LONG ROPE COLLECTION AGENCY PART 2

  The next time Frank's employees started to uncoil rope and fashion a noose, he decided it was time to hire a bookkeeper. We'll call her Gwendolyn. 
  He was well beyond the time his booming business should've had one anyway. So far behind that, after giving Gwen a few weeks to organize his financial mess, he asked her if he had enough money to buy a new car. And was shocked at her answer.

  Gwen looked at him incredulously.   "You're kidding," she replied.

  "Well, I can wait. . "

  "Frank," she said, "you really don't know do you?"

  "Know what?"

 "With all the lots you've been buying with your real estate pal, and your business proceeds, you're a millionaire. Easily." (Over the years, he was to lose this million, then make it back)
  Frank happily bumbled on for a few more years. Then, he gave me a call. "I think I have a problem with Gwendolyn. I think she may be stealing from me."
 I wondered how he would ever have known, given his aversion to things mathematical.
 "Had an IRS audit, had to call in a tax attorney. He told me I may have an internal problem. He showed my books to another accountant and it looks like Gwen has skimmed off 100K or more."
  I talked to the tax lawyer, he showed me what he had and I went to Frank's office. When confronted, Gwen easily fessed up. She said, over the years, she'd been short because of personal financial emergencies and taken a little here, a little there. She didn't realize it'd been so much.
  I told Gwen and Frank that the amount constituted a felony, maybe prison time. Frank said he wanted to think it over before he decided what to do. The next day he called me up.
 "I've been thinking about Gwen," he said, "and I remembered I loaned her that money. She didn't steal it."
  "Come on, Frank," I said.
  "Yep, actually I gave it to her as a bonus," Frank said, "yeah, a bonus. She's been so good over the years, keeping me outta trouble and all. Hell, she's saved me more than 100K."
  "You sure," I said.
  "Yep, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it."
  And he did. I guess Gwen worked there until she retired.
  Frank was very generous in other areas, too. For years he anonymously was one of the main financial supporters of PAL.  We couldn't have survived without him.

THE LONG ROPE COLLECTION AGENCY

  At one time you could hire a collection agency that pretty much guaranteed you'd get your owed money. It was started by the Hell's Angels. When ten of them showed up on a slow-payer's doorstep, with their leather-studded hand out, you'd better put something in it. Naples had a short-lived enterprise that also worked well.

  A very successful construction subcontractor, who we'll call Frank, was excellent at completing projects on time.  Except for one element: his bookkeeping skills were so terrible he was constantly writing bad paychecks to his employees. It wasn't that he didn't have the money, he was just awful at accounting for it. Didn't send out bills on time. Didn't collect them. Forgot to make deposits. He loved to build but hated the paperwork. And he didn't have a bookkeeper.

 Payday was always a hassle for Frank's employees. A waiting and worrying game. Who would be the lucky ones to get a valid paycheck. All? Half? They just never knew.

  You'd think they'd give him up to the cops for uttering rubber instruments, but he provided steady work and paid better than anyone else. When he did pay. And the workers knew Frank would pay. Eventually. He was just sloppy at getting it done on time.

 One Friday afternoon we received a call from Frank's receptionist--who wasn't a bookkeeper either. She was terrified. "You better get over here quick. Frank hasn't showed up with the checks and the guys are so mad they've strung up a rope with a noose back there in the shop. And I believe they're gonna use it."
  We urged her to try and contact Frank and tell him to stay away until we could get there. She said she had and Frank was coming in anyway. 
  When we got there, we found just what the receptionist had described. The noose, the angry crowd, everything but a horse with Frank on it, hands tied behind his back.
  Just as we were moving in to disperse the crowd, in walks Frank. There was a fearsome growl from the workers.
  Frank smiled. "Sorry I'm late, fellers, but I got behind and have to admit I didn't have time to write out the checks."
  Oh my God.
 "But, I did bring cash money--he held up a brief case--so we can settle up."
  And nothing can bring on the smiles like cash money.
  Frank wasn't a stupid man and the incident brought a profound change to his monetary practices. After that, Frank's paychecks were as reliable as the afternoon shower on a Florida summer's day. 
  At least for a month or so.

THE MAGIC WORDS

     So some Puke has broken into your house and you’ve shot them or stabbed them or cracked their skull with a 12” cast iron skillet and the perp is sprawled on your floor, in disrepair or, better still, permanently removed from the A-hole pool. So what now? First, call your lawyer then remember The Magic Words.

  What are The Magic Words? A pronouncement, that when uttered correctly, helps defend against criminal charges or civil action proceeding against you.

  This is what they ain’t. Some sumbitch breaks into my house I’ ll keel ‘em. Or, He was trespassing’ on my property, so I keeled him. Or some other redneck, stupidly arrogant boast. No, this could cause you grief beyond your dreams, even if you are well within the comfort zone provided by the law.

