GOOD OL' BUBBY

  Bub was a sweet guy. Those who knew him wondered how he maintained that attitude after working all those years in the Collier County Jail--the jail not being Fun City. But Bub always had a sunny disposition, was eager to help, and could take a joke. And that was a good thing because Bub was one of those poor folks who seem to always wear a "Kick Me" sign.

 We all screw up and do mindless things. Bub, however, was a repeat offender. He'd do the same ones over and over, never seeming to learn from the experience. 
 As an example, one of the Jailers would ask Bub if he'd go get them a Coke. Bub, of course, would cause that's the kinda guy he was. The jail has long hallways and you could see Bub heading for the Coke machine for maybe 50 yards. Halfway there, another Jailer would yell to Bub, "Get me one, too." Bub would nod and continue on.

 He'd soon return with one Coke, then go back to get the second one. That's right. And he fell for this gag over and over.

 Then there was the coffee thing. Bub wore his watch on his left wrist and held his coffee cup in his left hand. When asked what time it was, he'd look at his watch, tipping over the cup and  spilling coffee in his lap.  Did it time after time.

 Bub once called a Kentucky hospital, to determine the condition of a very sick relative. The front office checked, and came back on the line, "I'm sorry, but he's gone."

 Bub loaded up his family and headed for KY. There, he went directly to the funeral home, where he was told the relative was not there. Confused, he went to see the hospital folks who told him that they meant the relative had "gone" home. He was fine.
 That was Bub. 

NITPICK MUNYGRUBBER

  "Nitpick"--other cops had worse names for him--was a local attorney. I'm sure he did something worthwhile in his practice but I must've overlooked it. Nitpick was one of the Awipes who sued me. There were others. At one time they amounted to 22 million dollars worth and that was a lotta money in the 70's. I never was much concerned though, cause I knew they were just a few personal injury attorneys and other lowlifes trying to generate an illegitimate buck. 
 It still happens. If you watch daytime TV almost every ad is some attorney trying to get you to sue someone. Doctors. Auto insurance companies. Or collect Social Security benefits SS says you're not due. And some folks wonder why the cost of health care and auto insurance is what it is. Howsumever, I digress.

 Nitpick had found some form, that the City issued to the public, that had an error on it. It caused no one any problem except Nitpick who sued the Mayor, the City Manager, and yours truly--who didn't print the thing, just had his officers hand it out. We all ended up in Federal Court in Miami.

 After Nitpick had presented his case, the Judge called the attorneys up to the bench. And in language loud enough for anyone in the courtroom to hear, berated Nitpick in the following manner-or words to this effect:

 "After hearing your case, I find it to be the most useless waste of this court's time I've ever encountered. And if you ever bring forth a similar proceding to me, God help you. You are, however, technically correct and I must give you a directed verdict."

 Nitpick, though chastened, was ecstatic. Money!

 Then the judge spoke to the jury. "The law requires me to find in the favor of the plaintiff and you are required to award him financial damages. I can advise, you, however that if you award him just one dollar this case will be complete and he is finished.

 The jury was out a half hour and returned with a one dollar award. We each paid 33 1/3 cents.
 Come to think of it, that was more than the rest of the frivolous suits collected.

HANDWRITING EVIDENCE

  There've been some scandals in the news of late about bad evidence causing folks to be wrongfully convicted of crimes. Texas. North Carolina. Even stuff from the FBI lab. Thankfully, DNA evidence is becoming a dominate factor and has rescued many a poor soul who has been wrongfully convicted on eyewitness testibaloney and other less reliable forms of proof.
 I was always worried about handwriting analysis. I'm not talking about the sleazy scam of reading character traits by looking at a sample of your writing. Oh yes, the pressure here and the loops there show that you are a handsome, intelligent, soon-to-be-rich male with a latent love of didgeridoo tunes and a subliminal compulsion to wear Victoria's Secret lingerie.
 Nope, we're talking about the scientific comparison of two exemplars to determine if the same person wrote both.  What bothers me is I prefer my scientific evidence to be over-whelmingly certain. Like, "the chances of someone else having this DNA are one in two-hundred-billion." Or, "there is no other human with this same fingerprint."
 Handwriting experts testify with a lotta "appears", and "looks like", indecisive stuff like that. First one I ever used made me suspicious.
 We were prosecuting a forgery case that went to trial. An expert from the FBI lab was our forensic witnesses. I met him before trial and asked about his testimony. He shrugged, sorta noncommittal, and asked, "What kind of case do you have against him."
 I told him what we had and that it was strong. He brightened, "Well then, I think we can put this joker away." And on the stand, he did just that causing me to wonder just how he would've testified if I'd said we had a weak case.
 Probably just me, but I want that one in two-hundred-billion certainty. At least I would if I was innocent and on trial and there wasn't any DNA or fingerprints to save my bacon. Especially in Texas and North Carolina.

