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FROM GEORGE ZIMMERMAN TRIAL!!!

With Provenance

During the Casey Anthony trial, I sat on a cushioned seat, like the kind you’d find in a movie theater. The George Zimmerman trial, however, was not the same type of seating arrangement. We sat on uncomfortable hardwood benches the entire time, similar to the ones in an old Quaker church. I needed comfort! I dragged this into the courtroom every day. Many other journalists brought something in for their tushes, too.

This is the actual cushion I sat on during the trial. Here’s your chance to own a piece of American history…

BIDDING STARTS AT $12,000.00

(And I hope you know a parody when you see one, but this is the real cushion. I found it in a closet.)

Once Upon A Time...

Once upon a time, Pudgie the Bear was skipping through the woods when Trigga the Tree Troll stopped him.

“Why are you running in my forest?” Trigga demanded, as one of his giant tree limbs stopped Pudgie dead in his tracks.

“I… I… I have every right to be here,” Pudgie quickly responded. “Why did you stop me?”

“Because these are my trees. You are robbing my forest of flowers, leaves, grass, mushrooms, berries, roots and nuts!”

“No. Not me!!! I like honey!” Pudgie cried, but Trigga wouldn’t relent. The young bear tried to fight his way out, knocking chips of bark all over the place. “I’m going to make compost out of you!”

“No you won’t,” Trigga replied, and just like that, his powerful limb lifted up and came smashing down; knocking the stuffing out of poor Pudgie’s body, sending it flying all over the place. 

§

Attorneys Natalie Jackson, center, Benjamin Crump, center right, and Daryl Parks, far right, representing the family of Trayvon Martin sit stoically as George Zimmerman’s not guilty verdict is read in Seminole circuit court in Sanford, Fla. Saturday, July 13, 2013. Zimmerman was found not guilty in second-degree murder for the 2012 shooting death of Trayvon Martin. (Gary W. Green/Orlando Sentinel/Pool)

After the verdict came last Saturday night and my journey was over, I was tired. From the very first article I wrote; from the very first hearing I attended to the very end, I put in a lot of hours. One of my friends asked me if I would be alright. How would I handle it now that it’s over? Would I be depressed? No, I answered. This is the life of a writer of true crime and courtroom drama. A climbing crescendo, long and winding, coming to a tumultuous climax and compelling completion is what it’s all about. Cut to the end. If we can’t deal with it, we’re in the wrong business. That’s just the way it is. Death becomes a way of life.

By Sunday morning, most of the civilized world that paid attention to the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman trial knew the outcome. All that was left to do was to discuss it, but not me. I needed a break. Throughout, there were multitudes of directions each and every one of us had taken — like a hundred road intersection — converging into a massive mess of a traffic jam. Which one of us had the right of way? I don’t know. I still don’t, although a jury of six women decided for us. Yield! Move on or get run over! I suppose I could write a lot about the verdict, but what’s done is done. To perpetuate the story is, to me, unbearable. I won’t let it dog me. 

The Pavlov’s Dog Affect

From the beginning of the trial — jury selection or voir dire — we were warned by the Court and deputies to turn off all cell phones or set them to vibrate. This included iPads and other tablets and devices. No noises would be tolerated in courtroom 5D. Even Siri became a serious problem. Initially, we were given two strikes — a warning, then an ejection. That changed after the second or third day when (then) Chief Judge Alan A. Dickey changed the rule. It was one of his final orders before leaving his position, which was part of routine circuit rotation. Judge Nelson wanted it to remain two strikes but, instead, it became one, you’re out, although someone in your news organization could replace you; however, if your replacement made a noise, it would be strike two and your outfit would be banished for good — to the media overflow room you go. 

Unfortunately, I heard dings, dongs, boing after beep and ring after cell phone song from the gallery. Out went a few journalists and members of the public, until the rest of us were conditioned to be scared to death. That’s a fact. For the remainder of the trial and days beyond, whenever I heard a digital noise of any kind, no matter where I was, I cringed. If I happened to be in the produce section picking out peppers when a cell phone pinged, I panicked. It was either mine or someone else’s and it meant immediate ejection from the courtroom. I called it PDSD — Post Dramatic Stress Disorder. It took some time, but I finally broke free and now feel safe when my phone barks.

Dog Eat Dog

This wasn’t my first go ‘round in criminal court. I was credentialed during the Casey Anthony trial. When journalists from all over the country and elsewhere began to come together at the courthouse for the Zimmerman trial, it was nice to see familiar faces again. We couldn’t believe it had been two years, but it was. After friendly hellos, hugs and handshakes, it was all business. Of course, there were plenty of new faces, too, from local news stations and major networks, including cable. 

It’s the nature of the business to out-scoop each other, so there’s always a competitive edge. There’s eavesdropping and lots of interruptions while talking to someone involved with the trial, as if their questions for Ben Crump seem more important than the rest. Generally, they’re not, but that’s the way it goes. Don’t get me wrong, most of the media reps are very nice, but there are a few egos that get in the way; more so from producers than from on-air personalities. Like what I discovered during the Anthony case, the more famous the personality, the nicer they seemed, and the more intrigued they were with local news people.

There was an emotional tie inside the courthouse and, most certainly, inside the courtroom. Aside from the actual trial, I mean between journalists. I could clearly sense that, after the strike rule went into effect, plenty of those people sitting on the media side would almost kill to get one more of their own in that opened up seat. They hoped and hoped a cell phone would accidentally go off, although everyone cringed when it did. We all knew it was to be expected. It’s the nature of the beast. Goody! Goody! The problem with me was that there were no replacements. I was the only blogger inside that room with credentials. Some may have resented that fact, but most didn’t. When I was asked who I was with, I proudly said, “Me!” I represented no one but myself.

Throughout jury selection and the trial, that’s the way it was. When the State rested, everyone’s attitude changed. Gone were the vibes that begged for someone’s phone to go off. There was almost a camaraderie among us. The end was near and we all sensed it. Once again, in a matter of days, we would be going our separate ways. Surely, Mark O’Mara and his defense team wouldn’t take long and we knew that, too. How did we know? Because most of us realized the State did not put on a good case. It was a letdown. Is that all there was? They sure didn’t prove anything beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, the defense wouldn’t need to put on much of a show. Besides, they had cross-examined the State witnesses very effectively.

With the last few days of trial at hand, what we had waited for and built up to was going to come down. A verdict was nigh and it would be over. Time to say good bye to those who cared enough. Some just packed up and left. They knew we would meet again at the next big one. Surely, there’s always a Jodi Arias out there to cover.

On the final day, last Saturday, I could feel the electricity in the entire courthouse. The building was supercharged. I asked Rene Stutzman, who covered most of the case for the Orlando Sentinel, if she could feel it, too. “Yes,” she responded. “Absolutely.”

I spoke to one of the administrators on a floor not associated with the trial in any way. She also acknowledged that her coworkers felt it, too. It really cut into their levels of concentration. Of course, some of that could have been attributed to protesters, but they didn’t come until the final three days and, even then, it wasn’t that many. No, this was a powerful trial; one that touched the entire area surrounding the courthouse.

As a final aside, I must say that Judge Nelson was one tough judge. No, I’m not going to humor your thoughts on bias, one way or the other. This has nothing to do with that. Comparing her to Judge Belvin Perry, Jr., Perry was a pussycat. He gave us an hour-and-a-half for lunch each day and there were lots of restaurants in downtown Orlando to choose from. Plenty of time to eat, in other words. Nelson, on the other hand, gave the jury an hour each day and if there happened to be any unfinished court business after they were excused, it cut into our lunch time. That meant less than an hour, generally, with NO restaurants nearby. Well, WaWa. Despite it being cold in the courtroom, I couldn’t bring perishables, so I brought MorningStar Grillers Prime or Chipotle Black Bean veggie burgers on a toasted English muffin. No butter. Plain. I heated them in the lunchroom microwave, where I ate almost every day with a handful of other journalists. Sometimes, we’d talk shop as I nibbled on fresh tomatoes and assorted fruit. Today, there are no more daily events to discuss among my peers, but I am sticking with the diet. Plus salad. Those veggie burgers grew on me, especially the Grillers Prime.

And in the end…

After nearly five years of writing about local murders, I hope nothing else like the last two cases comes along again. In the Zimmerman trial, one must understand the residents of Seminole County in order to grasp the verdict. It is a predominantly conservative Republican county made up of a mostly Caucasian population. Gun rights is an important issue. It is not a racist area, although it used to be many, many years ago, but never as much as the surrounding counties. Ultimately, the jury based its decision on the law and how it’s written; not so much on the absolute innocence of Zimmerman, as if he did nothing wrong. In the eyes of the law, Casey Anthony did not murder her daughter, did she? Or was it, more or less, because the prosecution did not prove its case?  

In the Zimmerman/Martin confrontation, it was the ambiguity of the final moments that cemented the verdict. All you need to do is to look at something else in order to figure it out. Take a DUI (DWI) traffic stop, for instance. If you refuse all tests — field sobriety and breathalyzer — and keep your mouth shut in the back seat of the patrol car, there’s hardly any evidence against you other than the arresting officer’s word. The less evidence a prosecutor has, the less chance of a conviction. That’s what happened here. There just wasn’t enough evidence. Without it, the jury could not convict George Zimmerman — not as presented by Bernie de la Rionda and his team. There wasn’t even enough for a manslaughter conviction, was there?

On the night of February 26, 2012, something horrible took place. Was it poor judgement or bad timing, perhaps? Was it both? Had Martin arrived at the Retreat at Twin Lakes only five minutes earlier, Zimmerman would have gone on to Target. Had Zimmerman only left the Retreat five minutes earlier, Martin would have walked safely home to watch the NBA All-Star Game. Who started it and who ended it can and will be argued about for years to come. I formed my own opinion, but I choose to move on now. A verdict has been rendered. Let the rest of the media hound on it. They get richer and richer off the story and I never made a dime. In the end, trust me, Trayvon Martin did not die for naught.

