to do it.

 Another revered concept was the "Boss Trustee" or "Head Smasher" or other sobriquet that appropriately indicated a convict who was large and in charge. The boss trustee freed jailers of the tiring and sometimes messy job of beating unruly prisoners. 
 It worked like this. Lets say there was a prisoner, usually some punk that didn't know how to make time, who was a disquieting factor in the lockdown. The Boss Trustee would get the keys, lock himself in the cell with the Ahole and take care of business. You seldom had any more trouble with a jerk after the Boss Trustee had tuned him up.
 Sometimes, a prisoner was causing trouble in more subtle ways that the Boss Trustee hadn't noticed. Then, you'd give him the word: "You have a turd back there in cell 2 that's crapping in your sand box." This simple alert always produced the desired corrective action, with the troublemaker soon a bruised but compliant camper in the Crossbar Motel.
 Experienced prisoners, especially ex-cons who'd done a lotta time, knew how to make time and seldom disrupted tranquility. Most would sleep about 20 hours a day.
 But the young, self-proclaimed badasses were sometimes a bother. Until they met the Boss Trustee.
 Ah, for the good 'ol days. 

MORE TALES OF MIZ TOOKE

 The Bank of Naples had another practice that was totally insane. At the close of business each day, tens-of-thousands of dollars were loaded in the back of one of the employee's personal sedan, and she drove it to the Federal Reserve Bank in Ft. Myers so it could be securely locked up. Not quite a Wells Fargo armored car and easy pickin's for a robber. Of course it never happened.
 The employee, a petite redhead named Barbara, realizing the danger, wasn't real thrilled about this assignment but, valuing her job, didn't think it was wise to go against Miz Tooke's wishes.
 When my wife, Sandy, worked for a S&L in Bonita, they did the same thing, taking the proceeds in a private car each day to a local bank.

 But, if you wanted a good old fashioned bank that really cared for their customers, Miz Tooke's Bank of Naples was your first stop. Dave Dampier remembers:
  When I was in my preteens my Dad, a commercial net fisherman of sometimes uncertain means, would need some cash for “tide-over” money until the next run.  He would walk into the Bank of Naples front door, make a slight right turn and be in front of Miz Mamie’s desk.  At the time it sat in the front lobby near the door.  
 She’d quickly greet him: “Hello Clyde”.  He'd say something like “Miz Mamie I need two or three hundred dollars”.  She would reach in a drawer and withdraw a “90 Day Note” form and ask the amount he really needed, he'd tell her and she'd  pen in the amount then direct him to “Sign here”.  In five minutes he'd be on his way with the cash.
 Sandy and I also used this handy service. One call and the money was waiting when we got there. Last time I used it was for a very important expense: to buy a stock car.

THE HOOT OWL SHIFT

 Cops around here traditionally call the all-night 11 to 7 shift "The Hoot Owl Shift." Chester Keene remembers this tale from these dark and mysterious hours. 

 A Patrolman was reporting how the windshield on his patrol car had been broken. He prefaced it by saying, "I know you're not going to believe this, Sarge, but this is exactly what happened." He had good reason to add this caveat.

 Said the Patrolman: While on routine patrol, on Mooringline Drive at approximately 0300 hours, I received a call reference a prowler in the area. It was raining (drizzle) and due to the amount of street light I turned off my headlights so they wouldn't alert the prowler to my presence. I left the windshield wipers on so I could see the road, houses, etc.

 All of a sudden, out of nowhere, this owl swooped down and attacked my wiper blade. It must have looked some kind of prey to him. His feet (talons) got caught between the blade and the glass. I turned my wipers on fast speed but could not get him off.

 I got out of my car with my Maglite. The bird was flapping his wings, going back and forth with each beat of the wipers.  I, not thinking, swung at the owl with my metal flashlight, trying to dislodge him. In doing so I broke the windshield.

 The owl, now fearing for his life, his eyes as big as two softballs, pried himself free and escaped into the night. End of report.

 Chester said: I considered the report, wondering how anyone--not just me but those up the chain of command who would read it--could believe this wild yarn. But, the only advice I could offer the Patrolman was, "Couldn't you just say a coconut fell on it?"

BANK SECURITY NAPLES STYLE

  Was a time banks, to keep their FDIC Insurance valid, had to have a security check by the local cops. At least, the two banks here, Bank of Naples and First National, did. We alway found so many security mistakes we called the inspections "Insecurity, keep your money under the mattress" checks. This lax mentality was understandable since neither institution had ever been robbed, at least in recent memory. So the bank's mind set was: Why bother, who's gonna rob a bank in The Elephant's Graveyard?

 Actually, the First National Bank didn't do a terrible job with  security. It was Miz Mamie Tooke's Bank of Naples that needed the tune-up. 