BUDGET SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  Nowadays, with money being so tight, budget time for government agencies calls for creative planning and innovative ideas. Back in the 70's, at the NPD we had some innovative ideas, too. Just to make things easier and not pee anyone off. Although the procedure was never spoken of, it was a workable constant, that every department head knew. At least we did at the PD. It worked like this.

 The City Council would get word to the City Manager how much--what percentage--they were willing to raise the budget for the upcoming year. For the sake of easy math, let's say the example year would be 5%. This amount was relayed to the department heads. Then the skullduggery began.

  At the PD we'd work out a budget with a legitimate 5% increase, then boost it by 10%. This was forwarded to the City Manager as a 15% requested increase.

  The City Manager, to do his job as scrupulous guardian of the public funds, would study our budget and cut 5%. Looked good. He'd lopped off an amount before the budget was forwarded to the City Council for final approval. And we still had in it what we really wanted plus and extra 5%.

  Next the City Council sweated over the proposed spending plan and, finally, after much deliberation, were able to cut off another 5%. That was 10% cut by the City Manager and the City Council. 

  The public loved it. And so did we. We got the 5% we really wanted and everyone was happy.

  The games folks are sometimes required to play are, to my mind, unnecessary. One of my main problems was turning down officers and money we didn't need but the public clamored for us to accept.

EYEWITNESS TESTIBALONEY PART 2

  A BOLO was out for one Jose Garcia. A bum check artist, he'd papered 5th Ave South, hitting almost every other store. That was bad news but there was a bright spot. Unlike many crimes, you can't pass a bum check without being seen and there were plenty of witnesses.
 He was described as a "typical" Mexican male of medium height and weight, maybe 30-35. He was accompanied by a Mexican female, average height/weight, nod. And they had in tow about six head of children, all loud and irritable.  Some folks had even seen his car, a two-tone 55 Chevy, black and white. 
 It wasn't long before our best birddog, Byron Tomlinson, had him in tow. Everything from the description matched. He had a wife and kids. He was driving a two-tone 55 Chevy. Three merchants identified him--through a two-way mirror as he sat in the interrogation room. This was gonna be easy. Except for two problems. We couldn't find any checkbooks and Jose adamantly denied that he'd written any checks.

 We had, however, a good case, enough to allow me to take him to the CCSO jail and go home for the night. I'd just settled down for a episode of Barney Miller--the most accurate police show ever on TV--when the phone rang.
 It was Mike Giddeon at the CCSO. Mike was doing a little of everything at the time, dispatch, crime scene tech, and jailer. Tonight he was a jailer.
 "Think we may have a problem," he said. I asked what.
 "I've talked quite a while with this Garcia fellar and I think he's telling the truth. I don't think he wrote any checks."
 I asked Mike if he was familiar with the positive ID's, car, wife, children.
 "Yep," he said, "but I think we have the wrong man."
 Now Mike is one of the best cops I ever met and if it wasn't good enough for him, it damn sure wasn't for me. I saddled up and rode out to the SO to conduct a polygraph exam on Mr. Garcia to make sure. And guess what. He was telling the truth. 
 We started looking again. And found a second Jose Garcia the next day. A Jose Garcia who matched every element of the description: name, looks, wife, children, car. What are the odds of that happening in a small town (then) like Naples. A million to one? Who knows, but it's that one you have to watch out for.
 The difference this time was, this Jose had a backseat full of checkbooks, and we convinced him to admit all his sins.
 And, by the way, the same three merchants identified this Jose as the check writer, too.