As for me, what does my future hold? I may re-stuff Pudgie the Bear and write fiction. Yup, you know… Once upon a time, we had characters like the Lone Ranger. In those days, good guys always wore white and bad guys never got away.

George Zimmerman is congratulated by his defense team after being found not guilty, on the 25th day of Zimmerman’s trial at the Seminole County Criminal Justice Center, in Sanford, Fla., Saturday, July 13, 2013. (Joe Burbank/Orlando Sentinel/POOL)

Cross-posted on the DAILY KOS

Do I Deserve To Die Too?

When I was 23-years-old, I was arrested and charged with possession of a CDS and for being drunk and disorderly. I was with a good friend, who was also charged. CDS stands for Controlled Dangerous Substance, and in the mid-70s, that included… shake and shudder… marijuana. Holy catnip! The charges were way more than trumped up, and the arresting officer, Jack Demeo, was later fired from the Delaware Township Police Department in New Jersey and banished from ever being a cop again. Anywhere. He was bad news and a disgrace to all fine, upstanding law enforcement officers the world over. His downfall? He flashed his badge at an Atlantic City casino and asked for gambling favors and free drinks. He said he was from the NJ Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control.

The charges against me were dismissed before the trial began, but during a Motion to Suppress Evidence hearing, Demeo testified that he was professionally trained by the military to sniff out marijuana. Really? All that was found was one stubby, little roach — 2/10 of a gram — at the bottom of my friend’s ashtray. Had we known it was there, we probably would have smoked it that night and gone out for M&Ms. Skittles weren’t around in those days. As Demeo and his fellow officer traipsed us into the station, right across from where I lived in the blinking light town of Sergeantsville, I asked him what we were being charged with…

“Being drunk and disorderly,” he screamed back. Of course, we weren’t drunk and disorderly. My friend was dropping me off at home. We were minding our own business — sound familiar? As a matter of fact, the illegal substance — the killer weed — wasn’t found until we were inside the station and Demeo had a chance to run out to retrieve the vehicle’s ashtray, return, and dump it on his desk. “AHA!” he exclaimed as he sifted through the cigarette butts and held up the overwhelming piece of evidence. “I got you now.” 

Today, the whole experience is a joke, and I’ll be the first person to admit I smoked pot back in the day. But so did several of our presidents. Did they decide to start a war because they were high on ganja? Hmm… according to George Zimmerman’s defense logic, that could be the case. Think about it. George W. Bush. Barack Obama. Former pot smokers and warmongers. Bear in mind, there were no wars under Bill Clinton; not technically, and, in Zimmerman’s favor, Clinton never inhaled the stuff. Perfect evidence! Mark O’Mara and Don West may be onto something but, to be fair, impartial and to add a legal disclaimer, there’s no evidence that any president smoked marijuana while in office.

I haven’t smoked pot in 20 years, but 20 years ago, I was 40. I first smoked it when I was 16. By 17, the age Trayvon Martin was when he was shot and killed, I was a seasoned smoker, sometimes toking before, during, and after high school. I never missed a day of work because of it. 24 years later, I knew a lot about the stuff, although my interest had really waned by then. Mostly, I was a recreational user throughout the years. I was never addicted to it and it led to no other drugs. Today, it’s not considered a “Controlled Dangerous Substance” in most states, and some have even legalized its use. In my opinion, it was never dangerous unless you consider driving under the influence, but it’s nothing like booze. When I smoked pot, it was usually done with my friends, we were too lazy to drive anywhere, and we sat around listening to Moody Blues and Pink Floyd albums eating whatever food we had; like Cheez Doodles and 2-day-old pizza. The munchies. We chilled out. Never, ever, ever did we think about fighting among ourselves or with anyone else. All we cared about was was getting high and not allowing anyone to Bogart that joint.

§

Now, to the matter at hand. In the DEFENDANT’S REPLY TO STATE’S MOTION FOR PROTECTIVE ORDER/MOTION IN LIMINE REGARDING TOXICOLOGY, Donald West argues:

As part of the autopsy protocol, the Medical Examiner submitted Trayvon Martin’s blood for laboratory analysis. Among the findings includes a positive level for THC and its metabolite. The active THC was measured at 1.5 ng/mL whereas the metabolite was measured at 7.3 ng/mL. This level is sufficient to cause some impairment (although it is considered to be less than that required for a DUI arrest) according to the State’s toxicologist, Dr. Bruce Goldberger. […] Dr. Goldberger opined that Trayvon Martin may have used marijuana within a couple of hours of his death or that it could have been longer than that depending on whether Trayvon was a chronic user or an occasional user.

Was I a chronic or occasional marijuana user? You can only have an opinion — depending on how you think. Are you really qualified? If I smoked it last week, would I be too impaired to write this post? Bullshit. Here’s where the reply from West gets stupid, ludicrous and just plain idiotic. Remember, my disgraced arresting officer said he was trained to sniff out marijuana. In his defense, at least he graduated from the police academy and didn’t draw his weapon on me. Zimmerman, on the other hand, never graduated anything beyond high school. (See: Records show George Zimmerman got D’s in criminal justice classes.) The Defense reply continues:

In George Zimmerman’s non-emergency call to the police, he describes the person, later identified as Trayvon Martin, as appearing as though he was “on drugs.” Additionally, on close inspection of Trayvon Martin’s physical appearance at the 7-Eleven, where he was recorded on video within an hour of his death, he “sways” at the counter as if he’s under the influence of some substance. Taken all together, it is likely that Trayvon Martin was under the influence of marijuana at the time of his death and that his thinking and judgment were impaired at least to some degree. This is relevant evidence for the jury to consider when it evaluates Trayvon Martin’s actions that night, and the jury should be allowed to give it whatever weight it believes it should.

What makes Zimmerman and West authorities on drugs? It’s a complete joke! I’m trying to be fair and impartial, but I find this to be totally disgusting and disrespectful. 

Attempting to turn pot into a viable part of Zimmerman’s defense does make me wonder about something. Have O’Mara and West ever smoked the stuff? I mean, both are around my age. A few years younger, actually, but they most certainly grew up during the Hippie pot smoking era of the 60s and early 70s. They were young once, like me. I went to college. To say pot wasn’t on any college or university campus (including theirs) is a huge lie. Did Mark O’Mara and Don West smoke pot? Did it make them feel violent? I want answers. I want the truth. At the same time, West’s reply to the State’s motion is a paradox. If he never smoked pot, he might be inclined to believe it brings on violence. Smoke that war pipe. Yet, on the flip side — and in my opinion — West could have been as high as a kite when he wrote his reply. You can act pretty silly if you smoke too much weed, you know.

Some of you may argue that O’Mara and West are not on trial here. I have no right to ask a question like that. You’re right. But Trayvon Martin is not on trial, either. Obviously, Zimmerman’s defense disagrees and I understand the tact it is taking. They have every legal right to try it, too. I thoroughly disagree, though, and I think any jury would see right through this ploy if it’s allowed to be introduced at trial.

According to the defense team’s “disjointed” argument, I could, quite possibly, deserve to die, just like Trayvon. Zimmerman and West are self-trained to sniff out evil pot users and both have built in “high” detectors. The reply document says so. Yup, and pot smokers are violent offenders, but only in Trayvon’s case. 

More to come…

Also posted on the Daily Kos. Please feel free to comment there. 

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Shooting Up the Truth

I began blogging in 2004. This is an article I published way back on August 8, 2007, a year before I began writing about true crime. What’s interesting about it is that the old saying remains the same — some things never change. The name of the blogger I critiqued does not matter today. We had become very good blogging friends and he was responsible for my initial move from Blogger to WordPress, back in the day when WordPress was by invitation only. Today, my site is on the Squarespace platform, but my original “Marinade Dave” Blogger and WordPress ones are still up and running. Mostly, I use them to link articles here.

In any event, as time went on, I noticed more and more disturbing things about my friend. He embellished an awful lot. So much, so, that I slowly started to distrust him. How could someone so obscure be so famous when no one knows who he is, I wondered? Every claim to fame emanated from his blog and nowhere else. Eventually, I developed a very sour attitude and we had a falling out. The article that finally did it — the final straw — is explained in the post below. I removed the title because there’s no point in drawing attention to him; good or bad. This is exactly how I wrote it over 5 years ago. However, I did make minor word changes, mostly grammatical.

I was intrigued when I read a blogger’s post titled, [EDITED] about two distinct shootings that occurred on opposite sides of the Atlantic, one in Far Rockaway, Queens, NY, and the other in Fulham, a suburban area of West London, England. As I familiarized myself with the story, I found some discrepancies in his version and what actually transpired, and I believe it to be a distortion of the truth. In it, he represented himself as a friend of the Queens victim. How sad that a person would accept offers of sympathy from his unsuspecting audience [blog commenters] over the death of this friend in light of the facts I will relate here. I looked into the Far Rockaway shooting as he described it and found nothing. I talked to professionals working the field, including a detective at the (NYPD) 101st Precinct. I went to news wires and feeds. I tried search engines.

What caught my attention was evident from the start, that he and the victim were friends and the victim had just arrived from Haiti to live the American dream. The blogger didn’t strike me as a person who’s spent much time on that island nation. How did he cultivate this friendship? How did they meet? Queens is not in New Jersey’s back yard, where the blogger is based and works out of his apartment. Neither is Haiti. Something just didn’t click.

Interestingly, with all of the murders in NYC, I was case specific in my query. Rightfully so. I asked about a Haitian immigrant who was shot in the collarbone, based on the blogger’s description of “his friend’s” senseless murder as he sat in a second-floor. The bullet that struck his collarbone careened into the heart, killing him instantly. In reality, the unfortunate gentleman who met his demise in the news account was not a “recent immigrant from Haiti” at all, nor was he shot in the collarbone, unless it somehow worked its way from the eye to the collarbone to the heart. The victim had been living here for years and was from Guyana, not exactly within swimming distance of Haiti. Certainly, he should have known where this “friend” was originally from and how long he’d been here. I kept thinking it’s not the same shooting, they’re not related, but there was no other incident and his story crumbled.

