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. 

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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

An Unbiased Look at Media Slants

With the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case continuing to dominate the headlines at times, I’ve noticed that opinions run strong in both camps; those who support Trayvon’s family and those who support the defendant, charged with second-degree murder. This is not an ordinary murder case, either. This one has blood boiling — with gun rights and racism front and center in media outlets around the country and on blogs worldwide.

I originally wrote this article in college, back in the early 70s, with minor tweaking throughout the years. It still applies today…

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 Every day in the news media we are bombarded by reports that lean one way or another. Pro-this, anti-that, so to speak. Very rarely do we read, see or hear any type of news that isn’t slanted. Even your relatives, friends and co-workers have said the coverage of a particular news item was so biased for or against a particular issue, they felt compelled to tell you about it. You may have sat there and thought, “Hey, I saw the same thing, on the same station, and I didn’t feel it was as bad as what they just told me.” 

Of course, each one of us has an opinion on just about everything, and sometimes we run into people who are just so animated over how the news is reported, they seem to lose track of exactly what they heard, saw or read, and, by inflection, they inject their own personal views that create a slant on top of the slanted news. Those who do the reporting tend to be pariahs in the minds of these viewers and they misconstrue what was actually said in the first place. A lot of it has to do with wishful thinking. As is the case now with the late Trayvon Martin, people either support his family’s cause for justice or they despise it with a vengeance, so out of their mouths come some pretty nasty words. Of course, kinder and gentler words come out of some of the boy’s supporters, like being racist if you disagree with them.

A lot of times, someone believes deeply in a cause. Save the Whales! Causes can be twisted into political agendas because conservatives interpret conservation and animal rights organizations and issues as being liberal, for instance. It works both ways, meaning it can be quite convoluted. By that, I mean too many issues can be distorted and twisted into one’s own way of thinking, when, in reality, that should not be the case at all. For instance, Teddy Roosevelt was a Republican president and he is regarded as the founder of environmental conservation in America; a true protector of flora, fauna, and land. Was he a liberal tree hugger? Good question, but for some odd reason, we seem to get confused and downright mean over issues that may or may not impact us, depending on points of view. Just yell GLOBAL WARMING! in a room full of Democrats. Do the same in a room filled with Republicans. You’ll never hear so much passion, along with a heavy dose of bias and self-serving interpretations of science.

Slants take on many forms, not always of a political nature. They can delve into the philosophical or religious views of the presenter, too. They could be based on one’s own experiences. How many movie and restaurant critics have written bad reviews? Clearly, there’s nothing political about them. Maybe you saw that movie and ate at that restaurant and you liked both. Who is right here? You or the critic? Below are three different takes on the same fictitious event. One is a straightforward report and the other two are slants. Each slant will infer something different. Please read between the lines.

(1) A two vehicle accident occurred on Wednesday, at the intersection of Main Street and Vine Avenue, in downtown Podunk around 11 PM. One person did not survive. Dennis Walker, 15, of Ruralville was pronounced dead at the scene. His father Michael Walker, also of Ruralville, was transported to Podunk Medical Center, where he was treated and released. The driver of the other vehicle, Scott Wilson, 22, of Podunk, and his passengers, suffered minor injuries and were treated at the scene. Police said the investigation into the cause of the accident is continuing.

(2) A 15 year old boy died in a two car accident on Wednesday here in Podunk. The accident occurred at the intersection of Main Street and Vine Avenue. Dennis Walker, of Ruralville, was pronounced dead at the scene. His father, Michael Walker, also of Ruralville, was flown by helicopter to the trauma center at Podunk Medical Center. The driver of the other vehicle, Scott Wilson, 22, of Podunk, and his passengers, suffered minor injuries and were treated at the scene. Mr. Walker had just pulled out of the parking lot of the First Baptist Church of Podunk, where he had picked his son up from a Boy Scout meeting. An officer at the scene was quoted as saying, “I can’t say for sure what happened, but empty beer cans and bottles were found in the other vehicle.”

A witness said that the other car had just sped out of Frank’s Tavern, less than two blocks away, and was exceeding the posted speed limit of 35MPH. Blood alcohol levels of the driver have not been released. He was taken into custody and an official report will not be disclosed until the investigation is completed.

(3) An accident which caused the death of one person occurred at the intersection of Main Street and Vine Avenue in Podunk. Dennis Walker, 15, of Ruralville, died at the scene. His father, Michael Walker, also of Ruralville, was transported to Podunk Medical Center. The driver of the other vehicle, Scott Wilson, 22, of Podunk, and his passengers, were treated for minor injuries. There have been many accidents at this intersection over the past 10 years, according to state statistics. A witness at the scene said, “This is ridiculous. We’ve protested to state, county and city officials about this problem for years. We’ve signed petitions. We need a traffic light here now! No one heeds the 4 way stop signs. At least two others have died in the past three years.” An investigation is pending and weather did not seem to be a factor.

Do you see how easy it is to write a slant? You can slant a story any way you want to suit your own opinion and to get your message across. We see, read and hear it every day on the news. It’s not just news outlets, either. Today, the Internet is a bastion of unlimited free speech and there are millions of bloggers around the world who exercise that right — except for China, of course — but it certainly doesn’t mean it’s all straightforward and true. It’s not just bloggers. There are unlimited Web sites dying to sink their fangs into our brains. It’s not just Web sites, either. Governments love to indoctrinate their citizenry. Of course, I could go on and on and on, but I won’t.

You, the reader, watcher and listener, have to distinguish between what is real and what is a twist and even if you agree, it still doesn’t make it true. Or right. Remember that.

Of course, that’s my unbiased opinion.

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?

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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?