EYEWITNESS TESTIBALONEY

  Cops learn early on not to rely--with certainty--on eyewitness testimony. In the police academy, a class is interrupted by some outrageous event. Say, a woman in a bikini being chased through the room by a fat man with a butterfly net. Stuff like that. 
 After things settle down, the recruits are asked to write down what they saw in as much detail as possible. What happened? What they looked like? What they were wearing? Keep in mind these are wannabe cops, with some training. 
 You wouldn't believe what they saw. Few can accurately described what actually transpired or what the participants looked like.
 What's disturbing is that eyewitness testimony is some of the most compelling evidence you can present to a jury. They believe it!

 Another exercise, to prove fallibility, is done by passing a short story around the room, whispered by one recruit to the other. Then the last listener tells what they were told. Again, it's nothing close to the tale that was started.

 Something that started as "John Wayne was out riding on his Honda, drove over a banana peel, and slid into George Clooney who was pulling a rickshaw." This could end up "Marilyn Monroe bought a banana split from Humphrey Bogart who was working at a Dairy Queen in China." 

 No kiddin'.
 That's why I could never choke down an Agatha Christie mystery or any of that ilk. The witnesses are so precise. It was exactly 3:10 PM when I saw Fauntleroy stroll by wearing his blue, pinstripe jodhpurs. I know the time, because that's when I go out on my terrace each day to water my daffodils.

 Cops also soon learn that if they aren't careful, they can make a witness identify anyone else as the person seen doing a specific act. That's why photo lineups are so scrupulously crafted and witnesses are never allowed, before identification, to see suspects with the cops. He's with the cops so he must be the one.

 Finally, white folks are just no good at even attempting to identify anyone but other white folks. Blacks, Mexicans, Chinese? They all look the same. A sad commentary but true.
 Next, a case that showed me how easily this could happen in the real world.

ANCIENT PUNKING

  The first portable radios I ever saw in law enforcement were acquired by Sheriff Doug Hendry. We, of course, had them in the military but in law enforcement they were rare. Too expensive! But Doug, as he was apt to do, found a way around that.

 The government had gotten in the Civil Defense business big time. Don't recall who we worried about blowing us off the map at the time--or maybe it was for hurricane protection--but there were boxes of food, water and equipment available for any government official who wanted to put up with being the local CD Director. Doug checked into the program and found that portable radios were also available--free. So, he agreed to warehouse the food and stuff just to get the radios.

 The things were just barely portable. We called them "lunch boxes" because they were about that size and as heavy as one stuffed with a thermos of RC Cola, ten Moon Pies, two  cornbreads, and a quart of pinto beans. They were, however, capable of being lugged around and way ahead of anything else available for cops. 

 Over the years the technology improved. The walkie-talkies became a little smaller, enough that you could carry one on your gun belt without the weight pulling your drawers down. When Lyndon Baines Johnson learned how to rob the Social Security coffers and created the Great Society, even the NPD--under the LEAA giveaways--was able to acquire some walkie-talkies.

 Chester Keene reminds me we'd also acquired a few parking attendants (meter maids) to patrol the newly installed meters at the "free" Naples beach. They patrolled in three-wheel Hondas.

 One day Chester was on patrol and noticed a meter maid standing at the beach/street intersection, talking on her walkie-talkie. And he noticed she was holding her head at an odd angle, pressed against the radio, with its antenna pointing nearly horizontal, instead of vertical. She looked like Quasimodo trying to practice yoga. He had to know why.

 She explained that she'd been having trouble with the radio, not ever having one before. She'd asked one of the patrol officers to show her how to use it properly. He told her to get the best signal you had to aim the antenna in the direction of the PD's radio tower. And she was twisting her neck like a bent nail trying to do it.

 Chester, on the edge of erupting in laughter, and trying to hide it, explained that the contortions weren't really necessary. She could just talk into it normally. Then he went to counsel the before-his-time Ashton Kutcher that had punked her.

