L.A. Escape

Chapter 1

I’m In Trouble Again!

I awoke slowly. There was no next play. There was no wafting ammonia to push me along. There was no hurry. I felt the pounding, blurry fading in and out as I gradually slipped from the long dark tunnel of unconsciousness. The sensation was not a new one. I had experienced it too often when coming out of a general anaesthetic. The last time that I had experienced it – putting aside the operating table incidents – was in the aftermath of Mr. Head meeting Mr. Ground at a rate of thirty-two feet per second squared. Ouch doesn’t get it done! Then, I was an experienced receiver. If I had been thinking – or even a little more selective – I would have tripped and gone to ground. Safer that way! Instead, I did what I was paid to do. I caught Hyland’s pass as it floated over the middle. Our Q.B., Hyland, also known among players as the weakest arm in the west had racked up more injuries among our receivers than any other team of defensive backs. He held on to the Q.B. position because he married the owner’s daughter two years prior. I could have played it safe. I could have stopped to tie up my shoelaces before returning to the huddle. Muttering sorry was an easy price to pay to avoid cracked ribs or another concussion.

But I was a competitor. I went up for that lame duck pass. My two hundred and ten pounds were vertically extended three feet from the playing field giving the strong safety a perfect target. Their back was a very speedy guy, nick named Killer. That guy hit me so hard that I turned into a large spinning pinwheel through five hundred and forty degrees. Somehow, I held onto the ball, but then everything went black. That was years ago. This time I was older and wiser. Well, certainly older.

As I regained my senses, shaking the cobwebs loose, I was surprised that I had slept at all. Then there was a flash flood recollection of what had happened. That was only a few hours earlier, and it overwhelmed me. I dry heaved. I looked around and remembered where I was. I was in a holding cell in the basement of the Los Angeles Police Department. I started shaking all over again. This was no place for a sane, successful, middle aged man – actually a quite well off tourist from Canada.

It must have been a slow night for the L.A. cops. There were only two other guys in the small puke green holding cell with me. The air was ripe with the stench of alcohol, urine and vomit – possibly some of it mine. The industrial competition for that reeking trio was the pungent wash of ammonia disinfectant. The trio was winning. The smaller black guy sleeping on the wet concrete floor moved slightly and his tongue lolled from his slack mouth. Dried yellowish spit splattered the front of his torn red plaid work shirt. He wore only one beat-up old black work boot. His other foot was bruised and swollen as well as bootless. His faded, worn, and ripped blue jeans were soiled with mud, grass and quite possibly dog shit. Dried blood had crusted in his tight black hair. I recalled him muttering that his name was Virgil when I had been left here. I had thought of the old movie In the Heat of The Night and Mr. Tibbs. This guy was nowhere near Sidney Poitier’s Virgil.

The other guy had been snoring noisily in the foetal position facing the wall when I arrived, and he was still there. From what I had seen of him, he was blond, muscular and tanned and apparently tripping in a different galaxy, or perhaps he was a cop waiting to entrap me. In any case, he didn’t belong here, but then neither did I. His powder blue tailored sport jacket was folded neatly under his head on the wooden bench that was affixed securely to the wall and the floor. The folded sport jacket told me that at some point in time, Blondie had been conscious and conscientious before I arrived which made him, in my mind, a cop rather than a druggie. Or maybe he was into stock fraud. I didn’t really care. I had seen The Lincoln Lawyer and also read the book. I wasn’t planning to say anything to either one of them.

As I sat there with my two unconscious cellmates, the events of the night before continued to flood my brainpan in spastic disjointed flashes – the gunshots, the screams, the blinding lights, the blood, and then all of the confusion and loud noises when the cops arrived. It was all as real in the quiet cell as it had been earlier. My heart pounded and still I shook. I wondered briefly what had happened to Norm and the other guy – what was his name? Were they all right? Norm could take care of himself anywhere. The police had taken us away and had kept us separated. Had I seen either of them when the shooting had stopped? I tried very hard to remember – and then harder to forget!

Virgil stirred uneasily on the floor and rolled slowly and painfully onto his back. He squinted as the bright light securely recessed and caged behind heavy wire mesh into the high ceiling of our cell hit his eyes. Through the following few minutes of moans and groans and mumbled cursing, I watched him with clinical detachment. Finally, he made his way to a sitting position with his back against the wall. He was across the cell from the sleeping surfer cop.