 As an example, they'd just installed drive-up windows in the alley behind the bank--four or five of them. The FDIC required that money delivered to an exterior drive-up booth be supplied through some method that keeps the cash secure. Pneumatic tubes, something like that, connecting to the main building. Mamie's bank didn't do that. Don't know how she got around the rule but she wouldn't do it. Too expensive. Each booth was self contained and free standing. To get the money out there in the morning, a clerk wheeled a cart with $45,ooo for each window on it. Just a clerk, no guard, or nuttin'.

  I talked to Miz Tooke about this just-asking-for-it practice. She said she'd start having a guard go with them, but she never did.

 Another problem was the clerks sat in those little remote booths all day with all that money. Sitting duckies for a robber.

 Mamie wasn't worried about this either. The booths were bulletproof, she said. And the rear entrance door was steel with good locks. I told her they were still vulnerable and if I wanted to rob them how I'd do it. 
 I went to a booth and knocked on the rear door. "Who is it?" came the response. 
 I mumbled an unintelligible name.
In a second the door was unlocked and opened and a clerk, surprised to see me and Miz Tooke said, "Who. . .?"

 All the clerks in the other booths fell for the same scam when I knocked. So much for locks. 
 Mamie was aghast and said she'd take care of that. But I don't think she ever did.

  I believe that Mamie was so cavalier about security because she knew that no one that knew her--and that was everyone in Naples--was fool enough to rob her and evoke her considerable rage. 
 And she was probably right cause it never happened.

YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK

  There was a friend of the family, the age of my oldest son, Wayde, who was as likable a young man as you'd ever hope to meet. Buddy, we'll call him, had a ready smile, was polite with a good sense of humor. I always enjoyed seeing him in our home when he came by to visit. 
 Problem was, he got involved with some Aholes that led him into the narcotics business, where he got arrested on a federal smuggling charge and sent to prison--straight to prison, do not pass Go.

 Buddy did his time without incident and we didn't see him again for a few years. Then, one day, I ran into him on the street. After a warm greeting--I still liked the guy and still do--I asked him what he'd been doing. "Captaining a yacht for a rich dude," he said.

  "Well," I said, joking, "I guess you were experienced in that line from the smuggling business."

 Buddy laughed. "Yeah, but that was a whole different thing," he said. "I didn't have a Captain's license, then."

  "So how'd you get it?" I asked.

 "When I was released from prison, as part of my parole, I had to complete some occupational classes--learn a trade. At the government's expense. And they, seeing I'd been a smuggler, decided I should get a Captain's license so, in case I went back into the business, I could do it right." He laughted. "Just kidding about the last. But I did wonder why they were training a smuggler to be better at his job."

 I was, too, considering the number of ex-cons that go right back into crime. How stupid could you get? What was next? Accounting for Embezzlers? Graphic Arts for Forgers? Auto Mechanics for Car Thieves?

 But, I was wrong. Buddy never returned to crime and still has a dream job as a Captain on a wealthy man's yacht. And has been doing it for many years.

 And he's still as likable as ever. 

  

THEY DON'T?????

 Russ Davis, an old friend and former Deputy at the CCSO, remembered this story from years ago. He'd received a call from Lynn Bailey and she was laughing so hard she could barely speak. Lynn was a fixture in Old Naples, hostess of a popular daily show on WNOG radio, and wife of a prominent doctor. She was involved with every charity going and had such a warm personality it made  your day just to talk to her. And it certainly made Russ' that day.

  Lynn was on her way to work, she said, driving her sporty little car the way she always drove it: fast. Her driving would get your attention and she soon drew that of a Florida Highway Patrolman. (Russ said the name of the officer has been lost to history. Or at least the two prime suspects, still around, won't make any admissions.)
  Lynn pulled over and the Trooper came up to the window. Without waiting for the Trooper to speak, she said, "I'll bet I know why you stopped me."
  The Trooper, surprised by her candor said, "What would that be?"
 "You want me to buy tickets to The Policeman's Ball." (A popular annual event put on by the NPD)
 "Ma'mm," the cop said, indignantly, "FHP Troopers don't have balls!"
 Ooops.
 Haven't seen Lynn for a while. Russ, when he told us the story, was still laughing.

DURWOOD

  One of the calls I always dreaded getting was one that had "Durwood" in the message. It usually mean that Durwood was drunk and fighting in one of the bars. And Durwood, a big, strong, block-layer, was an all-day-sucker when it came to fighting. The irony was when sober he was a soft-spoken guy you'd never expect could punch you in the head and make it ring like the cathedral bells at St. Patrick's on Christmas Eve.

 Once, when he was sober, I inquired as to why he turned into Mr. Hyde when tanked on liquid stupid. He said, "I just can't stand someone putting their hands on me when I'm drunk. Or giving me orders, bossing me around. If you have to arrest me again, just tell me 'Durwood, you have to leave' and I'll go with you. Long as you don't lay hands on me."