WINE AND CHEESE FESTIVALS

  Ever drive on one of our new and beautiful four or six- lane highways and wonder why the speed limit is only 45 mph? Or why when you try to maintain the legal speed everyone on the road is blowing by you. Here's how it can happen.
 Lets look at Davis Boulevard that was widened from a two-lane cow path to a real boulevard during my tenure at the CCSO. When new highways were built the standard way to determine the appropriate speed limit was with a procedure called the 85th Percentile study. The study required the monitoring, with radar, of the traffic on the new highway over a period of time, say a few months. Before the monitoring, a proposed speed limit was set on the road, say 55 mph. 
  At the end of the monitoring period, if the road being travelled had not had an above-average accident rate, demonstrating that it was safe at the speed motorists had been traveling, the speeds were analyzed. The speed that 85 percent of the cars were driving at is the 85th percentile and what the speed limit of the road should be.
 That survey was done on Davis Blvd and the resultant speed was a little over 60 mph. Consequently, the Florida Dept of Transportation recommended the speed limit be 55 mph, just to be on the safe side.
 Sound reasonable? Not in the Elephant's Graveyard. Not in the domaine of wine and cheese government where a group of whiners can gather up a few cheesy elected officials and get what they want. In this case it was some folks from Kings Lake who said they couldn't drive at that terrifying speed (55). Or exit their sub-division safely--even though they had a traffic light. One resident told me in private that the real issue was they feared the high-speed "tire noise" would keep them awake. Yep, that's what he said.
  And guess what, they got what they wanted--a 45 mph speed limit. I remember talking to the engineer on the project after the decision was made. "Don't you realize," I said, "that you're saddling the Sheriff with a constant enforcement problem.  Drivers see this big highway and naturally speed up to 55 or 60. Then the Sheriff is supposed to write tickets where they're not really needed." The engineer just nodded and said it was out of his control.
  So we've had a speed limit there that's about 10 mph under what it should be. Not just there, either. Ever check out Golden Gate Parkway? Get off the Interstate driving 70 and enter it--a highway that looks just like I-75.  So, your speed creeps up and pretty soon you're getting a ticket cause the speed limit on this autobahn is 45 mph.
  Go figure. But, if you're in whine country, don't bother with anything sensible like the 85th percentile study or your gonna be real disappointed.

THE NAKED PARROT CAPER

 Roger Fussell, Maintenance Supervisor for the Collier County SO, stocked a big stack of 4'x8' plywood sheets. For hurricanes? Nope, to cover door and windows openings after forced entries had been made to residences by the SWAT team and others.

 When we blow open a home, we are responsible to secure it until the owner--now usually in jail--can tend to it. So Roger would board up the openings where doors and windows used to be before the rams and explosives did their work.

 Entering a hostile environment, sometimes fortified, is very dangerous and we take the steps necessary to keep the odds in our favor. Such was the case one night in the mid-80's. We'll let Dave Johnson take it from here.

 The Special Response Unit--what the public calls SWAT--was assisting Narcotics in serving a search warrant in East Naples. Unbeknownst to the Good Guys, the Bad Guys--who were long gone--had left a large parrot in the house. When SRU did the "knock and announce," the parrot started screeching. In Spanish. None of the Good Guys could habla espanol so they didn't realize it was just a happy bird, thinking his owners had come home. To the contrary, the Good Guys thought all the excited yammering was panicking Bad Guys trying to flush the goods.

 With good reason for SRU to do what they do best--ram the door down, throw flash-bangs--they roared into the premises, screaming POLICIA.

 Flash-bangs are concussion devices used to disorient. When they are tossed into an environment, a loud, deafening explosion--that usually blows out all the windows--and a blinding flash gets your attention in a hurry. As it did with the poor parrot, who proceeded to pull out all its feathers and then drop dead.

 To top off the debacle, the Bad Guys had gotten hinky and moved the dope, so the Good Guys were left with nothing but a pile of bright colored feathers and a naked dead bird that they couldn't even eat.

 The cops around the office started calling the SRU guys "Parrot Killers", which was pretty funny until the Bad Guy's sleazy Miami lawyer hit Sheriff Rogers with a lawsuit for way more than a parrot should be worth--except a gold plated one.