Was this an unprofessional attempt to elicit sympathy for the overall message of his post calling for a worldwide ban on handguns? If so, he should have done more homework and gotten his facts straight. Although weapons of this nature are legal to buy in America, most used in the commission of crimes are not purchased by the book and ‘Saturday Night Specials’ are next to impossible to trace. So are the bullets. He tied this shooting to one in London. Britain has some of the most restrictive laws in the world that make it virtually impossible to legitimately purchase firearms, which means that both crimes were more than likely committed with illegal guns. The attempt to tie the two together was feeble at best, and because of a lack of solid information based on facts, it diluted the focus of the message. He used a falsehood as the pretext to further his own questionable agenda. But was it about the evils of handguns or a cry for sympathy over the loss of a friend?

In the realm of non-fiction writing, in this case what I would consider to be more of an op-ed opinion piece than a news report, authors must not stray from the truth. Embellishment and personal gain are words that should not be part of the vocabulary. The world is filled with distortions and with the tools we have readily available today, all reports of news events will be put under microscopes somewhere, sometime, by someone. Bloggers, especially of this genre, are no different from any other journalist and it’s only a matter of time before a watchdog group scrutinizes and exposes what is recorded as true. Until then, readers beware.

Although I did not know him, my sympathies go to the friends and family of the deceased, Urtez Burnett, and none for the imagination of the author of that post, who was only happy to accept sympathy.

Here is a link to the account of the Far Rockaway incident: Bullet Kills 22-Year-Old As He Looks Out Window

If you or anyone you know has information on this, please call CRIMESTOPPERS at 1-877-577-TIPS or the 101st Precinct Detective Squad at 718-868-3428.

This is an opinion piece about one blog and should be interpreted as such.

Whiskey River and the 3 Marlboro Omelet

This is a piece I wrote almost seven years ago, back in February, 2006, although I did edit it a little. My writing style was a bit rougher around the edges, but my message is as clear today as it was then. Times may change, but are they always for the better, as we move more into a world of political correctness?

§

When I was doing design work for a local printer, we had a film stripper who set up our work to make plates for the presses. He was a really good guy and we got along quite well. I was from New Jersey and he was a Florida native. A lot of people from here have a fair amount of resentment towards people from other parts of the country, especially northerners. If you were from Alabamee or Mississippa, you were OK. The northeast? Eh. Not so much.

Ron and I used to tease each other about northern and southern differences - the Civil War, the South Rising Again! That sort of thing, but it was all done in a good-natured, friendly manner with no implied intent. Whenever he tried to goad me with some Yankee insult, I had a standard reply; one he could not defend, “Well, at least I didn’t have a hangin’ tree in my back yard.”

Ron lived in Apopka, which is a relatively rural town northwest of Orlando. Plenty of the deep south has areas of racial hatred, including parts of Apopka. I’m not trying to single out any community. They’re everywhere, and most of the town is not like that, but there’s a long history steeped in racial bias and, yes, hangin’ trees that should have been chopped down a long time ago. Ain’t been no hangins’ around these here parts in a long time, yet there still exists a small faction of folks who believe the old rules of the deeply segregated south should never and shall never change.

When I moved here in 1981, I found a place in Winter Park called Harrigan’s. My sister used to work there. It’s been gone a long time now, but one of the bartenders ended up buying an established business in downtown Orlando on the corner of Orange Avenue and Pine Street called Tanqueray’s. It used to be part of a bank and housed the vault. You walk down a flight of stairs from street level, step inside, and immediately feel the warmth of the friendly crowd.

Many of the regulars from those days were professionals who worked downtown and stopped in for a drink or two to unwind and socialize. It was known as a hangout for attorneys and it always seemed to be a well mannered, intellectual group. That’s where I met John Morgan, but he has nothing to do with this story. I seldom go downtown anymore, but if I do, I try to stop by, since I’ve known Dan a long time and he always has a few good jokes to tell, plus he’s an all-around great guy.

One time, I dropped by for happy hour. I had to go into the city for some reason and, I figured, why not go see Dan. I took a seat at the bar, near the front door, and we exchanged some friendly banter. The place was quite busy, so we didn’t have much time to talk. Moments after I arrived, some guy was standing to my immediate left. Talk about rough around the edges, he didn’t quite fit in with the rest of that crowd. He ordered a draft beer and said to me, “Yup, I was at Whiskey River at 7 o’clock this morning.”

Whiskey River is a liquor store on S. Orange Blossom trail. It’s certainly not in one of the nicest parts of the city. There are a few scattered around and they have a reputation for catering to hardcore drinkers - the labor pool and unemployment collecting types who live off their pay buying cheap booze and cigarettes. Such was this particular fellow. I have no idea why he chose me out of the crowd to enlighten, but there we were…

“Whiskey River? At 7 AM? So, tell me, what did you have for breakfast?” I asked.

“I had me a 3 Marlboro omelet,” he responded in his gruff, seasoned and rather pickled sounding voice.

“Hmm. Sounds delicious.”

“Yup. It was.” Suddenly, out of the blue, he blurted, “I’m a card carrying member of the KKK.”

“No. No way.”

“Yup.”

I had never met anyone with any sort of affiliation to a white supremacy organization. You know, you always hear stories, but have you ever met anyone like that for real? “OK. Let me see your membership card.”

“Ain’t got one. Don’t need one.”

He didn’t come across as some sort of nasty fellow. He didn’t seem to have gone in there to start trouble. I think he just wanted someone from the “big city” to talk to. Maybe, I looked slick enough. I seem to collect those types, anyway, but I don’t mind. I guess I have a friendly demeanor that people pick up on.

After telling me he lived in the outskirts of Apopka, I thought to myself, why not give the guy a chance to speak his mind. I would try to rationalize everything he says and come back with an appropriate response. I asked him how he could feel this way and have so much hatred inside?

“They’re animals. Damn n*ggers are monkeys.” I think he really wanted to test me, yet I sensed sincerity in his statement and a certain curiosity on his own part, like he was questioning his own tenets; the ones he was most likely raised on.

“Animals? What if you had sex with a monkey, could you get her pregnant?”

“Nah, of course not. That’s stupid.”

“What if you had sex with a black woman, could you get her pregnant?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, what you are accepting is that if black people are animals and you could get that type of animal pregnant, then you are a monkey, too. You are an animal. We’re ALL animals.” He had no smart answer.

With every racist claim he made, I had a response. At one point, I asked him, “What if you were in a horrible accident and needed a blood transfusion and found out later you now have the blood of a black man inside. A BLACK MAN. A NEGRO. AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN. What would you do? Would you try to return it? Would you tell your card carrying KKK members that you are now tainted with the blood of an animal? Would they hang you from the highest tree?”

No responses to my queries made much sense. He didn’t necessarily agree with me, but I could tell he was grasping, if not absorbing, everything we were discussing. He really was trying to understand the other side. I brought up the “be they yellow, black or white, they are precious in his sight” song from Sunday School days of my youth. He knew the song, but many southern racists are born into religious families that adhere to odd and distorted interpretations of the Bible, as if Jesus was lily-white and black folk dangled from olive trees.

I asked him about black heroes who had saved plenty of white hide during the war, World War II in this case. A lot of us wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for good ol’ blackie.

The conversation had taken on a kind of flow. It was never a heated exchange and we showed each other respect. I couldn’t judge him for his status in life, but I surely did question his morals and prejudices with a vengeance. Our discussion began to wind down without ever really unwinding. The conversation had just taken its natural course. At the end, I had one final question to ask.

“What if we were on a deserted island — just you, me and a really good looking black woman…” Suddenly, the door opened up and a group of very good looking women sauntered in, one of whom was black. “HER!” I exclaimed, looking right at her. She didn’t see or hear a thing. “What if it was just you, her and me?”

“I’d kill YOU, not HER. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” I knew what he meant. Sex. Ain’t no way this dude was gonna go for me, Deliverance-style.

“You mean to tell me you’d kill a white man to save a black woman? Wait a minute. Doesn’t this go against your entire credo? People you’ve hated all your life? What would the KKK say about that? Kill a WHITE to save a BLACK?”

“You’re confusing me, man, you’re confusing me!” Aha! Gotcha, I thought to myself. “You know, you’re right.” he continued, “Yup, you are, but I’ll never tell my friends about it. I can’t. They’re my friends and they’d kill me.”

I guess I felt some satisfaction in thinking I had gotten through to the guy, but did I really? He had listened to enough, I reckon, and I’ll never know for sure.

“Thanks for the talk. Gotta go.” And off he went.

What surprised me the most was that the patrons sitting at the bar had listened intently to our conversation, unbeknownst to me. After the guy walked out the door and it shut behind him, they broke into a loud applause. They, too, thought that, maybe, just maybe, I had gotten through to him. Perhaps, I did, but that was then…

Occasionally, I think about him — the KKK man who sucks Marlboros for breakfast — the guy who returned to the hangin’ trees that only sway in the wind these days; back to the recollections of fiery crosses from days gone by. I hope and pray those days will one day be burned from all of our memories forever and that warm southern breezes of kinship will sweep through the minds of people like him everywhere. Gone with the wind.

We can still have a dream, can’t we?

Taking the Taaffe Tour at Twin Lakes

Right from the start, some of my closest friends have been quite ardent about George Zimmerman’s innocence. This opinion, of course, comes from their own beliefs on gun control and Second Amendment rights, with (perhaps) a sprinkle of racism thrown in. I don’t believe my friends are racist, though, and there’s no way to prove otherwise unless they come right out and say so. And they won’t. Just like George. And I guess it’s more convenient to believe a guy who can speak instead of a dead boy who cannot. Take the easy path and stick with the crowd.

That’s part of what this post is about. Could Trayvon have taken an easier path home that night? I’ll get to that.

Like I was saying, there are two sides of the coin and I would NEVER assume any of my friends are racist just because they believe Zimmerman’s account of events, despite his ever-changing stories. Was Trayvon running or skipping? It doesn’t matter. It was George Zimmerman’s God-given right to defend himself. Yeah, well, it was Trayvon’s, too.

