J.D. IN HEAVEN

 One could say the Almighty had gotten out his digital camera and snapped this photo of JD Spohn lounging behind the Pearly Gates, showing everybody how it's done. Anyone  that had the pleasure of having JD for a friend knows it's true. 

 This is surely how he would have wanted it. Cowboy hat, boots, camper, BBQ, and toddy in hand. And those trousers look like he may've not had time to get completely out of uniform before it was party time. 
 Not enough guns for JD Spohn, you say? Just one on the right hip. Better check them there boots. And his pockets. And under that hat. 

 Miss you every day, old Poddner. You were a true original and I don't expect to encounter your like again. 
 "Wait a minute," some of you may say, "what makes you so damn sure JD's even in Heaven?"
 Oh, he's there all right. Talked his way in.

 This photo courtesy of ace photographer and archiver Chester Keene

A HORROR STORY

  The recent hullabaloo in the news of late about the deficiencies in our education system caused me to ponder. And that's always a dangerous thing, usually resulting in a rant. Here it is.

 Back in the 80's the State of Florida decided that every police applicant must pass the TABE test. That's Test of Adult Basic Education. The test had been developed in the 60's to see if you'd learned enough in high school to meet the standard of what a graduate should know. Passing score on the test was 12th Grade Level. By the time it got to the 80's the failure rate was so high, the passing high school equivalence had eroded down to 9th Grade. That's a Freshman in high school.

 When we began giving the test we were astounded. There was one group who consistently passed it and another who couldn't get past 7th grade. The successful group was usually folks in their late 40's and up. The group that couldn't buy a passing grade were recent college graduates.

 That's what I said, recent college graduates. And not from these dubious towers of learning like Edison State College and the their ilk. These were people with sheepskins from state  universities.

 The situation got so bad that when one of these scholars applied we'd tell them to go to the book store, buy a study manual for the GED test, and concentrate on English and Math--the two killer areas for college grads. Most were glad for the help after they'd taken the test. It's been so long I've forgotten all that stuff. Right! Four years.

 So we started slippin' and slidin' on this slope a long time ago. And I'm not blaming the teachers, which is the popular thing to do. I'm wondering who's providing the curriculum they are required to teach. And, worst of all, how any teacher can deal with the chaos that's allowed to go on in classrooms today.

 We'd better make some changes. Our education level is in the bottom tier worldwide.   

THE POLICEMAN'S BALL

  Although I joke about Naples in the old days, and some of the funny things that happened, most of the time we got it right. And, in the process, built a great place to live. I wouldn't live anywhere else, and I've been around and seen what others have to offer. One of the things the NPD got right every year was The Policeman's Ball.

 We started it as a way to raise money for the kid's program, PAL. And, because a Policeman's Ball is a traditional get-together. We'd hire one of the old dance bands: Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, big names like that. Course, Glenn and Tommy and Harry were long gone but the music had been inherited by one of the band members.

 The first time I was involved in the hiring, the night of the ball one man showed up. He said he was the "Glenn Miller Band." Had been a actual member and owned the "charts", the original arrangements. I was terrified at the aspect of waltzing this dude out and claiming he was the band.

 He laughted. "The band will be here directly," he said. "I hire union musicians out of the Miami local for shows in South Florida."

 "But, can they play like Glenn Miller?" I asked.

 He smiled again, "I have the charts. If you have the charts a pro can play them. I could sound like The New Ashmolean Marching Society and Student's Conservatory Band if I had the Charts."
 And they did. Any band, every year. 
 The first time we held the dance, we had our officers carry tickets around and sell them. One officer was particularly effective. He was out-selling everyone. A big, intimidating man named Jerry, he'd go into a business, fan out a fistful of cards, and ask, "How many?" We had to tone his tactics down. 
 But, after the first dance, ticket sales were no problem. There was just no dance comparable to it in Naples. In fact, we had to limit the number of tickets so folks could fit in the venue. 

 Wonder why they don't still have them?