I think the Florida Sheriff's Association--our liability carrier--settled that one with a fat check before the glue dried on the delivery stamps.

THREE WHEEL-GUNNERS AND A SEMI-AUTO SHOOTER

  Picture, from the 70's are Collier County SO deputies--left to right--Robbie Kranz, Doug Nickel, Doug Caperton, and Tom Pomeroy. Three have revolvers, the standard of the day. Pomeroy has a .45 semi-auto Colt, which were only allowed as a service weapon for a few who had demonstrated high proficiency with them.

Semi-autos have a propensity to "go off" unexpectedly. One CCSO deputy--carrying it stuck in his belt in the back like all the cops on TV and few in real life--tried to pull his weapon and shot himself in the azz. And a .45 makes a big hole.

This photo courtesy of Chester Keene with identification by Dave Johnson.

GETTY-UP CLYDE Part Two

  As often happens, a reader has come to my rescue. Cops and others who are familiar with the events that appear here, keep me honest when my facts are fuzzy. This time, Dave Johnson, CCSO retired, came to my rescue. And Dave said:

 I have some info that might lend weight to this issue. I too drew the short straw a couple times, baby sitting those Clydesdales. It sure wasn't what I expected.

 First off, the cute Dalmatian you see riding the Bud wagon in the Christmas commercials must've been on vacation. The one Bud sent to the fair was a black-spotted werewolf that would eat the ass out of your trousers if you looked at him sideways.

 Second of all, when I was there our job was the same--make sure they stayed on their feet. If they laid down, we had to go get the wrangler--which pissed off the Dalmatian. Then the wrangler, grouchy because his sleep had been interrupted, would come out and wallop the horse on the ass with a 2x4 until it got up. Saw it with my own eyes.

 The other thing people don't realize is that those elephant-sized horses erupt with methane gas clouds that would make a brontosaurus proud. So, you spent the shift walking around at eye-level with the behemoth's "nozzles", wondering where you'd left your gas mask. I can still see those bung holes opening up like Kodak apertures, followed by flatulent dust devils that would knock you to your knees.

 The things a cop will do for extra money.

GETTY-UP CLYDE

  Several times the famous Budweiser Clydesdale horses visited the Collier County Fair. Always a crowd pleaser, the beautiful, majestic, equines, drawing the famous ornate wagon, were a highlight of the events schedule. Folks just loved them.

 One year a deputy we'll call Humane Harry was assigned the overnight guard duty of the oversized oaters. The regular handler of the Clydesdales gave Harry a description of his watchdog duties.

 "Most of the time they'll sleep standing up," he said, "but they have to sleep a couple hours laying down to get fully rested. Trouble is, sometimes they won't get up after they've been there a while. And if they lay there too long it can be dangerous, the weight and all. Just like an elephant. That's where you come in."

 "Come in how?" Harry asked.

 "You have to get them on their feet if they sleep too long."

 Harry looked at the giant horses--some weighing over a ton--then back at the handler. "How the hell am I gonna do that?"

 "I use this," the handler said, handing Harry a six-foot length of 2 by 4 lumber. "Just like you swing a baseball bat. Right on the ass."

 "You've got to be kidding," Harry said. "I'm not gonna do that." And he didn't, walking off the job.

 When asked by the Lieutenant, that assigned duty, why he'd abandoned his post, Harry replied. "First thing, I love horses. Second, who do you think the public would hang first if they caught me whammin' on a Clydesdale with a 2-by-heavy? Me or the Sheriff?"

 His point was well taken.

 Editor's note: Some folks, who know horses, tell me this story is apocryphal, that the handler had to be putting Harry on, that Clydesdales don't need special wakeup calls. I don't know. I'm just reporting what happened. And it damn sure happened.

COLD SNAP

  In 1959 the newly formed Fair Board decided that we needed a county fair that was, each year,  the first one in the nation. Don't know why, but it had to be the first. January. 1960. And, being in the sub-tropics, that should be possible with our no-winter weather. So it was held at the old Fair Grounds on Radio Road, next to the old Swamp Buggy track and Stock Car oval. 