I have plenty of friends who feel the exact opposite about Zimmerman; that he stalked and murdered Trayvon, and they are quite adamant in their belief, too. Simply stated, odds are, you’ll find more white male Republicans in support of George than you would white female and black male/female Democrats, and that’s just the way the cards fall. Will last week’s mass murder of first grade school children, teachers and an administrator, not to mention the killer’s own mother, have any effect on the way we think about guns? Will it soften any of Zimmerman’s fans?

I doubt it. Besides, buying an assault rifle is about as simple as buying a pack of cigarettes. Same day service. When will that ever change?

But getting back to racism and all, my friends are still my friends and I’m always eager to make new ones. Recently, I had an opportunity to talk to Frank Taaffe at some of the hearings. We chatted about different things like his DUI and the recent death of his son. Now, no matter what you think about him, his DUI was dropped and his son was still his son. You should also understand that meeting people in person and getting to know them doesn’t always match the persona they exude on the TV screen. Believe what you want, but my perception of Frank is different than yours. I’ll leave it at that.

Since the fall of the housing market, prices of units have dropped an astounding 67% inside the Retreat at Twin Lakes according to Frank. Homes that sold for $250,000 six years ago are now sitting in the low $100s. (See source) Foreclosures are not uncommon. Crime has increased. The pattern is not unusual here, but as sellers move, with no buyers in sight, plus the foreclosures, renters move in and the once private community moves closer to looking like an apartment complex than anything else. From what I could tell, people living there seem to keep a watch on things, but not always. For instance, prior to the shooting, there were 11 burglaries in 15 months. In the past 4 months, there have been 5, including two last week. In one case, it was the second time the occupant’s house was broken into. In August, he was robbed of a 60” television. This time, it was 4 family laptops, Frank said. 

Across the street from the recent burglaries, his neighbor was broken into, too, and a 56” television was stolen IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. Along with the TV, a Glock 9mm pistol was taken. This is another reason why guns should remain under lock and key, especially if the owner is out.

There have been several drug busts for heroin and cocaine, too, and it’s never pleasant when a SWAT team comes banging down doors only a few houses away from you. More than once. That’s what Frank faced.

This is all very exasperating and I can understand why community morale has dropped. Crime is rampant everywhere, of course, but we tend to remain focused on our own little world, wherever that may be. That’s why I completely understand a guy like Frank Taaffe. By saying I understand him, I’m not saying I completely agree with him. Of late, the break-ins at the Retreat at Twin Lakes seem to be taking place during daylight hours. While Taaffe concludes they are perpetuated (specifically) by “young BLACK males,” emphasis his, with no witnesses in sight, there’s no way to verify these claims. Therefore, it is baseless to mention color, but I can understand his frustration and that of his neighbors.

Inside that gated cluster are people who care about their homes and the quality of life there. They want a safe community, like everyone else. But is crime really higher there than it is in any other gated community in the Sanford area? It depends on who you ask and who is doing the talking. According to Crimestoppers, there were two burglaries inside the Retreat — one on Dec 12 and one the following day, both between 3:00 and 7:00 PM. During that same time frame, date-wise, there were a total of 33 crimes committed in Sanford. Since August, there were five burglaries inside the Retreat, just like Frank said, plus an assault, a theft/larceny, and two fraud cases. We’re not talking about a large development, folks, and I found no similarly gated community with matching crime rates during the August through December period. Non-gated? Different story.

§

Following is a video shot from inside the Retreat at Twin Lakes, with Frank Taaffe as the guide. What you gather from it is up to you, but he was a very gracious host. While he explains a shorter, more convenient path Trayvon could have taken to get to his location, you can judge for yourself. Included in the video is a map, which is also found embedded below the video, on this post.

One other item, if I may… I have a thing or two to say on the matter of race. Whether we are yellow, red, black or white, there is only one race. Period. We may have ethnicities, but we are all part of the human race. If we were ever attacked by creatures from outer space, how quickly we’d realize that; and consider this the next time a friend or loved one is in need of a blood transfusion. Would anyone really care who donated it in a life or death situation? That’s the black and white question du jour.

Interested in another point of view? Please listen to DeeDee’s interview with Bernie de la Rionda, taken on April 2, 2012.

No Way, Jose, By George!

I shot a video with Frank Taaffe soon after the hearing ended Tuesday. I know, I know - he is a controversial character who draws admiration from some and disdain from others, but he had something interesting to say, so please hear him out. It pertains to Jose Baez; no stranger to controversy himself.

I do want to say something about the hearing, though. Aside from matters dealing with discovery, voice identification, witness testimony and depositions, the most important thing to come out of it was the judge’s order pertaining to two defense motions in particular. One was the MOTION TO MODIFY CONDITIONS OF RELEASE, a 74-page whopper that ultimately went nowhere, and the other was the MOTION FOR CLARIFICATION OF ORDER SETTING BAIL, that also failed to budge the judge. After hearing arguments from both sides, she promptly denied the motions without further explanation.

Did it surprise me? Yes and no. I expected a denial, but I didn’t think the decision would come so quickly. However, the bottom line is that George Zimmerman lied about his second passport and he lied about the money he had in the bank when he talked to his wife in code while in jail, and when he sat silent in the courtroom as she lied in open court. While Mark O’Mara, his defense attorney, respectfully told the court that his client has complied with all court orders, I thought about what Zimmerman was supposed to do other than follow the letter of the law. That’s what any person under court order is supposed to do; it goes with the territory, so what makes him special?

O’Mara argued that evidence now surfacing completely exonerates his client of any crime. OK, fine, but save it for another day — the day George Zimmerman stands trial for the murder of Trayvon Martin. This was a day to prove his reliability; that you could trust George no matter where he is. Like he’s paid his dues. Well, he hasn’t paid his dues and he deserves nothing more than anyone else under the same conditions. He should not be pampered.

Also, O’Mara tried his best to rewrite history and turn Zimmerman into the real victim; a victim of racism. Baloney. If that’s the case, then the best place for him to be would be within the confines of beautiful Seminole County, 345 square miles of frolicking fun; safely tucked away, instead of roaming the countryside and risk being caught by all those delusional mobs of black monsters out to get him. Thank God they don’t exist in Seminole County.

§

Since the hearing, news has surfaced that (then) Sanford police detective Chris Serino made many revisions to the police report before he submitted it to State Attorney Norm Wolfinger’s office. Serino was the lead detective on the case and in his initial report, he recommended that Zimmerman be charged with second-degree murder. After several revisions he settled on manslaughter. All of this was done within a five-hour period.

In the end, the general consensus of the Sanford Police Department was to write a recommendation — any recommendation — and pass the buck up to the State Attorney’s Office. Pressure on the police department from national civil rights groups was mounting, and they wanted it out of their hands.

But will this revelation hurt the prosecution and help the defense? In my opinion, it shows a department in disarray. Several Sanford police officers have already come out in favor of Zimmerman, so in this sense, it may help the defense, but the big problem facing them is that the State doesn’t need Sanford. They’ve got much larger support in the FDLE, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Their guns are much bigger than Sanford’s, and that’s the agency that did the brunt of the investigation that led to the charge against Zimmerman. Bernie de la Rionda will be relying on FDLE, and it might be necessary to debunk the Sanford Police Department for running a slipshod organization that couldn’t make up their minds on anything. Heck, their police chief was fired over the mess, but in my opinion, he was more of a fall guy. So much for that. I don’t expect this new story to have much of an impact either way.

Here is the interesting video interview with Frank Taaffe. Also, he invited me up to the Retreat, which I accepted, and gave me the 50 cent tour; well worth the price. That will be unfolded in my next post.

 Cross posted at the Daily Kos

Watch Me on ID Investigation Discovery Tonight

 Tonight at 9:00 PM EST, I will appear on the nationally broadcast program Motives & Murders: Cracking the Case | Not Again on ID - Investigation Discovery.

In 1997, Carla Larson was murdered near Disney property, where she worked as an engineer for a construction company. Her husband became an immediate suspect in the public’s eyes (not to mention law enforcement) because of his lack of emotion when interviewed on local television stations. He was downright indifferent. However, there was much more to the story, so please watch tonight to find out why…

From the ID Website:

When Carla Larson leaves work to grab lunch, she never returns. The all-American wife and mother is discovered naked and strangled to death in a nearby swamp. The investigation stalls…until a random love triangle provides a clue to finding her killer.

§

I will be featured on this program because of a two-part series I wrote and published on September 5 & September 8, 2010:

When karma strikes twice

Slowly, the wiles of justice churn

Motives & Murders: Cracking the Case will appear on the Investigation Discovery channel on Saturday night, December 8, at 9:00 PM EST. It will be repeated at midnight, at 4:00 AM, and Sunday afternoon at 5:00 PM. You can find out if your TV Service Provider carries the channel by clicking HERE and typing in your information. 

Newly elected State Attorney Jeff Ashton was also interviewed, along with Carla’s husband, Jim Larson. The interview took place in June of this year.

I don’t know how much I’ll figure into the program, but I do know about cutting room floors. In any event, it should be a very good show because I remember the crime so well. Please take a little time to read my two posts to familiarize yourself with the case.

Retreat at Twin Lakes Walk Through, Part Two

One month ago, I presented a video walk-through of The Retreat at Twin Lakes from George Zimmerman’s perspective — from the moment he stepped out of his vehicle to the time he says he was punched in the face by Trayvon Martin. 

This is part two of that video. It explores the fateful night of February 26 from Trayvon’s point of view. How accurate is it? I don’t know, but it should help you to better understand the area and the path the young man may have taken.

I received several e-mails from people; each with their unique requests for footage. I wish I could have accommodated you all, but I couldn’t. What I can tell you is that, as of today, two fences are erected along the northwest side of the complex, running south from Oregon Avenue and parallel to the western edge that keep people from entering the way Trayvon allegedly did as described by Zimmerman. There is a locked pedestrian entry alongside the main gate, so there is no reason to access the Retreat from anywhere else, other than the southeast gate. Also, clubhouse parking is restricted to tenants that are using the facility at the time, including the community pool. There is a street sign at the intersection of Retreat View Circle and Twin Trees Lane upon entering from the north, off Oregon Avenue. It is located atop the stop sign on the same corner as the clubhouse. Look for it in the video. It’s interesting to note that Zimmerman could not remember the name of the street, Twin Trees, nor did he notice those signs.