MORE MARCO MYSTERY

 We would car pool for the trip to Marco Island each day. About twice a week, when we drove through Naples, Fred Scott, an NPD cop, would pull us over. "Where you boy's say you were goin'?" he'd ask. Fred's cop's nose told him there was something about our Project Mercury story that stunk.

 When I got in the cop business, Fred and I became good friends. He'd still ask me about the tracking station job but, he died before I was allowed to tell him the truth.

 There were seven tracking stations like ours stretched from Eglin Air Force base to Key West. We all did track the Mercury capsule with our giant radars, locking on it when it cleared the coast of California and losing it in the mid-Atlantic. We also tracked the U-2 that secretly flew over Cuba, checking on what type of installations they were building. Like the ones that eventually led to the Cuban Missile Crisis. 

 But what we did most was called electronic counter-measures. This was new technology at the time and involved trying to avoid missiles that were trying to shoot down our missiles. And we're talking about missiles not carrying astronauts but nuclear warheads.

 The company we worked for was called Vitro. But we really worked for the Air Force. Had to have a high-level secret clearance to work there. 

 The Air Force would launch a rocket from Eglin and we'd try to track it. It wasn't always possible, since the missiles had on-board electronics that put out signals to deceive any tracking radars. We'd usually end up tracking a ghost image while the missile went on it deadly way.

 Actually, the missiles dropped harmlessly into the Gulf south of Key West. And the warheads were dummies.

 The two radars we used for tracking were impressive. They put out a million watts, each. The computers that guided them were contained in fifty floor-to-ceiling cabinets. This was before transistors and glass diode tubes were used. Thousands of them. To make a repair, you got a schematic book-there were forty of them--found the likely cabinet, then the defective tube in the racks. Not easy. This early computer had less computing power than the little Radio Shack Color Computer I later owned.

 So there it is, the Marco Mystery solved. If you even knew there was one.

MARCO MYSTERY

  I once had a job that didn't allow me to tell folks what I did. Had to lie about it. When it ended, I had to sign a paper swearing I'd continue to lie about the work for 15 years. Under penalty of prison.

 The job was on Marco Island. Back then--the early 60's-- there was no bridge by the Isles of Capri. You drove down US 41 to Royal Palm Hammock, turned right on CR 92, and went over the swing bridge at Goodland to get to Marco Island. A long haul.
 At the bridge there was an entire frame house roosting in the trees on a small island. It had been blown over there by Hurricane Donna. Took it years to rot and disintegrate.
 On the other side of the bridge was a small blue and white motel where tourist fisher-people stayed. Johnny Unitas and other Baltimore Colts loved to stay there. Some said Johnny actually owned the motel. I don't know but he sure spent a lotta time there.
 The fishing then was like no where else on earth. It was impossible not to catch something--many times one worth sending to the taxidermist. There was a 10' wide channel next to Caxambas that, each spring, was the highway for tarpon heading further north along the Gulf coast. They went by for several days, a solid silver highway. We used to wade out to the center--it was only about 4' deep--and stand in the middle of the stream. The tarpon ignored us, just making a wider path to get around. They would neither stop or eat. There were thousands. An old Cracker who'd lived on Marco all his life (he'd never been further North than Ft. Myers) said they'd done it each year for as long as he could remember.
 To finally get to work, we'd drive to the Caxambas Pass where the government had bought the entire point and fenced it in. There was a guard at the gate. Several buildings had been constructed, one with two huge radar dishes on the roof. And there was a 300' communications tower. We'd go inside the buildings and prepare for our day's work.
 We were working on the first man-space program, Project Mercury. The one where they put Sam Shepard and all those brave folks into orbit in an Atlas missile. That's what we told folks, anyway. And it was partially true, we did do that--about every 90 days. It was what we did the other 89 days we had to lie about.
 Since it's not a secret now, we'll talk about it next time.

DOUBLE TROUBLE, TOO.

RAY BARNETT

 Here are two more cops who worked for both the Naples Police and the Collier Sheriff's Office: Ray Barnett and Richard Cooper. There were many more that migrated from the PD to the SO than taking the reverse path. Probably with good reason.