 Many Deputies and NPD cops worked the fair, some on duty, most off. And most of us spent our time huddled around  55 gallon drums that had been converted to emergency burning barrels to keep us warm. Why, in sunny south Florida?

 Because you could bet your frozen hind quarters that a cold snap would come during the fair. And I mean a cold snap. No reason for it but predictable as skeeters in the rainy season.

 The weeks before the fair could be sunny, beach weather--even for Crackers. (Yankee's will swim with penguins) After the fair, more weather like we were used to. But during. . .

 It went on like that for years--with icicles forming on the children whirling on the rides in the frigid wind. Then, some other county decided they wanted to be the first--and coldest--each year and scheduled theirs a week before ours. That was a good excuse for the board to give up on the first thing and move the fair to February. Should be fine. Warm weather and still plenty of snow birds around to buy tickets. 
 Right. The fair is still in February and you can count on dragging out your long woolies during that week. Never fails. The cold snap follows our fair around like Obama dogs a loose dollar in your wallet.
 Someone once suggested that they give up the whole winter thing and move it to June, or so, like most normal fairs. The idea was shot down. The Fair Board was afraid the attendant cold snap would kill all the crops.

HOOKER'S REVENGE

  There's an old joke about a preacher's sermon getting his holy-roller congregation so whooped up one of the ladies began talking in tongues,  dancing, then rolling and somersaulting down the isle. At one point, her dress flipped over her head and remained there, exposing her gaudy red bloomers. And so forth. 

 The preacher, seeing her predicament, said to his flock, "May anyone who gazes upon Sister Bertha Mae, in her embarassment, be struck blind."

 To which the ol' Deacon, responded, slapping a hand over an eye,  "Hell, I'm gonna risk one eye, anyway." 

 A few years back, some folks in Immokalee were risking a lot more. 
 The hazard came in the person of one Lucy Twattle. Lucy was a hooker in Immokalee back when AIDS was just getting a good start. Back then there were no medicines that would sustain your life and folks who knew about it were terrified of the disease. Or, they should've been.
 Lucy was one of the first victims of AIDS. She was also the Typhoid Mary of AIDS in Immokalee. Lucy carried no condoms and promoted unprotected sex. There were always plenty of takers, men not being particularly enamored with "raincoat sex." 
 She plied her trade whenever she wasn't locked in the Immokalee Jail. Asked why she was deliberately trying to spread the death bug, she'd say, "That's the way I got it. Some sumbitch gave it to me and I'm gonna pass it right on."
 Lucy quit showing up in jail after awhile. She either passed on or moved on, leaving a tragic wake. 

EXCESS BAGGAGE

  Collier County has always been a lively smuggling port-of-entry. Rum, dope, people, we've had it all. Everglades City once got so notorious they had their own featured segment on 60 Minutes. My pal, Chester Keene, has been in his archives again and dug out these memories.
 When the developers decided we needed to dry up some of that nasty 'ol swamp and build a new community called Golden Gate it was a bonanza for drug smugglers. Many new roads were paved in remote areas of the Glades. Roads that served little use except as landing strips for aircraft bringing in tons of marijuana. And other stuff. 
 Sometimes, with bigger aircraft like DC-3's, the pilot would drop below the radar, and do a touch-and-go on the road/airstrip. While he was taxiing on the runway his crew would be rolling bales of grass out of the plane. By the time he lifted off the plane was empty and he was back on the radar, seemingly just a dropout blip for anyone who was monitoring.
 Waiting for this illegal bounty were vans and motor homes that were loaded to capacity and sent back to civilization. This only took a few minutes. And was hugely profitable.
 So lucrative that some planes were just dumped after they were landed and unloaded. There was that much profit in the drug/marijuana import, a discarded plane just figured in as part of the overhead.
 Pictured are two of these planes that Chester came upon. Just dumped and forgotten.

THE OTHER BARNETT

  Scott Barnett, an old friend and veteran cop with the Collier County SO, recalls one of his early arrests. As he tells it. . .