If you have any questions or thoughts, please add them in comments or e-mail me by using the “Contact Me” form located on the lower left sidebar. I hope you enjoy the music…

Also posted on the Daily Kos

Motives and Murders: Cracking the Case

When Carla Larson leaves work to grab lunch, she never returns. The all-American wife and mother is discovered naked and strangled to death in a nearby swamp. The investigation stalls…until a random love triangle provides a clue to finding her killer.

I will be featured on this program because of a two-part series I wrote and published on September 5 & September 8, 2010:

When karma strikes twice

Slowly, the wiles of justice churn

The program will appear on the Investigation Discovery channel on Saturday night, December 8, at 9:00 PM EST. It will be repeated at midnight, at 4:00 AM, and Sunday afternoon at 5:00 PM. You can find out if your TV Service Provider carries the channel by clicking HERE and typing in your information. 

Newly elected State Attorney Jeff Ashton was also interviewed, along with Carla’s husband, Jim Larson. The interview took place in June of this year.

I don’t know how much I’ll figure into the program, but I do know about cutting room floors. In any event, it should be a very good show because I remember the crime so well. Please take a little time to read my two posts to familiarize yourself with the case.

Thank you,

Dave

Retreat at Twin Lakes Walk Through

Just like the title says, this is a video shot at the Retreat at Twin Lakes, including some bonus footage. The video is a little pixellated. I think the camera and video editing resolutions and frame rates are different. I may try to fix it and upload it again… 

After viewing the video, simple questions arose. The evening of February 26, 2012 was cold, rainy and wet. It was a dreary night. Why would anyone get out of their vehicle to search for an address that no one asked for? Why get out of the vehicle at all? Addresses were quite visible all around. Wouldn’t driving to the other side have been much more convenient? And drier? In my opinion, this only leads to one thing — searching for a suspect on foot. George Zimmerman never looked for an address. He was stalking his victim.

Cross posted on the Daily Kos

The Calm After the Storm

 I grew up in New Jersey. I still have a few relatives and many friends living there that I keep in touch with. Hurricane Sandy really concerned me, so, this morning, when I found out that everyone I know survived the mess safe and sound, I was quite relieved. Yes, there are massive power outages and downed trees all over the northeast, but no one I know was hurt. As of this writing, 89% of the population of Hunterdon County, where I was born and raised, is without electricity. Thank goodness for gas stoves, although not everyone has them.

Speaking of stoves, I spent eleven years in the restaurant business in the Garden State. I, quite literally, worked my way up from sweeping floors and dumping trash to, what my old boss once told me, becoming the best manager he ever had, and I did it in record time. I took great pride in that due to one thing; one person. I had the utmost respect for my boss, Jack Little, and I still do. He was the best boss a person could ever have and he helped raise me, whether he knew it or not. If I was his best manager, it was because of what he taught me as an employer, a father figure, and a decent and honest human being. It was the respect he showed others that was instilled in me. And from him, I learned how to be as cool as a cucumber under fire. Don’t panic! Think fast on your feet.

Inherent in any business, in order to be successful, is customer service. That’s the single most important factor, especially in a restaurant, where a customer wants to walk into a clean place, filled with smiling faces eager to serve you. It’s one of the cardinal rules of the service industry; service with a smile — and what you serve had better be just as good.

I was much younger then and it was not unusual for me to put in 80-hour workweeks; nominally, 60. I was quite sharp in those days, too. There was a time — I kid you not — that a series of events (call them major breakdowns) hit me all at once and I had to render split-second decisions. In the middle of a lunch rush, of all times, a deep fryer stopped working, a toilet overflowed, a customer complained that their order wasn’t prepared right, and two of the front counter girls decided it was the proper time to pick a fight with each other. Yup, in front of hungry customers, anxious to get their food and go back to work; customers who couldn’t care less about Debbie and Sue, nor their boneheaded boyfriends and who they flirted with.

From Jack, I learned how to work under pressure — how to deal with the daily events in the life of a restaurateur. Find ‘em and fix ‘em fast. He also taught me how to deal with people at all levels. After all, that’s what customer service really is, but it doesn’t stop there. It also includes the interaction between employees. How can a business run smoothly if there are underlying problems?

On that particular day, I called each girl to the back room, one at a time. By taking them out of the argument, I accomplished the first thing; they couldn’t fight. I told them that if I heard another word, I would fire them on the spot and handle the lunch rush without them. I had other boys and girls working at the time and we’d just have to work harder. Most importantly, they would be out of a job and I stressed that a thousand other kids were banging at my back door begging for work. Yes, they were kids.

“But, but, but,” they tried to explain in their whiny voices, “Debbie did this” and “Sue did that” and each boyfriend was somehow involved. I didn’t want to hear about it. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said, “but this is not the time or place. Customers don’t want to listen to your petty fights, do they?”

Basically, all it took was a minute to talk to each of them alone and things quickly settled down. I had learned a long time ago not to take sides, too. That was most important. NEVER TAKE SIDES because, in the end, I would be the only loser. And darned if it wasn’t the truth. After the lunch rush was over and things got cleaned up, wouldn’t you just know those two girls had already patched things up? There they were, taking their lunch break together, sitting at one of the tables and laughing up a storm. It was as if nothing ever happened. Had I taken sides, I would have been the real bonehead and worthy of the title.

§

Since those days, I don’t know what happened. I left the restaurant business in the early 80s. Today, at 60, I’m no longer interested in running a business, nor am I healthy enough to open one, but, somehow, I seemed to have lost that touch. While I still know a thing or two about customer service, something is amok on my blog and only I am to blame for not keeping it under control. No one else. Understandably, I must grab the bull by the horns. Right now.

As with any business that deals with the public, it’s the meet and greet people who make your business successful. While management works diligently behind the scenes, it’s the front counter people that make and break a business. While I was all about hands-on management, I couldn’t do it all. No one can.

I understood, and still do, that I could serve the best hamburger in the business, but all it would have taken was a couple of employees to throw it all away; not by being mean to customers, but by what the customers saw and heard coming from the front counter. If I walked in off the street, I wouldn’t care if you’ve got the best burger on the planet. By running a sloppy ship, I would wonder if your kitchen was just as messy, and I seriously doubt I’d want to come back, let alone order anything. Do you wash your hands?

While no one on my blog is an employee and readers are not customers, please remember that half of Marinade Dave is what I write and the other half is what commenters have to say. That’s the entire menu – the recipe for success and it’s the beauty of blogging. Failure is not an option.

I realize that tomorrow is Halloween, but coming here should not be a frightening experience. I want more readers! I want more comments! I don’t want people to be afraid of anything. While I would never expect everyone to agree with one another, let alone what I write, hiding behind the mask of anonymity does not give anyone a right to be uncivil. Be nice to each other. I realize that many years of writing comments about the Casey Anthony case (and now this one) has hardened us. Today is the day to wipe our slates clean! At least, on this blog, because it’s all that’s left to do. Please believe me when I say this…

Marinade Dave is not the name of a hurricane and now is the time for calm after the storm. I refuse to write if it ends in a fight. We are a team and that means all of us!

Holstering a Lie

 

Frantically, White-Hispanic Man fought for his life, screaming, kicking and shimmying, as the mighty monster, Big Black Gangsta Boy, grabbed the gun from its holster, nestled along the right backside of our legendary hero, George ZZZIMMERMAN. Tossing and turning they went, as Trayvon Martin, gripping George’s head with both hands, smashed it over and over and over against the sidewalk pavement, in what must have been at least one-hundred times. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! People on-scene heard the muted sounds of breaking eggs. Trayvon was better than the best Ninja fighter, everyone later described, as he took his third and fourth hands and covered George’s nose and mouth. Good thing he was still able to blow those desperate cries for help out his rear end. Better yet that, as Trayvon held onto George’s arms with his fifth and sixth hands while grappling for the deadly gun with his seventh, super-duper ZZZimmerman was able to break his arms free from the gangsta’s vice-like grasp and pry the gun away in the nick of time, single-handedly taking precise aim and firing it directly into our enemy’s rapidly beating heart. POP!

Yes, God was on our mighty hero’s side that night because, Trayvon, who stood 5-feet taller and 300 lbs. heavier than the demure, yet pudgy George, ended up losing the war after knocking the man 40-feet south with one single blow. KAPOW! Through the air ZZZimmerman went, in the opposite direction, too, as the young teenage Trayvon, with one giant leap, landed viciously on top of his stunned target, like a lion lands on its prey.

HA! HA! HA! PFFFT…

That’s the way some people like to describe the way it happened, but in reality, it didn’t. As a matter of fact, I believe the gun’s recoil hit George in the face, not Trayvon’s fist, but speaking of blows…

In a huge blow to the defense, forensic tests made public today show that Trayvon’s DNA WAS NOT found on George’s gun. The only DNA that could be identified was George’s. That means Trayvon NEVER touched the gun. PERIOD. Or you can buy into the Zimmerman spin on it, I’m sure, and excuse it this way: Just because it’s not on the gun means nothing. George’s super-clean DNA wiped off dirty Trayvon’s. George’s is much more powerful. Besides, Trayvon was just “going” for the gun. George stopped him from ever touching it. Our hero! End of story.

Sure.

Just remember that, in a court of law, evidence that’s not evidence is no evidence at all. That means the DNA found on the gun is real evidence. George’s DNA. The DNA that wasn’t, isn’t. Get it? The lack of Trayvon’s DNA on the gun will do nothing to help the defense. It may, however, be argued earnestly on pro-Zimmerman blogs and forums, but that’s it. Call it damage control. My advice is to ignore them. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement tested samples from the gun’s grip. Just George. No one else, and with more tests performed on other parts of the gun and holster, technicians were only able to positively identify that he had control of it. Was George too fast on the draw for Trayvon to try to defend himself?

Does that mean Trayvon never fought for the gun? Does anyone really believe he had a seventh hand? How about a third?