 I engraved that advice in bold letters in my Golden Book On Staying Alive. And it wan't long before I got to use it. The call was like this: "Durwood is over at the Anchor. He's done throwed one guy through the back-bar mirror and's workin' on two more." Unfortunately, I was just two-blocks away and couldn't hide.

 When I arrived, Durwood was taking a breather, chugging a beer, while several other combatants, their shirts ripped and heads lumped, staggered for the door. I tried out the magic words.

 "Durwood," I said, with due respect, "it's time to go."

 Durwood looked at me and said, "Okay if I finish my beer first?"

 "Certainly," I said with a sigh of relief. Hell, he coulda had two long as I didn't have to rassle him.

 We were just exiting the side door, I behind Durwood, when things turned bad. He couldn've added to the advice he gave me about coming peacefully, "This don't apply to Jack Bliss." He and Jack hated each other. Anyway, guess who was just outside the door, having hurried to the scene, alway eager for a brawl: Jack Bliss. "Get your ass in that police car," he said, grabbing him.

 Durwood roared, and cocked his right. I locked my arms around his chest from behind. He stomped down on my toes, making my foot hurt so badly it still throbs when I drive by the Anchor's old site on US 41. And the fight was on.

 We finally got him out to the palm tree beside the street and, so we could take a breather, handcuffed his arms around it. He began to charge around it like Little Black Sambo, until finally, and mercifully for us, he collapsed and we were able to haul him down to the City Jail. Normally, serenity would've returned to The Elephant's Graveyard. Not so, tonight.

  It wasn't an hour until a frantic call went out, "Durwood's back at the Anchor." When I got there--thank The Almighty--he'd already gone home after inflicting only minor damage to property and customers.

  Turns out, we had a Sergeant on duty who was in a religious phase and thought that all living things were noble and of some worth. Right. He'd turned Durwood loose. Later, when I asked him why he said, "Oh, I talked with him, prayed over him and I was assured he'd seen the error of his ways."

  My only comment was, "Next time he gets drunk and tears up the Anchor and half its customers, you go get him. And you'd better bring Jesus with ya." 

WHAT KEPT ME HONEST

  In the 50's and 60's Georgia was so notorious for the bogus traffic tickets given to Yankees that the AAA routed drivers around the entire state. If you drove through Georgia in a car with a New York, New Jersey, or other northern plate you were going to get a ticket. How? Small cities had a bad habit of abruptly lowering the speed limit, or hiding traffic lights in trees, or stop signs behind bushes. Once, in Georgia, a CCSO Deputy was put in the same cell as the prisoner he was extraditing. The Deputy's crime: running a hidden stop sign. Cost Sheriff Doug Hendry $100 to get him out.
 It got so shameful that a Georgia state law enforcement agency finally stepped in. Disguising agents as tourists, they'd wait until the sleazy traffic net was dropped on them, then spring their own trap, arresting the thieves in uniforms. 

 That's when I discovered that cops, in sting operations, would arrested cops. It was one of the things that kept me honest on the job for over 40 years.

 Then there was the thing about taking bribes. One of my mentors, Chief Ben Caruthers, explained it to me early on. "Before you take that bribe," he said, "do some mathematics. Figure out how much money you'll probably make over your law enforcement career. Then how much in retirement you're likely to collect. Then calculate how much a lawyers is going to cost you if you get caught. Add it all up and if the bribe isn't more than that--what you'll be losing when you're in jail and out of law enforcement--it's not a smart financial move."

 Next, you have to worry about the jail thing. Cops in jail usually have to be put in protective custody to stay alive. You're in a jungle where cop killers are revered as heros. The only thing in prison more hated is a child molester. Made me wonder, recently, when I saw a local cop was accused of being a child molester and another with kiddie porn on his computer. If these guys are found guilty and sent to the joint. . . 
 So my motto was I'm not saying I can't be had, but your offer better be way the hell up there. Enough to replace the lifetime of earnings I'll lose when I get caught.  
 Or maybe even my life.

CARL STRICKLAND VERIFICATION

  Ms Lila Zuck, President  of the Collier County Historical Research Center, had two pieces of information verifying that Carl Strickland was an NPD cop and that he was murdered. Lila,  herself, is a writer having authored the popular Naples Oldest Tradition,  Swamp Buggy Racing. 

 The first verification, a clipping from the Miami Daily News, is at right. 

 Second, is the book We Also Came a black history of Collier County by Maria Stone. On page 115 is this quote by John Salter, long-time Naples resident:

 "I was the second black policeman here. That was in 1957. The first one, which was before me, was Paul Strickland. He got killed.

  We didn't wear uniforms on the police force but we did have a badge, a pistol, and a blackjack. We were policemen assigned to the area where we lived. At that time I lived in McDonald's Quarters.  Our authority was in that little neighborhood right there.