 In the Spring of 1980, I was a recent graduate of the Police Academy and, now free of a Field Training Officer, on my own. I was on a solo midnight shift in District #6 (Marco/Goodland) when I was dispatched to a bar fight at the Little Bar in Goodland--a small fishing community off Marco.  

 Pulling into the parking lot, I could see a huge man inside the bar take a swing at one of the other fishermen. Knowing my nearest backup was at least 20 miles away, I went in, riot stick in hand.

 I found the combatants out of breath from fighting. Busted-up around the bar were tables, chairs, and a few patrons. The bartender, pointing at a commercial crabber--we'll call Crabs Mash--said, "He started it." 

 This riled Crabs, who I feared was about to renew the mayhem. I quickly eased him outside. There, he calmed down, and I was eventually able to convinced him he'd have to go to jail. 

 I was glad he was compliant. The man was a giant. To give you an idea of his size, when I got out my handcuffs, to shackle him, he started to laugh. Thinking he'd changed his mind and I was either going to get my clock cleaned or have to shoot him, I asked him what was so funny. 

 My almost prisoner held out his wrists and said, "They don’t fit. I’ve been arrested before and they tried. Won't go around."

Looking at his fence post wrists I had to agree. There was no way the cuffs were going to encircle them. Reluctantly, I told him go ahead and get in the back of the car. But, he wouldn’t fit. 

 We were driving compact cars, Plymouth Volaries, and with the cage he couldn’t get in the back seat. Knowing that there were only a few other deputies on duty in the whole county and none were driving anything bigger than I was, I asked Crabs if he would be good and sit in the front seat. That, or we'd have to wait for hours for someone to show up with a bigger vehicle. He agreed, barely able to even fit up front.

 About half way to the Naples Jail, Crabs asked me my name, then asked if I knew a city policeman also named Barnett. I made a non-commital grunt and asked why. 

 Crabs said. "A few years back, I got arrested at the Anchor Lounge for fighting with the Naples PD guys and this city cop, named Barnett, hit me over the head with a stick or flashlight. My head still hurts and I'm still waiting to play some catch-up with him."

 It's a great asset for a cop to have a good memory. But, sometimes a selective memory works better. I told him I'd never heard of this other Barnett and couldn't understand why any one would want to hit him on the head--the nice, cooperative gent that he was. 

 After I booked him into jail, I called the other Barnett and asked if he remembered the incident at the Anchor and Mister Crabs Mash. He said he'd never forget it. Crabs was the meanest, ugliest, and wildest thing he'd ever run into. I told him Crabs remembered him, too.

So that's it. An arrest from long ago that has stuck in my memory. 

Oh, yeah. The other Barnett? 

His name's Ray. 

He's my Dad.

BOLITA

  Back before Florida took all the sin out of gambling by going into the business full time itself, there were two popular lottery type games. One, was The Numbers, run by organized crime. The other was Bolita, run by homegrown entrepreneurs. The Numbers game became the Florida Lottery's Cash Three entry. 
Bolita came to Tampa from Cuba in the 1880's and migrated statewide.  To play, 100 numbered balls were placed in a paper bag and bets were taken on the number to be selected at the drawing on Saturday night. Traditionally, a woman grabbed the bag, pinching one ball, then tearing it out of the bag. Usually, someone just reached in.

Bolita was notoriously crooked. Sometimes popular number balls weren't put in the bag. Some popular balls had lead inside to make them sink to the bottom. Some were frozen, to make them easy to identify.

You are never going to legislate morality, so why waste the time? However, when the games got too crooked we moved in. One Saturday we were informed that a lady named Catherine was the bag man--lady in this case--for Naples. She would collect all the bets from Naples and deliver them to Ft Myers, where the operation was run. We put a tail on Catherine and, when she made her pickup and headed for Ft Myers, arrested her.

Now, it was alleged that the bolita operation had been run for years by the then sheriff of Lee County, Flanders Snag Thompson. We told Catherine that we weren't interested in her and if she'd tell us who she was delivering the money to, we'd cut her a deal. She refused, obviously terrified.

We kept at her and she adamantly refused to reveal the boss. Seeing this wasn't going to work, we tried another carrot. We told her if she'd just give her boss' name--never hoping to get the top man--we'd work with her.