I rest my case.

Links:

Case Part 5: Gorgone FDLE Complete Report

FDLE Reports R

GZ State’s 7th Supplemental Discovery (Redacted)

Cross-Posted at Daily Kos

A Portrait of War

There isn’t a day that goes by when the thundering echoes of war escape us. Today, we live in a world rife with radical extremists, defiantly justified to maim and kill in the name of their god. The following story is my hideous wake-up call. It came at a time when wars were fought over more mundane causes - patriotism, democracy, communism, bigotry and territorial rights. This was back when building a bigger and more powerful bomb was all the rage, and nations proudly strutted their massive hardware in a show of strength and unity in order to intimidate their neighbors and enemies. Today, our enemies just strap a bomb to their chest and blow themselves up.

On a distant morning in 1967, one of my classmates was quietly asked to get up from his desk and follow the administrator out of the classroom. I remember that day and wondering why. Did he do something wrong? It didn’t take very long before the school principal announced on the P.A. system that his cousin, Van Dyke Manners, was killed in action in Vietnam. He was one of the first from Hunterdon County, New Jersey to die in the line of duty. I didn’t know him personally, but I remember it well because it was a solemn day. My friend had lost a loved one. Greg did not come back to class that week. To a 14-year-old, those echoes of war were a distant sound that lightly flickered in our young minds. We never thought of death then. We were invincible, but with each passing day, the reverberation grew louder and louder, and reality hit us fast and hard. The Vietnam War was in full boom.

Back then, what was going on in our own back yards seemed more important than anything else, but the Vietnam war was lurking out there. Despite our youthful dreams and aspirations, the war never escaped us. We saw it on our black & white televisions. We heard it on our AM radios. It made headlines in the daily newspapers. Everywhere we went, the specter loomed large and it cut deeply into our subconscious minds.

Early in 1968, a girl who lived up the street from me asked if I would be interested in creating a portrait of her boyfriend. Back in those days, a small town was just that. Windows were left open because air conditioning was a luxury. We weren’t afraid to leave our doors unlocked, and neighbors knew all the gossip. I was known as the left-handed artistic kid. Ask Dave. He knows how to draw.

She was a little older than me, and her boyfriend had enlisted in the Army. She offered to pay me and I accepted. I asked her to round up whatever photographs she could so I had something to work with. I asked her if I could meet him. To an artist, it’s good to know something about a subject that photographs can’t tell you. Because of that request, I got to know Mike Baldwin. At 21, he was a man. At 15, I was not. He was old and mature. I was still a kid. He shaved, I didn’t. With a war going on, I was in no hurry to buy my first razor.

His girlfriend asked me to draw the portrait as big as I could. When I went to the store to buy materials, my old “Be Prepared” Boy Scout lessons taught me to have a back-up plan, so I purchased two poster boards, just in case I messed up. I couldn’t just go to the store back then when I was too young to drive.  Well, I didn’t mess up, so I had a blank sheet and decided to draw another one, identical to the first. Buy one, get one free. I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I’m glad I did. Maybe I thought if the relationship didn’t work out years later, at least he would have one to share with his family. That must have been the reason. Maybe the death of Van Dyke put apprehension in my heart. You know, one for his mother, just in case.

When I finished the drawings, I made a date to deliver the artwork. My neighbor had invited Mike and his mother to “attend” the presentation. Everyone was very pleased with the job I had done, especially his mother, who was honored to have her son’s portrait captured by a local artist.

Soon afterward, he left for Vietnam. He went because he believed in a cause. He believed in America and freedom. In school, we were taught about the Domino Effect. Red China didn’t exist on any of our maps and globes. It was just a grayed out mass of nonexistent land. Call it Peking ‘duck and cover.’ Back then, the Domino Effect was a theory that if one country falls under the influence of communism, then the surrounding countries would follow. North Vietnam was one of those countries. South Vietnam was not. Today, it is one country, but back then, 58,000 red-blooded Americans gave up their lives. Michael Baldwin was one of them.

44 years ago today, he became a statistic. His body was zipped up in a bag and shipped home. That was the day I awoke to the tragedy of war. It was my first real experience with the horrors of conflict and someone I knew was dead because of it. 

One of the things I learned, and it’s very important, was that Michael Baldwin put his country before his life. We lost so many and what did we gain? I know I gained a whole lot of respect for our fellow citizens who march off to war. He was a man and I was a boy back then, but I still look up to him and I am now 42 years older than he was on the day he died. To this very day, I wonder what would life be like had he lived. Would he have married my neighbor or someone else? Would he be bouncing his grandchildren on his knee today? Would he be happy? Or would he be mourning the loss of his children and grandchildren because of our present day wars? The more war changes, the more it remains the same. Death is still death and the loss of loved ones over religion and politics is still just as senseless as it was when Michael Baldwin died.

Today, he would be 67-years-old, soon to be 68. I will remember him as a true American hero; a very proud young man. As for the identical pictures I drew, they are lost and gone but not forgotten. In my mind, the memory of them will forever remain a haunting portrait of war.

Sgt. Michael Richard Baldwin (7/19/1947 - 9/12/1968) KIA - Binh Long Province, South Vietnam, ambushed while on reconnaissance 5 kilometers Northeast of Loc Ninh, along with:
Ssgt. Phillip Kenneth Baker - Detroit, MI
Pfc. Eugene Russell Boyce - Spartanburg, SC
Sp4. Wayne Daniel Jenkins - Bryson City, NC
Pfc. Kenneth Leroy Martin - Los Angeles, CA
Pfc. Marion Luther Oxner - Leesville, SC
Pfc. Dale Arden Palm - Toledo, OH
Pfc. Kurt Francis Ponath - Cudahy, WI
Sp4. J C Williams Jr. - Muncie, IN
Pfc. William Wittman - Binghamton, NY

September 12, 1968, was a long and sad day for Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division.

Pfc. Van Dyke William Manners (11/10/1945 - 2/15/1967) KIA - Kontum Province, South Vietnam

To all our brethren lost in wars, rest in peace. Your deaths will never be in vain.

I first published a different version of this story in 2006. Michael Baldwin’s cousin searched his name on Google and found my blog about a year later. She wrote me and said, “I just found your website and read your article about Mike.  I just wanted to say thank you…  It touched me and helped me remember my cousin very fondly.  He was a good guy and the last of the Baldwin men in our family.  He is remembered fondly by many of my friends who still [live] in Flemington, as well as my family.

“I also wanted to let you know that Aunt Peg didn’t handle Mike’s death very well.  She couldn’t even bring herself to go to the funeral.  I do remember that both she and my Uncle Alvin (Mike’s Dad) did attend the memorial at Ft. Dix after his death.  That was really all she could handle.  She always said she preferred to remember people while they were alive.  I can’t say that I blame her.  I didn’t understand it in 1968, but I get it now.

“Mike left a large impact on me.  The memorial service was really something and I can still remember the 21 gun salute at his funeral in the cemetery in Flemington.”

Mike’s mother passed away in 1993. His sister contacted me right after her cousin got in touch with her. Here is what she told me:

“My cousin called me and told me about your blog.  She had seen Michael’s name in it and read the story.  I read it too and also your reply to her.  I am Mike’s youngest sister.  You made me cry—but it was a good cry.

“My family and I are so pleased that we are not the only one’s who remember Mike.  Looking through your blog and your e-mail to Mary, I found it so interesting that there are so many things we are connected through.

“I go to church at Kirkpatrick Memorial Presbyterian church in Ringoes. Van Dyke’s mother went there before she died a couple of years ago and there is a stained glass window dedicated to him.

“My father worked for the Forans in the foundry they owned in Flemington.  My father was friends with Walt Foran. [My friend Frank’s father.]

“When I read your blog, I could feel that you knew Mike well.  He was a great kid and we loved him.  You talk about my mother—you may not know it but I had a brother who was older than Mike—his name was Alvin—we called him Skip.  He died in a car accident on Sept. 13, 1958.  No, I didn’t confuse the dates, it was one day short of 10 years later that Mike was killed.  It was a blow that my parents never recovered from.

“I am so glad that you wrote about Mike, it makes me feel that we are not the only ones who remember. Thank you again for keeping his memory alive.”

Please see: NJ Vietnam War Memorial - Michael Baldwin

The "Gratest" Show on Earth

I’m in the middle of researching the obvious — whether or not it’s feasible for the Zimmerman camp to file a motion to appeal Judge Lester’s order yesterday, to not recuse himself. I will look deeply into the logistics of such a move, but in the meantime, I want to give my old (and original) blog a shameless plug. Please take a peek. Meanwhile, isn’t this case starting to grate on your nerves?

FROM THE GALLERY…

Who would ever do such a thing?

The Seminole County Courthouse

I decided to take a trip up to the Seminole County courthouse to take a look around. I want to familiarize myself with the building. It’s a lot different from the one I got so used to during the 3 years I covered the Casey Anthony story.

I plan on attending today’s hearing regarding what evidence the public will get to see before the trial. I have a noon doctor appointment and the hearing is slated to start at 1:30.

If the picture quality is poor, it’s because I used my cell phone.

Blackfields & McWhites, Part 1

“FBI may charge George Zimmerman with hate crime”

That was the heading of an online story published at the WFTV Website on Monday, May 14, 2012. WFTV-Channel 9 is the ABC network affiliate located in Orlando. The opening paragraph was very revealing in the sense of what it failed to do. It revealed nothing new or, for that matter, particularly newsworthy.

SANFORD, Fla. —  WFTV has learned charges against George Zimmerman could be getting more serious.

State prosecutors said Zimmerman, a neighborhood watchman, profiled and stalked 17-year-old Trayvon Martin before killing him, so the FBI is now looking into charging him with a hate crime.

What’s so strange about this kind of journalism is that it fuels the fire. It’s called baiting. While starting the article with a leading statement, WFTV has learned, it offers nothing new beyond what we didn’t already know. What, exactly, did WFTV learn, and what does the word could mean, as in the charges could be getting more serious? THAT’S NOT NEWS! IT’S GUESSING! The article later adds a revelation:

FBI investigators are actively questioning witnesses in the retreat at the Twin Lakes neighborhood, seeking evidence for a possible federal hate crime charge.