 The NPD was notoriously strict and would fire you in second. That applied to the Chief right on down. The SO had a much more forgiving nature. Hell, you'd have be caught red-handed holding up the Bank of Naples to get a reprimand. There was a reason for that. Disgruntled Deputies were bad politics. Their grumbling could cause  the loss of many votes.

 Also, the CCSO was larger and growing. There was much more opportunity. And there was the other thing.

 At the time, the SO had a deal with the current Chief that neither would hire the other's officers. Before an officer would be interviewed, they must have notified their boss they intended to apply. This scared many off. What if I'm not hired? The Sheriff/Chief will fire me for being a traitor.

RICHARD COOPER

 The city kept the agreement. The SO did not. Not even close. Unless it was someone they didn't want anyway. Then it was We can't process you until you tell the Chief you're applying. We knew of several cops they actively recruited. If it was a prime candidate, we found they had already been guaranteed a job before they came and told the Chief.

 Ray Barnett, photo at the top, had been a cop in State College, Pa. before the NPD. He was one of my first Detective partners and is still a close friend. Ray, smart, smooth and a great cop, rocketed to the top at the CCSO, finishing off as a Chief. He later went into the private sector. Our loss.

 Dick Cooper is one of my favorite people, also a good friend. I hired Coop to work in the jail after I went to the CCSO. He was a great street cop but he figured the chances for advancement were greater in the rapidly growing jail section. 
 One sad day, a cowardly scumbag inmate, who should have been in state prison, attacked Coop and his smashed head into a heavy steel table. Coop nearly died.
 When his body healed he had to rehabilitate his mind. He'd lost the ability to read, and count, his memory destroyed. But, Dick, one of the toughest out there, pulled it off. Besides his tenacity he had another asset: his wife Josie.


Photos courtesy Chester Keene

GEORGE

  Knew a kid once named George. Knew him from the time he was about six until he graduated high school. George played for the PAL Gators football team and he was one of the best running backs I ever coached. Almost impossible to take down.

 Since George was the same age as some of our kids, he used to, occasionally, come up and stay at our house in Pine Ridge over the weekends.

 Getting permission from his parents wasn't necessary. George didn't have any. George was raised under the system that has evolved in many Black communities where a kind-hearted lady will take in children who have been abandoned. Cast aside. Forgotten in favor of booze, dope, and trips to The Clubbb. They are usually called Grandmas or Aunties. May God love them.

 George, being black, lived in the Naples' shameful hellhole called McDonald Quarters. A ghetto. One of the few places Blacks were allowed to live in paradise. George survived this meager existence with amazing resilience. He was healthy as a horse. His sense of humor fine-honed and ready.

 Once when George was staying with us, I noticed that he wouldn't jump off the diving board into our pool. I asked if he would like me to show him how to dive. George said, "Oh, I can dive just fine. Just don't think I should."

 When I asked why he said, "When I starts bouncin' on that board and I bounces higher than that fence around the pool, your neighbors gonna see my black ass. Then they gonna say 'Uh-oh, lookit what's bobbin' up over there' and you gonna be in big trouble."

 George once told me something that caused me to re-think many things I took for granted. He seemed to like staying with us so much that Sandy and I had discussed trying to get custody of him. I asked him if he liked visiting us. "Oh, yeah," he said, "an' you know what I like best? I love sleepin' in a bed on Friday and Saturday nights?"

 "What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

 "In the Quarters you can't sleep in a bed on Friday or Saturday nights. They gets drunk and starts shootin', you best be sleepin' on the floor so them bullets pass right over you."

 Being a cop I knew he was right. But I'd never thought about it. Why should a kid have to worry about things like that? And not just him, every kid over there. But, it was just a fact of life to them. After that, we tried to make life  there safer.

 We finally lost George. One of his Aunties found a relative up in Mississippi and George moved there. Did well, I understand. Went on to play college football. A big running back that couldn't be stopped.