  In Florida, this protection can be very liberal. (See Florida Statute 776, Justifiable Use Of Force, for a complete interpretation) As I read the law and have seen it applied, if you find someone in your home that is not welcome or justified to be there, it is assumed—prima facia evidence—that the intruder intends to commit a felony. That allows you to use deadly force to repel him. This also covers intruders into your car or confrontations on the street. It is a law that doesn't require you to take an ass-whuppin' before you retaliate.

  Still, The Magic Words that the cops and prosecutors want to hear are like these. Best of all, spoken with great remorse: I didn’t want to hurt him but I was terrified. I was afraid for myself—or my family—and didn’t know what else to do. I was so frightened. I was scared to death. I didn't have any choice that I could see. If you thought you saw a weapon in their hand that helps, too. Gun, knife, scissors, something shiny. You were so upset it was hard to tell.

  Stuff like that. These are The Magic Words. Granted, not something John Wayne might say, but essential language to keep you in that comfy home you've just so courageously defended.

  I'm not a lawyer but over the years I've have seen several folks put themselves, needlessly, in jail with their mouth. All were men. Women usually admit they were scared to death--as everyone should.

  So if it happens to you, call the cops, and your lawyer, remember The Magic Words and pat yourself on the back for the good work you've done.

REASONS NOT TO OFF YOURSELF

  Cops have to learn to deal with sad situations. One of the worst is suicide. Folks who've enjoyed all of this life they can stand. Because of the prevalence of these cases, we all got to know Dr. Jose Lombillo well. Jose was the City's contract psychiatrist at the time and one of the founders of the Mental Health Association in Naples.

 Yep, it's a sad business but there can be rewards. Sometimes you can convince those who've tried and failed that there are other options. To seek professional help. Call Jose. Analyze the situation and see that voiding your warranty is not necessary. 

 I was regularly amazed at the situations a suicide-seeker had determined was so unbearable they could tolerate no more. I'm not talking about physical pain from cancer or terrors like tic douloureux--that causes mind-numbing pain, usually incurable. I'm talking about the miseries of the mind, resulting from things the victim has fixated on. Some, very strange.
  My dog doesn't love me anymore.  What? The people at work conspire to take all the best parking spaces. Huh? I'm in love with Paris Hilton and she doesn't even know I exist. Paris Hilton? That skink? Bubba, you are in need of help.
  Seems silly, right. But not to the person with the fixation. To them it's the worst problem in the world. A problem that can only be solved by self-termination.
  Then there is the most prevalent, and stupid reason of all. All cops have heard this one too many times: She, or he, or they, are gonna be sorry when I'm gone. If you have toyed with the idea of taking a dirt nap to relieve your woes, for Lord's sake this is the worst reason there is. Be sorry when you're gone! Bull-pucky! They'll likely be tickled to death you're out of the way.
 These scumbags have demonstrated how much they love you by making your life so miserable you want to cash in your frequent cryer miles. And you think they're gonna be sorry when you're gone? Nope. Seen it a thousand times. Your ex-love will be flirting with the cop that delivers the sad news. Forget it.
  So, if you've ever been down in the dumps and contemplated how to punish your unrequited lover, leave suicide out.  Me, I was always a fan of letting the air outta their tires and throwing away the valve stems. Sugar in the gas tank. Posting their phone number in public restrooms with the message For anal sex call . . . Stuff like that. 
 There, I've just saved your life. Aren't you happy?

THE OLD NAPLES PD

This photo is from Chester Keene's endless archives. The old Naples PD at 8th and 8th South. The Fire Dept is attached to the right and the Council Chambers are next door on the left. Across the street is Cambier Park.

  If you look closely you can see the leg of the old water tower to the left. It was one of Naples' tallest structures at the time. A landmark. It was also a good way for cops to make much needed extra cash.

  The tower had a flashing light on top to warn aircraft. The light required maintenance and cops clamored for a chance to make big extra money. That was $15 to climb to the top, replace the bulb, and come back. Who could turn down a fortune like that?

  Course, nothin' comes easy. You were required to wear a saftey belt and click to it a rider that slid up and down a cable beside the ladder.  Supposed to save you if you slipped off the ladder. Trouble was the cable was so rusted, it was like dragging up a hundred extra pounds. So, we disconnected the safety clip and went bare-assed.

  Another problem was the ladder tilted backwards when you got to the giant tank on top. That required you hang on the ladder leaning backwards, defying gravity. But, for $15 one expects a few perils.

  Jack Bliss had this plum until he was promoted to a level he could get by on his regular salary. Being a good friend, Jack gave the job to me. And I was such a happy, gratefull camper.