Of course they are! That goes without saying. If the FBI is investigating any crime, agents from the bureau routinely interview everyone in sight of the crime. And everywhere else, for that matter. The remainder of the story is nothing more than superfluous fluff, a term I last used early in the Casey Anthony case — long before the trial and, quite possibly, while critiquing another WFTV piece. You see, soon after I began writing about Caylee and her mother, I was reminded of how biased the news could really be. In college in the 1970s, I wrote an article, An unbiased look at news slants that explained how it’s done every day. I’ve republished it over the years (with improvements) and it’s an easy read. It describes how simple it is to write a news story in a manner that subtly offers an opinion.

While attending most of the Casey Anthony hearings beginning in October, 2009, I got a lot of advice from many of the local journalists covering the case. They were familiar with me and my work. It wasn’t just advice, though. There were rumblings going on in O’do, the unofficial slang word for Orlando. Was WFTV on State Attorney Lawson Lamar’s payroll or something? I mean, it took me no time at all to see how blatant it was that the station got the jump on stories coming out of the State, and nothing at all from the defense. It was apparent that WFTV was pro-prosecution, in my opinion, and I was far from alone in my thinking.

In many of the posts I wrote before covering the trial for Orlando magazine, I made my assertions clear about bias. How I know I was far from alone in this regard was because of the feedback I garnered from other journalists covering the case. What’s up with that station? I was asked. 

Here’s the deal. I’m not about ready to accuse a television news organization of unfair reporting. You are smart enough to figure it out yourself; but doesn’t it seem like the WFTV headline about charging George Zimmerman with a hate crime is a bit premature and racially baiting? The article contains no meat or any legs to stand on and it only serves to provoke the Trayvon Martin camp of supporters.

I don’t know. Perhaps May 15 was a slow news day around Orlando. It’s interesting to note that the story broke at 4:47 pm, just in time for the 5:00 o’clock news hour, and only one station reported it. Huh. Do you think it has anything to do with ratings?

(By the way, other news outlets reporting on the WFTV story don’t count.)

George, Trayvon and Other Trials and Tribulations

Lately, I’ve been pondering a few things about George Zimmerman and his victim, Trayvon Martin. When I’ve had the time, of course…

The Age Factor

On his February 26 recorded phone call to a Sanford Police Department dispatcher, George Zimmerman described Trayvon Martin as black and in his late teens after being asked. When he took the stand at his bond hearing, he apologized to Trayvon’s mother and father, Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin, and saying that he thought the boy was closer to his own age of 28. That, at best, is a 10-year age discrepancy — a huge difference. What intrigues me the most is that, from a distance, Trayvon looked like a teen; hence the description to the dispatcher. Surely, as the two men approached each other, it should have been even more apparent to Zimmerman that Trayvon was, in fact, a mere teenager, especially moments before the fatal shot was fired. In my opinion, it makes the apology superficial.

Clearly, Trayvon’s age will be a factor during the second-degree murder trial. Why did George contradict his own statement to the dispatcher about the boy’s age while on the stand? How will his defense attorney, Mark O’Mara, explain this faux pas to the jury? This is not an easy math problem to solve with tangents, cosines and mirrors.

Sunset came at 6:23 PM that day. Sixteen minutes later, at 7:09, George called the police. How long had he been tailing the teen in order to decide his approximate age? Certainly, once darkness fell, it should have been more difficult to make any sort of call regarding age, unless enough light was cast from street lamps, but still, it meant a clean enough look to respond to the dispatcher’s query regarding the youth’s age.

What made him tell the dispatcher that Trayvon was in his late teens? Why did he change his tune on the stand?

The Myspace Page From 2005

You can read the page here.

“I love the fact that I can still go back home and crash on my boys couch as if i had never left, I can hit my boy up to handle a lil somethin with my sister and he’s at my house with his boys on bikes before i hang up with her! They do a year and dont ever open thier [sic] mouth to get my ass pinched.”

Is Georgie Boy admitting that his pals do time in jail for him? They never rat him out? What sort of upstanding, law-abiding citizen allows his “friends” to take the blame? A hero?

“Im still free! The ex hoe tried her hardest, but the judge saw through it! Big Mike, reppin the Dverse security makin me look a million bucks, broke her down! Thanks to everyone for checkin up on me! Stay tuned for the A.T.F. charges……”

Ex hoe? How about it ladies?

“I dont miss driving around scared to hit mexicans walkin on the side of the street, soft ass wanna be thugs messin with peoples cars when they aint around (what are you provin, that you can dent a car when no ones watchin) dont make you a man in my book… Workin 96 hours to get a decent pay check, gettin knifes pulled on you by every mexican you run into!”

Does that sound racist? Does it prove anything? Can it be used against him in court?

Here’s what I’m hearing in the hood. Well, it’s not really any kind of hood, mind you. Call it word on the street. Zimmerman was only 21-years-old at the time of this particular Myspace page. What would you expect from a 21-year-old, right? It’s an odd question, though, because Trayvon was only 17 when he died and I’m hearing all sorts of excuses for homeboy Zimmerman acting that way when he was 21, but nothing in favor of Trayvon four years his junior at the time. Why was it OK for Zimmerman to act like a street-punk gangsta at 21, but not OK for Trayvon at 17, if, in fact, he acted that way at all the night he died? You see what I mean? What’s good for the goose should be good for the gander, right? Only this time, it cost a boy his life; hardly punishable by one year in jail, served by one of Joe G’s friends, the name Zimmerman went by on his Myspace page.

Here’s something else to consider. According to the Miami Herald Website, another one of Zimmerman’s Myspace pages under the username “datniggytb” was taken down last month. datniggytb? Huh? Why was it swiftly removed? Any ideas, folks? Could this have been factored into the arrest?

Personal Observations

A lot has been said about the donation site and other support pages set up by Zimmerman’s defense attorney. In my opinion, there is nothing inherently wrong with it. Yes, public funding will save Florida’s taxpayers a ton of money since he can no longer claim his client is indigent. Yes, it is a bit tacky, but there’s no reason why he or anyone else, for that matter, cannot ask for handouts. Ultimately, it’s up to you (and only you) to decide whether to fill his coffers or not, which leads me to…

Life is full of radicals. They come from the far left and right. On the left, there are those who would be very happy to proclaim that a vote against Barack Obama is racist. I’ve heard it myself. Do I believe it? Is there any truth to it? No way! We are a diverse nation, filled with liberals and conservatives, Republicans, Democrats and independents. When it comes to voting, ethnicity no longer plays a role. We vote for who we please.

There are those who believe that a donation to George Zimmerman’s defense fund is truly racist, too. I wholeheartedly disagree. While some of the money might come from white supremacists and bigots — true racists, indeed, there’s more to it than a simple explanation. For sure, Zimmerman’s going to get funds from the NRA, either by the organization itself or its members, and from gun supporters in general. That’s mostly because of “stand your ground” laws in place in several states. And, of course, the Second Amendment; the right to bear arms. This particular aspect has nothing to do with racism. Because the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case is such a complex issue, I don’t think it’s as black and white (pun intended) as a superficial explanation or excuse. It’s much deeper. It could be either/or, or it could be both/and, if you understand my meaning. We must keep our minds open. Not all of Zimmerman’s supporters are white any more than all of Trayvon’s supporters are black. Besides, Zimmerman describes himself as Hispanic/Latino on his old Myspace page. I look beyond his race and see a cop wannabe who grew up reading way too many comic books. Nothing more.

On a more personal note, I have been noticeably absent from my blog. I am not trying to elicit any sympathy or anything, but my father suffered a stroke. He has been in the hospital all week and I have many important family obligations to attend to. My mind is focused on mostly that, plus other very personal things going on in my life. SnoopySleuth has been doing an exemplary job of maintaining my blog and I appreciate it more than she probably knows. All I can do is thank her for her efforts, and thank you for your continued support. I promise, things will loosen up, but it may take a bit of time. Soldier on!

George & Cindy's "Charity" Website Suspended

Someone alerted me to a good-sized development in Caylee’s Fund that should have us all relieved and, possibly, perplexed. It’s been suspended! Why? I don’t know, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with a lack of funding. Purportedly, Dr. Phil paid the non-profit $500,000 to have George and Cindy Anthony appear on his show, but he only acknowledged it was a six-figure amount. Rumors have swirled for months that Casey was paid a whopping $120,000 from the fund, but I cannot show proof of any kind. 

I have said on several occasions that the possibility is real that George and Cindy Anthony made a pact with the devil in order to get their daughter out of jail. By that, I don’t mean literally. It’s a euphimism, unless you think Casey is, in fact, the devil. Just prior to the start of the trial, Cindy and Mark Lippman met privately with Casey’s attorney, Jose Baez. Lippman is George and Cindy’s lawyer. George was not invited to the meeting and this said volumes to me. It meant that Cindy and Lippman were in on the defense strategy to do a character assassination of George — one that began during Baez’s opening statement at trial — or it meant that George was conspicuously absent from the meeting to make it look like he had nothing to do with the made-up story. 

At one of the final hearings before the trial began, I was in the courtroom when Baez asked George on the stand if he would do anything for his daughter. Most of you should remember it, too. George’s reaction? Yes, absolutely, he would do anything, and he was quite vocal about it. When asked if he would lie for Casey, his answer was a resounding YES! 

This signalled (to me) that what most of us had sensed all along was true. The Anthonys were, and remain, natural born liars. With the information gathered from the mouth of George Anthony, he spoke the truth, under oath, that he was willing to do anything to rescue his grandchild’s alleged murderer. Did this include his willingness to be the fall guy? All he had to do was take the bashing because, in the end, no one in the public would believe he ever sexually molested anyone in his family, let alone do any harm to Caylee. Simply put, just deny everything on the stand, which he did, but in the end, it confounded the jury and the plan worked. George came across looking like a liar and a loser — and that’s all the jury had to see to create a semblance of doubt. George looked guilty of something.