Finally, she blurted out, "Lord, no. If Mistah Snag found out I even do that, he'd be killin' me."

Catherine got probation. We turned the information on Mistah Snag over the the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Although Snag was never convicted of running the bolita operation, shortly thereafter he was removed from office by Governor Claudius Maximus Kirk for a truckload of things a sheriff wasn't supposed to be doing.

MYSTERY COP

Who is this guy. Looks vaguely familiar but. . . Dave Johnson? Nah, that couldn't be him. Could it?

Yep, it is. Course you have to remember it's an old photo and Dave started working at the Collier County Sheriff's Office when he was about twelve-years-old. Maybe thirteen.
Actually, he was just over eighteen and still going to Naples High School. He was the youngest Deputy ever certified at the CCSO being just nineteen. Not old enough to buy ammo, the agency bought it for him.

He clocked the second highest continuous tenure record at  over thirty-five-years when he recently retired.  Mike Gideon has the highest continuous at over thirty-eight.

Anyway, that's my old pal and associate Dave Johnson and looking at Dave now, and seeing this oldtime photo, has to make you wonder if he's ever read The Picture Of Dorian Gray.

Just kidding, Davey. You're still pretty. But not as pretty as me.

PIGEON DROP ALIVE AND WELL

  When I first made Detective, in the early 60's, the first con game I ever worked was the Pigeon Drop. In the news this week, is a sad story confirming that the ancient scam still works. Hard to believe, but true.

An octogenarian was victim to con game weasels, being relieved of a couple thousand dollars she could ill afford to lose. The poor lady is still working at WalMart to get by.

The game, always has the same elements; a wallet or whatever, supposedly full of money, found in your presence, and "earnest money" being put up until the money can be divided. The mark, or pigeon, gets to keep the money in their custody, finally realizing they've been stuck with an empty wallet.
Of course, it relies on the pigeon being greedy or, as above, desperate for money. If, when the money was supposedly "found", a call was made to the police there would be no scam. But the con artists are fast-talkers and experience great success with the game. And have for over 100 years since it migrated over from France.
Yep, makes you wonder how anyone could fall for such a stunt. Course, when I was a juvenile delinquent in Charleston, WVa, we used to tie a string on an old wallet, leave it on the sidewalk and hide in the bushes. When someone bent over to get the wallet, we'd yank it back and run like thieves, laughing like maniacs. We were amazed then, too, at how often it worked.

GRADUATING CLASS JUNE 23, 1988

This photo is of four officers ending an era at the Naples Police Department. All had over twenty years of service and were soon to retire. The occasion was an award from the Optimist Club commending their years of devotion to the safety of the community.

Pictured are, from the left, Richard Davidson, Chester Keene, Dave Dampier, and Barrie Kee. Richard and Chester went on to also retire from the Collier County Sheriff's Office. Dave was very successful in the real estate business and Barrie really retired, but still devoted his time to his beloved Police Athletic League, of which he was a founded and prime mover.

Chester and Dave are frequent contributors to Naples 5-Oh.

LOUIS COLLINS

 In the old ballad Louis Collins, legendary bluesman Mississippi John Hurt bemoans the shooting of of a young man and the grief it caused his family and friends. And what a waste it all was. He could've been singing about our Louis Collins, a young NPD officer who came to a tragic end years before his time.
Lou was home grown and tried several jobs Cracker's do before finding police work. He found he loved it and was good at it. He had almost a year on the job before he went to the police academy. That's where the terrible accident happened on December 3rd, 1971. 
The students were just returning to class and taking their seats. Although firearms were strictly forbidden in the academy classroom, the recruit sitting in front of Lou had sneaked one in. He had it in the back pocket of his bib overalls. When he started to sit down, the pistol--an ancient S&W top-break .38--fell from his pocket. Being an old gun, it had no hammer block, or device preventing the gun from firing if it was dropped and hit on the hammer.
The gun went off. Lou grabbed his chest and said, "My God, you've killed me," and fell to the floor, instantly gone.

His name appears on the End Of Watch Memorial at the NPD.
We still miss you, Brother.


Thanks Chester and Joe for the help