 I quit after a year. The City paid me, but I already had a regular job working for Benny Morris."

 Don't know where the "Paul" came from but it is obviously Officer Strickland.
  Further perusal of the book by my wife, Sandy, revealed that on page 33, in an interview with Eddie Sanders, who came here in 1929, he said:
 "I can tell you that the first black policemen in Naples were Carl Strickland and Johnny Salters."

 That should pretty much put this issue to bed. Let's give this Officer the recognition he deserves.

And thank you, Lila

CHEEZY WEASELS

  For years, Cops have been the brunt of donut jokes. Justifiably so, I guess. We do love the tasty treats. I've consumed many dozens. But, the donut wasn't my favorite treat. I've always been a Cheez-It fanatic. And, I was a multi-tasker. Could drive the patrol car, watch for suspicious activity, answer the radio, write notes, and, most importantly, munch Cheeze-Its simultaneously.

 Now I've found out that Cheeze-Its can't be trusted anymore than the other food vendors. It's like being stabbed in the back by Dirty Harry. What happened? Judge for yourself.

 The favorite scam of food vendors is to keep putting less and less in a box that you're used to. Most folks don't read the weight so if the box is the same size, they assume it's the same amount inside. Some do notice that when they open the box up it's only half full. Or the drink can size shirks--but the price doesn't. Or a twelve pack turns into an eight pack, same price of course. They all do it but I thought my beloved Cheeze-Its was above this slimy hoo-doo. Boo-Hoo.

  Yesterday, at WalMart, I noticed a giant display of Cheeze-Its at discount prices. I wait and buy them now when they're on sale cause four dollars for a box of crackers is for the rich or stupid. These were $2.50 for the regular box. And, they had a new product, some sort of snack mix. Being adventurous when it comes to pogey bait, I picked up a box. Having picked up many Cheeze-It boxes I could tell immediately something was wrong. The weasels had struck. Although the box was the regular size, the weight wasn't the normal 13.9 ounces but 9.75. Do you hear that ripping noise?

 Now I have to wonder what's next? Candy bars with puffed up wrappers hiding dwarf bars. Potato chips with so much air in the bag they nearly float. Wait a minute, they're already doing that.

  Is nothing sacred?

THE NPD'S FIRST CASUALTY

  In the early fifties the Naples Police Department suffered its first killed-in-the-line-of-duty officer. His name was Carl Strickland and he worked evenings--or whenever needed--in McDonald's Quarters. He lived there. He was black.
  But don't look for Carl in the rolls of deceased warriors. Or on the handsome memorial monument gracing the grounds of NPD's Headquarters. It's not there. Why?
 Not because the NPD didn't make a diligent effort to establish the facts in the incident. They did, but after an exhaustive search of the records they were unable to establish to a certainty that Carl was murdered,  Or even worked there.
 Contemporaries remember Carl well. One, Chief Ben Caruthers, knew Carl, knew his wife, knew he was a NPD officer that worked exclusively in McDonald's Quarters, and that he was murdered in an ambush about two weeks before Caruthers joined the department in 1954. He also remembered that Carl's widow was given a small pension.
  Otherwise, the facts are slim and the records long gone--if they ever existed. This is depriving the NPD of one of it's heros and the recognition that Officer Strickland deserves.
  According, we're asking that if you have any info about Carl Strickland you contact me at oldcop007@yahoo.com.
  Let's set the record and history straight.
  Thanks.

SUPREME COURT INSANITY

  The endless questioning of Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan caused me to think of some local Judges and appraise their work in the office. There are many good ones, but three came to mind for their excellence: Judges Hugh Hayes, Dan Monaco, and Harold Smith. I've known these Judges well and they're who I'd want to decide my fate if I was ever called to accountability. And there were times when I could've been.

 Why? There's an old maxim in the legal business: "If you're innocent, ask for a Judge to decide your case. If you're guilty, ask for a jury trial." A good Judge will see the truth. Juries can be manipulated clowns in a judicial circus.

 Now Ms Kagan is participating in another circus, the obligatory hearings to determine if she is fit to sit on the nation's highest bench. And most of the questions are politically motivated, not geared to determine her suitability. It shouldn't make any difference if she's pro or con abortion, or guns, or homosexuality, or RC and Moon Pies. It should only be important that she is fair and decides constitutional issues in an unbiased manner.

 Still, it's hard to predict. Earl Warren, California's most savage prosecuting attorney, became a Weepy Wet Willie Liberal after he accepted his lifelong, no-control position on the Court.

  We must, however, try to predict fairness and the only way to do that is to look at the nominee's rulings record as a Judge.

  Whadda you mean she's never even been a judge. . . ? The only choice worse than that would be an egghead academic from Harvard.