Want more? Cindy stated under oath that she made chloroform searches at home on two separate dates, while her bosses at Gentiva Health, Deborah Polisano and John Camperlengo, testified that she couldn’t have because she was at work and logged into her work computer. They also had time cards to prove she was there. Despite their testimony, the defense still managed to muddle the evidence and Casey is free because of it. Job well done, George! Take a bow, Cindy!

There have been other rumors swirling about. A recent one was that Cindy was spotted in a community where Casey had been seen, but once again, I have no proof. The problem I have with this sort of rumor is that no one has produced a photograph of the grieving grandmother, especially when smartphones with cameras are everywhere today. To be succinct, George and Cindy have been conspicuously absent lately. There are no Kodak moments. I say, if the present mimics the past, it could mean that George and Cindy are up to no good. Somewhere.

The person who told me about the website also wondered about the house on Hopespring Drive; that it looks vacant, but of all the visits I’ve made in that neck of the woods, it’s looked empty for a long time, even when I’ve known they were home. Just to be sure, I’ll probably take a ride down there to check it out one of these days, but in the meantime, can anyone explain why the charity site has been suspended? What was it, a misappropriation of funds? Caught red-handed?

Disclaimer: Of course, all of this is pure conjecture on my part. }}}wink wink{{{

ADDENDUM 10:00 PM:

Look here and see that this one has disappeared, too:

CAYLEEMARIEANTHONYFOUNDATION

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

My Trip to Gainesville, Part 3

 CROSS CREEK

Cross Creek was home to Pulitzer Prize winning author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings for 25 years, from 1928 until her death in 1953. It’s an enchanting little hamlet you could easily picture in your head; a picturesque place with a babbling brook and quaint bridge that spans it. There’s none of the clutter you’d expect from a large town — no traffic lights, no horns blaring, and nothing to hear other than the faint sounds of birds cheerfully chirping in nearby trees. Yes, that would be a very good description. It’s a secluded community that epitomizes Old Florida. This year, though, there’s no babble in the brook that separates Orange Lake from Little Lochloosa Lake. A dry winter is to blame. Not long ago, down at th’ crick, you could catch a cooter wit a cane pole.

Of her adopted town, Rawlings often wrote of the harmony between the wind and rain, the sun and seasons, the seeds and, above all else, time. Once you enter Cross Creek, you become a part of its mystique. There’s a feeling of calm that fills the heart and you’re beckoned back to an era of bygone years, listening to Bing Crosby on an RCA Gramophone instead of Kanye West on an iPod; when the country doctor still made house calls and he’d gladly take a freshly baked pecan pie as payment. Those were the days…

Most of Rawlings’ work centered around rural central and north Florida, including Cross Creek, and in 1938, she found immense success with The Yearling, the story of a boy, his pet deer and his relationship with his father. Until it was published, most literary critics considered her to be a regional writer, but she disagreed. There’s more to writing than that. “Don’t make a novel about them unless they have a larger meaning than just quaintness.”

Rawlings grew up in the Brookland section of Washington, DC, and attended the University of Wisconsin, but years of living in Cross Creek transformed her. She felt a profound connection to the area and the land. While the locals were wary at first, they soon warmed up and told stories of their own experiences, which she diligently wrote down in notebook after notebook, along with descriptions of plants and animals, recipes, and examples of southern dialects.

The following 2 pictures are of Rawling’s house.

While doing research for The Yearling, Rawlings went into nearby scrub forests and spent several weeks with a Florida Cracker, hunting, fishing, and going on a couple of bear hunts. She convinced him that she was interested in the old customs, which was the truth. Trust me, you will never win over a Cracker by lying, and you cannot be a cracker unless you was born in the state. Crackers either accept you or they don’t and there ain’t no in between.

According to Elizabeth Silverthorne, who wrote Rawlings’ biography Sojourner at Cross Creek, Rawlings received the acceptance of her neighbors because she learned quickly about their system of morals and values. For instance, neighbors helped pick pecans from her trees in exchange for enough of the crop to last them through the winter. She became interweaved with local folks.

In every small town, you’ll find neighbors who gaze out front windows through cracks in the curtains to see what others in the community are doing. Cross Creek was no different during Rawlings’ time. Interestingly, she based a lot of her fictional characters on people who lived in the town and surrounding areas, and because of it, resentments arose, despite the fact that she never once used anyone’s full name.

Zelma Cason was, at one time, a very close friend of the author’s and her first in Cross Creek.  She was, that is, until she felt the sting of Rawlings’ pen in a portrayal of her in the book Cross Creek:

“Zelma is an ageless spinster resembling an angry and efficient canary. She manages her orange grove and as much of the village a county as needs management or will submit to it. I cannot decide whether she should have been a man or a mother. She combines the more violent characteristics of both and those who ask for or accept her ministrations think nothing at being cursed loudly at the very instant of being tenderly fed, clothed, nursed, or guided through their troubles.”

Cason took offense, so in 1943 she sued Rawlings for $100,000 for invasion of privacy. The trial became a spectacle as the struggle between the right of privacy and free speech ensued in open court, with Cason arguing that Rawlings did not have the right to publish a description of her without permission, and Rawlings countering with free speech. Interestingly, no Florida court had ever heard an invasion of privacy case prior to this one, and laws on libel were too ambiguous in those days. (Florida started its tradition of openness back in 1909 with the passage of Chapter 119 of the Florida Statutes or the Public Records Law.) 

Cason’s attorney, Kate Walton, was one of the first females to represent a client during a time when women weren’t allowed to serve on juries in the state. Sigsby Scruggs was a well-known, crafty, cracker attorney hired by Rawlings, along with Jacksonville attorney Philip May. As much as we watched the Casey Anthony trial unfold during the course of three years, the world’s eyes were on the little Florida town of Cross Creek while WWII raged on. Rawlings’ husband at the time and until her death was Norton Baskin. “I haven’t seen people around here so stirred up about anything since that two-headed calf was born over to Island Grove,” he said. [1]

From The St. Augustine Record, Monday, April 19, 2010:

The trial, held in Gainesville, drew state reporters and noisy crowds. The original trial and the appeals that followed took several years.

In the end it was a “bloody stalemate,” writes Townsend. [Billy Townsend’s great-aunt is the late Kate Walton.]

The jury in Alachua County stood by Rawlings and “laughed Zelma and Aunt Katie and J.V. out of court. It took them 28 minutes to find for Marjorie.”

But in 1947 the Florida Supreme Court overturned the verdict. It “both established the right of privacy exists in Florida and proved that Marjorie invaded Zelma’s privacy in ‘Cross Creek,’” he writes.

But the court limited damages to $1 plus attorney fees. Zelma had been “wronged, but not harmed.”

Cason couldn’t prove she’d suffered mental anguish or that Rawlings acted with malice. Rawlings failed to convince the judges that they were harming an author’s ability to write.

“They both thought they had lost,” Townsend said.

Before they died, Cason and Rawlings became friends of sorts once again.

Cason claimed that the lawyers made her do it. Townsend thinks Cason came to Kate Walton to start the suit rather than lawyers approaching her. But, now, all the people who knew for sure are gone.

As we looked over part of Rawlings’ property, Nika1 informed me that she was supposed to be buried in a different cemetery when she died, but in a twist of irony, there was a mix up and she ended up in the same cemetery as her one-time friend, Zelma, who had bought plots there earlier. When Cason died in 1963, she was buried 50 feet away from Rawlings. Quite literally, they followed each other to their graves. 

It was now after 5:00 pm in Cross Creek, and as the lesson in history wound down and the sun edged closer to the horizon, Nika1 and I realized it was time to eat, and reservations had already been made at The Yearling Restaurant, a stone’s throw from Rawlings’ house. From the outside, the restaurant isn’t anything fancy to look at. As a matter of fact, there’s nothing at all pretentious about it. Looking at it from the front, it doesn’t look very big, either, but once you get inside, it’s almost cavernous. Our host led us to a good-sized back room where, later, two musicians sang and played their instruments. Our waitress for the evening was a delightful young lady named Leslie. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten fried green tomatoes, and there are none finer than what we were served. For entrees, Nika1 ordered fried fish and I got fried gator tail. Yes, you heard that right. I had eaten it before, but none was as tender as this go around.

When you’re inside the restaurant, it’s really a cozy, homey kind of place. It’s precisely what you’d expect in Cross Creek — comfort food, and I must say, the sour orange pie for dessert was fantastic!

While we sat waiting for our food, we talked about the area; not just Cross Creek, but also about Alachua County, including where Nika1 resides. It’s amazing how many people know each other even when they live 20 miles apart. It’s a close-knit community, so when she told me the story about the history of the restaurant and one of the area’s most colorful gentlemen, I found myself captivated by what she was saying. One of her close neighbors was characterized in The Yearling. In the book, he was the crippled boy. In real life, his name is J.T. Glisson, but once you know him, his name is Jake. When the original owners opened the restaurant in 1952, they commissioned Jake to paint a picture of a yearling — one that could have been the one portrayed in the book. He did, and there it hung for 40 years. The original owners closed the restaurant in 1992 and it reopened in 2002 under new ownership. When it closed in 1992, Jake asked if he could get his painting back. The owner honored his request, and today, it proudly hangs in Nika1’s house.

Jake is in his 80s now, but he’s not just a painter, he’s an author; a writer of books. I think there’s something in the air up there in Alachua County. I sense it’s where a lot of creative juices flow, and they once babbled through Cross Creek. The world is a wonderful place, and the legacy of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings lives on. Why? Because she didn’t just write The Yearling, she lived it…

“Enchantment lies in different things for each of us. For me, it is in this: to step out of the bright sunlight into the shade of orange trees; to walk under the arched canopy of their jade like leaves; to see the long aisles of lichened trunks stretch ahead in a geometric rhythm; to feel the mystery of a seclusion that yet has shafts of light striking through it. This is the essence of an ancient and secret magic.”

— Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

(See: The Yearling, a 1946 movie starring Gergory Peck and Jane Wyman)

Next: My Trip to Gainesville, Part 4 — Micanopy, the oldest inland town in Florida.