Whachew in fer Jim? the little black guy mumbled groggily as he tried to focus his bloodshot eyes on me while reaching up to probe his scalp with a skinny index finger, and then down to check his swollen ankle.

Murder, I think, I said as I shook hard one last time and watched his stained hand return to his eye level. His scalp wound had opened again when he had probed its crusty surface with his dirty fingers. A dribble of dark blood trickled slowly down his furrowed forehead.

Sheet, murdah. Dat be bah, he muttered as he absently wiped his hand on his jeans while squinting to look at me more closely.

Yeah, I said. I’m going to need a good lawyer. You have any good ideas. I already told them I wouldn’t say anything without a lawyer, but they haven’t let me make a call yet.

Murdah – ya nee ole slippery post – yah goah coin? Virgil asked with a warped smile turning into a small chuckle as his wandering mind recalled some personal humorous memory.

At first, I wasn’t certain Virgil was even speaking English, but as I asked more questions and he answered, his pronunciation and vocabulary started to take on a clearer meaning. Slippery was the popular nickname earned by a very crafty California lawyer of international repute. His true name was Arthur C. Post – hence Slippery Post. The lawyer of similar repute in my home Province of Ontario, Canada was popularly known as Fast Eddy. To get Fast Eddy in your corner was the same as winning your case – or the lottery. For just that reason, you had to have some very serious money to hire him. In some circles, I might be considered reasonably wealthy. I needed Slippery Post on my side because I was in L.A. and I could afford him.

Chapter 2

I Get A Lawyer!

What follows is a selection from the statement I made to my attorney, Mr. Arthur C. Post, following my conversation with Virgil and my arrest for murder in Los Angeles, California. The statement was taken by Ms. Karen Tain, Mr. Post’s legal associate. Ms Tain is a stunning five foot ten inch, blond haired, blue-eyed beauty whose deep Californian tan and former Playboy centre-fold status do nothing to undermine her perceptive and quick intelligence. On this day, she wore a simple single string of pearls and lightweight navy blue and white dress with matching high-heeled shoes – that outfit played off her blue eyes and dark tan with the desired effect sought after by the moneyed class. If I had not been in such a fix, I think I would have drooled – and no one would have blamed me. She was introduced to me as Slippery’s amanuensis and legal associate. I found out later that she was also his nurse, chauffeur and a number of other things that would inevitably and eventually include heiress. Karen Tain was Slippery’s daughter by his second of four wives.

As I was lead, handcuffed and leg shackled, into the police department’s interrogation room, Karen Tain looked up and gave me a quick indifferent visual scan. From that point on, she regarded me with the same attention she might give pond scum – at least until the shooting starTed.

The decor of the interview room at the ultra-modern L.A.P.D. Divisional Headquarters was the same pale apple green I had seen in the basement holding-cell. Wouldn’t want to confuse the prisoners I guess. Its sparse and utilitarian furniture was securely bolted through the dark green and pale grey tiled floor to the concrete sub -floor. While there was a hermetically sealed window running along the exterior wall of the room across from the metal door through which I had been led, I seriously doubted that heavy calibre machine gun bullets would penetrate the ultra-thick safety glass. The central air conditioner noiselessly maintained the entire building at a comfortable temperature. I dismissed the surroundings as being inconsequential to the process.

Mr. Post was attired in an obviously expensive tropical weight, pin striped, charcoal grey suit which hung loosely on his skinny frame as if it had been built for a man twenty or possibly thirty pounds heavier. His white Oxford cloth, button down shirt reinforced the impression of a sudden loss of weight. It was loose around his scrawny neck and too long on his thin arms. His hands barely protruded beyond the starched white cuffs and appeared as gnarled brown mottled claws. Although deeply tanned, the general pall of illness seemed evident from his freckled bald scalp to the end of his scuffed black Rockport loafers. His thin stooped shoulders thrust his head forward on a wattled neck. His tight-lipped mouth moved silently as he stood watching Karen Tain lay out her supplies. The only immediate confirmation I had that this was the incredibly sharp California criminal lawyer, Mr. Slippery Post, the guy I now hoped was a get out of jail free pass, was found in the sharp intelligence of the man’s watery pale blue eyes that moved around mirthlessly until he finally dismissed everything and focused his penetrating glare on me.