  Strange what you'll do when that ol' wolf is snapping and growling at your door.

ON THE SLIPPERY SLOPE

     It's  getting close to the time we’ll be returning home to the good ‘ol Elephant’s Graveyard, so this will be my last road tale. The trip has caused me to remember how different policing in a different state can be. And how much the same.

  I’ve mentioned the different folks and critters and laws to be contended with, but left out one of the most important differences: Geography. Terrain.

  Bashful Beaver, in East Tennessee, is mountain and foothill country. Winding roads, steep banks and precipices are ubiquitous. And have to be respected.

  Late one Saturday night I came upon skid marks disappearing over the road’s edge and down a steep bank.  Investigating, I found a Ford Falcon bellied out in a field fifteen-feet below. The car was fairly smashed up but the driver, protected by the Angel of the Drunk and Stupid, bore not a scratch. “How ‘bout givin’ me a hand up,” he said.

  The bank was muddy and slick where his car had slid down it. It wasn’t going to be any fun but that’s why I was making the big bucks. I grabbed a sapling’s branch for stability, took a couple of tenuous steps down the bank and held out my hand.  My customer, tanked with liquid stupid, could barely walk. But he did have enough coordination to grab my hand in both of his and yank with all his might. I, of course, came skidding down the bank, now muddier and nastier looking than the crash victim. I tried to get back up the bank but it was slicker than Ol’ Willie, so try as I might, there I remained.

  After seeing the wrecked car, I’d tried to call in dispatch and tell them what I had, but dispatch hadn’t answered—probably  taking a refreshing nap--and the only other car on duty was out at an all-night burger joint. “May be a long night,” I said to my soused companion.”

  Finally, a good soul saw my empty car, stopped to see what was up, and called the fire department.  The car required a wrecker, the drunk and I a long tug rope. I remember I had on a new pair of cowboy boots and it took a month to get all the mud off them.

  Another time, I was on a back road at night and saw a Lincoln half off the road, balancing precariously and teetering on the edge over a healthy precipice. I called for help. At the car, I was greeted by a drunk. “Get me the hell outta here,” he yelled trying to open the door. With each of his jerky movements, the Lincoln swayed up and down. I jumped on the rear bumper to try to counter-balance the thing, while yelling at the drunk to keep still. He wouldn’t and I was sure that any second, car, drunk and I would crash to the bottom.

  Finally, help arrived in the form of a wrecker who put his hook around the rear axel and tightened up, stabilizing the Lincoln. I stepped onto the road's welcome, firm surface and said to the drunk, “Now just stay there until we pull the car back.”

  “I ain’t waitin’ a damn minute longer,” he said, rolling down the window, crawling through, and falling a hundred feet or so through tree limbs, brush, and rocky outcroppings.

  When the emergency folks finally got to him he was a scruffed up mess. Up not nearly as much as he deserved. 

YOU CAN'T GO THAR

   Once, up in Bashful Beaver, Tn., I received a call from dispatch asking my 10-20 (location). “Slippery Hollow.” I replied. 

There was silence for a moment, then the Shift Sergeant interrupted, “Booger Holler?” 

“10-4.” 

Next, urgently, “Get outta there and 56 (meet) me at the Church of the Bountiful Backslider Bashers.” 

I did. The Sergeant was agitated. “Didn’t anyone tell you about Slippery Holler?” he said. 

“Nope,” I answered. 

“We don’t go down there. Can’t go down there.” 

“Can’t go down there? Why the hell not? We’re cops, we can go anywhere in our jurisdiction.” 

“Normally, yeah. But not Slippery Holler.” 

“What’s so special ‘bout Slippery Holler?” 

“You see that house on the hill at the mouth of the holler?” 

“Yep.” 

“Well, the ol’ man that lives in there will shoot down on ya with his long rifle.” 

“You mean Mr. Walker?” I asked. 

“Yeah. . .you know Mr. Walker?” 

“Know the whole family,” I said. “Coached three of their boys in Pop Warner football.” 

“That explains it,” Sarge said. “They recognized you. Otherwise you’d a been dodgin’ bullets.” 

I was stunned. “I don’t understand. These are good people. Why would they shoot at folks.” 

“It’s just the old man. And nobody that ever got close enough to ask, survived,” he said. 

While my head was still spinning, he went on. “’Nother thing, “there’s one other holler we don’t go down. On the east end of the county, near the line. Called “Booger Holler.” 

“Who’s shootin’ at us up there?” 

“Don’t know, never caught anyone. But every time a cop car starts down it, some one does. Have a still up there, most likely.” 

I never did get used to the way law enforcement worked in East Tennessee. Things they did and accepted as normal I could never accommodate. I returned to Florida in six-months.