The bored guard who looked and moved like a recently retired Federal League lineman removed my handcuffs at Mr. Post’s request and then allowed me to sit on the oak chair across from my lawyer. As he turned to leave the room, he informed Mr. Post and his assistant that he would be right outside the door if they needed him.

It was immediately evident that Slippery was comfortable meeting a potential client in less than favourable circumstances. Without offering his hand, he quickly introduced himself and Karen Tain. She only afforded me a slight nod as she continued to lay out her pens, notebook and voice activated tape recorder and an expensive Vaio laptop. Mr. Post then explained the legal process – one that was not entirely foreign to me – I had watched Lincoln lawyer. He quietly suggested to me that it was best to tell my story without interruption in as much detail as I wanted. As I did this, he assured me that he would make notes and ask me questions for purposes of my defence after I had related the entire episode. Time was not a consideration. After all, I was wealthy enough to purchase the best defence money could buy. He nodded to Karen, who placed a legal contract with stated fees in front of me to sign.

In complying with Slippery’s suggestion that I take my time and relate everything I thought was relevant, I found it necessary to go back to the weeks before I even thought of coming to Los Angeles, California to find that most elusive thing – personal happiness. It seems appropriate that I start there.

What follows is, in fact, a personal blend of the language of official transcripts, recorded interviews and my own recollection of impressions and feelings I experienced during that time when I believed my entire future was held by a thread.

Chapter 3

Go West Young Man – Go West!

I came to Los Angeles to find peace of mind and happiness. Obviously, it seems that I have failed badly on both counts – I ended up in jail. I have learned that life has a number of lessons to teach us – some gentle – some not so gentle. Even though my entire family is dead: father – 38 calibre heart attack, mother – brain cancer and two brothers – Bobby – fatal scuba diving accident and Brian – suicide, I was able to carry on. I once had a wife who I loved and who loved me. We had two beautiful and talented daughters. Without needing one, I had a good job and more money than any person needs. Generally speaking, I am not crude in my speech, however, almost two years ago life kicked me in the guts. That day, I learned to say, Fuck it!

My wife, Mary, was dead. Her car had been forced off the road by a joy riding teenage car thief who had a blood alcohol reading that was off the charts. She had been killed instantly. At first, I plotted how I might be able to get my hands on her killer. I wanted him to pay; I wanted him dead, but not so instantly. For the next few weeks, I was devastated. I could see no purpose in living. I could see no evidence of a loving God. On more than one occasion, I thought about suicide. It was becoming a family tradition. Superficially, I was able to continue to function on automatic pilot or whatever psychological mechanism it is that allows a person to go on living when there seems no reason for it.

My memory of that time consists of only a series of sensations and decisions. Funeral parlour, papers to sign, family to notify, bank accounts, insurance policies, a feeling of desertion and betrayal. At the end of those first terrible weeks, with an apparent restoration to normal routines for the other family members, my only feeling was one of acute desolation. Despite appearances, I was severely depressed. My daughters knew the signs. Finally, they both sat down with me, and together we tried to work out how I could go on.

Both daughters are actually professionally qualified to assist. One is a social worker, the other a psychologist. By any criteria, we have always been a very closely knit family. However, the special bond that my daughters had enjoyed with their mother was closer than it had ever been with me. Until recently, probably because I feel guilty about my father’s life and all the money that I had inherited, I have been involved in municipal politics. With all the evenings at committee and council meetings, I had not been as closely involved with my two daughter’s schooling, their boy-friends, and everything else it takes to grow up and function significantly in society.

About a month after the funeral, there was a particularly bad week when I didn’t go to work, stayed in bed and thought about life and death – mostly death. Then, late in the evening, I got a phone call.

Dad, how are you doing? asked my oldest, Heather, the psychologist.

Not too bad, I lied. How are you?

I could be a lot better. I really miss Mom, she said, Jane and I want to come over and talk with you – how about tomorrow for dinner?

Sounds good, I replied mentally scrambling for an excuse to not follow through. But not here. How about if I meet you at Hot Belly Mama’s at six? It will be my treat.

That bought me some time to build a better excuse. And if I did decide to follow through on the dinner, the thought of preparing and serving a meal at home was more than I could deal with.

The next morning, a sluggish wet snow was falling heavily and thick gunmetal grey clouds were blocking any possible warm sunlight. The local weather forecaster, not always a reliable source, had predicted, apparently correctly, that colder temperatures with snow and occasional high winds would be prevalent through the next few days. Since winter had never been a favourite time of year for me, S.A.D. – Seasonal affective disorder – the diagnosis, the looming prospect of a number of days without seeing the sun added to my feeling of enormous emptiness and despair. I fought the urge to simply put in another day in bed.

In the time that I had gone AWOL from my daily chores, Sean, a slightly mentally challenged eighteen year old kid from up the road, had carried on doing what he did every morning – usually with my help. That morning, with reluctance pounding through every fibre of my body, I was up and off to the barn just after he had started.

Nice to see you again Mr. R, he said with some hesitation. I was certain his mother, a recent convert to some fundamentalist sect of Christianity, had coached him about what to say when he met me again.

Thanks Sean. How are things?

And so it went. We did what we had done for the last number of years. We fed the horses their grain in their stalls, and then, while they ate their oat mix, we shook out two bales of hay in their paddock for them to munch on through the day. Before we turned them out for a part of the day, we filled the heated troughs with fresh water. Sean and I always watched for a few minutes while the horses raced about and met each other all over again. Back in the barn, we mucked out and set up feed for that afternoon. With our two geldings in training at the track and only the three mares and a couple of yearling fillies at home, morning chores didn’t take that long.

See you this afternoon Sean, I said as I left him to finish the sweeping.

Bear, my big German shepherd male had to be played with and fed and left to guard the place while I put in my day teaching English at the local high school. I had taught at Riverview Secondary School for fifteen years. After eight years in pro football, my knees were whipped and teaching school filled the time and got me started in politics. In reality, I didn’t need to teach there, or anywhere else, anymore. My recent inheritance had been in the multi-millions, but old habits are hard to break. I had told my wife that I wanted to become more involved in thoroughbred racing, but that I wasn’t ready to sit and just watch the clouds go by. She agreed. So in spite of our sudden wealth, we both continued to go off to our respective schools each morning and do what we enjoyed. Now, she was gone.

When I arrived on time at Hot Belly Mama’s, I knew that I would have to wait. If an indifference to clocks is an inherited trait, both my daughters had come by it honestly. Their mother had never been bothered by the need for punctuality. I had told her often that it was a good thing that the horses didn’t operate at the track the way she did in her daily affairs. She always pretended to miss the point and respond that I was wrong; I’m not having an affair. But if you kept bugging me about being late, I will. God, how I missed her!

The psychologist, Heather, arrived about three minutes before the social worker, Jane. While they were very close, they were very different. Heather, the older by a year, was the academic. She had loved school, books, and even studying. It wasn’t until her post-graduate studies, when she met her husband, Andrew, a bright but also athletic guy, in an armchair sort of way, that she would stoop to say, How about those Maple Leafs? Now married with two young children and finishing yet another paper on Discourse Analysis, she looked not like a student anymore, but rather like an attractive young professional analyst about to tackle another case study. In a sense she was, and I was it.

Jane had been a very gifted, if reluctant, moody student who had excelled in athletics and men. She had been the rider, the field hockey player, and the breaker of many young hearts. Now married and separated, she worked at the Children’s Aid as a caseworker and abuse investigator. I sometimes felt a compassion for the unknown bureaucratic manager who had to supervise Jane. She hurried into the restaurant and sat down after giving me a peck on the cheek that passed as a kiss.

What’s good? she asked.

We ordered, and while we waited, we talked. It became evident to me fairly quickly that their side of the conversation had been, if not actually scripted and rehearsed, very well planned.

You don’t look too great Dad. You look like you have lost a lot of weight. Are you eating properly? asked Heather.

I guess so. I usually don’t feel like making up too much food, so most of it comes from a can or a box.

So are we munching cereal and a bit of junk stuff pop? Jane asked with a smile.

Yup, with the odd apple or pear – how are you guys doing?

Apparently, better than you dad – you have to take better care of yourself. Are you still working out with the weights and treadmill?

Yeah, not regularly or anything close to it, but I guess some habits are hard to break.

I was grateful when the waiter returned with our orders. The family pattern of not discussing business during a meal remained in-tact. I made a very sincere effort to look interested in my pasta as I pushed it around on my plate while wondering what the rest of their script was going to be. With dessert, came my answer.

"Dad, why don’t you get away for a little while? You