Judgment at Twenty Mile Bend: A Palm Beach Crime Story

Chapter 1

Well, well, well there it was. I was back in prison again. The first thing I noticed was how amateurish and primitive the place looked. The next thing I thought of, and actually felt, was how it reeked of death. When you got close to the chair and studied its parts, it began to look ridiculous and pathetic. It sat in the middle of the room with a curtain off to the side. Was this the best they could do?

Focus on something else, I thought. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Well, I guess we don’t. That’s all part of the party.

Speaking of parties, this particular one was by invitation only. Hell, they even had a little special room for their guests complete with barf bags and chairs that looked like some kids built them in woodshop.

Getting here was unnerving. What a shock it was walking through that gauntlet of screaming caged miscreants. I could instantly feel the fear. This was a very dangerous place. I strained to her that female voice that seemed totally out of place above the noise of those screeching inmates yelping like hyenas.

Sir, sir we are experiencing turbulence and I need you to fasten your seatbelt.

I opened my eyes only to see the face of an angel. Oh lord, what a delightful way to be jolted out of my sleep. Damn, I hated flying. I always had, even as a child, but I hated that damn dream even more. But what a beautiful way to come back to reality. Enough of my Old Sparky Raiford State Prison field trip experience with my law school buddies last year.

My first flight was in a MATS transport from Hickam Air Force Base to Travis Air Force Base. The noise was deafening. The vibration was terrifying. From such a start it never got much better.

You see, airplanes are designed, constructed, and maintained by human beings. Therein lies the problem. This means disaster can strike anytime, anywhere, and anyplace. Maintenance workers are underpaid and overworked, and air traffic controllers spend their lives at screens and zone out after about three hours. Then, of course, I worried about pilots who drank, did drugs, and didn’t pay attention to details. Flying is a human enterprise and all human enterprises eventually failed.

Getting past those problems, there was also the weather — and the weather in Florida was always unpredictable. Colossal thunderheads rolled in every day somewhere and this day was no different. So there I was on the second leg of my flight from Tallahassee to West Palm, somewhere over north Georgia — yes, north Georgia, because the only way to get from Tallahassee to West Palm was through Atlanta.

I always started early because usually the weather was better and there was less delay, but not this time. Now I wasn’t blaming Southeastern Airlines, they were as good as you could get. But did they really have to take off directly into that angry black undulating morning sky?

My only saving grace was that the cabin was half full. I was up front in 3A, and as usual, I had the row to myself.

I got the window seat and was feeling better looking out studying the world below, trying to suspend logic on just how much at risk I was, when turbulence kicked in. Then we were all over the sky.

White knuckles gripping my armrests, all I could think was Yeehaw, go, baby, blast through this shit storm.

All was quiet. Everybody strapped in, and even the noise in back disappeared. Ever notice how it quiets down during bad weather?

I was on a flight a few years ago that went through Pittsburgh and was struck by lightning on final approach. I nearly soiled myself, but survived to joke about it. But there I was on this flight, waiting for the flash and boom I just knew was coming.

I knew I should have driven down. I could have done it in six hours; and hell, I was already working on three and still in north Georgia, bouncing along, strapped into a flying gas can, vacuum tube rocking along at 400 miles an hour.

What the hell, I thought. Flying is mind control — rationality over fear. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, baby.

It was funny. In the beginning I could feel the anxiety, but little by little I started to relax, and my fears melted away. It was all good anyway. I was protected.

All of a sudden, we were out of the soup, and the sun came out. Looking out the window and surveying the majestic panorama below, calm returned to the plane.

I picked up The Atlanta Constitution. Headlines: Nixon announces resignation of Halderman and Ehrlichman. Vietnam is over. Paul McCartney was fined a hundred pounds for cannabis possession. Dean tells Nixon, there’s a cancer on the presidency. Marlon Brando turns down the Oscar for the Indians. Dave Cowers is MVP and Ken Norton beats Muhammad Ali.

It was just another day in paradise.

The noise in back was starting up again.

It was noisy and hazy. Smoking sections in airplanes, what morons. I didn’t get it. Couldn’t they wait until they got where they were going? Why did they have to accommodate these drug addicts?

Speaking of drugs, it was time for a screwdriver. I needed to order one and take a leak, but that meant going back through the smoky haze. What the hell, I thought, you gotta go, you gotta go.

At least I was moving. It felt strange that the aircraft was completely still.

As I moved toward the bathroom, I picked up on all the laughter in the back. There was a line — two cans, right and left. What was so damn funny, and what the hell was that noise?

OK, I got it. Debauchery. I loved that word. It was so descriptive.

It was the mile-high club back there and they were being noisy about it. They were obviously having sex in the can, and they loved an audience. What the hell, I could wait. I was mildly amused and even a little aroused.

Was this just staged or was it for real? I considered myself a cynic. Well not a cynic exactly — more of a realist. There was a difference.

Harder, baby, harder.

Bang, bang, bang. Could the pilots feel this up front?

No more lines. It was finally my turn.

Enough already. Was this even legal? There had to be some regulation to cover this.

I walked back down the aisle, strapped in, put on the headset, and decided to have just one drink. Hmmm, maybe I was a drug addict, too.

I was heading south, down to West Palm to meet my new co-worker — some dude named Nickolas Barry, another escapee from FSU law school.

I was finally getting a paycheck for being a lawyer and I had just had my business cards delivered. I liked the understated appearance, Johnathon Russell Shook Assistant Attorney General of Florida. Talk about a wild ride.

I hailed down the flight attendant as she walked past me. Holy crap, check this woman out. Well, well, well, I thought, I hope she’s not married. I never violated this self-imposed rule: Never monkey with somebody else’s monkey.

May I help you, Mr. Shook?

She was so good-looking that I was disarmed. Quickly gathering myself, I said, Yes, please, how about a screwdriver?

Coming right up, Mr. Shook.

She turned and walked forward and I tried to study her without being too obvious.

Not too tall. She was short, actually, about five feet two inches. Her hair was blond, but streaky. Athletic with a great butt and big, brown eyes.

I was sure she knew I was thinking impure thoughts, but I didn’t care. Sometimes it took me a while to make up my mind, but not this time. I saw something in her eyes. It was more than just a casual pleasant look. It was Hi there, I’m interested.

Nice job, Mr. Roman. He owned a great airline.

And so there I sat, bouncing along at 30,000 feet, shackled to my own personal maniac.

I smiled and was pleased with myself that I was able to recall Sophocles’ famous statement and his own little personal war with testosterone, which according to my lawyer uncle, Ralph, would never really go away.

Back she came looking so fine. She smiled as she handed me the drink.

That was tasty, how much?

Waving me off, she smiled and said, No charge, sir. We’re not even half full and we’re going on down to Miami to pick up our New York run this morning, then we’re back to Atlanta.

Her eyes were definitely signaling interest and I was paying attention. So where is your home base, New York?

She had braced herself against the seatback in front of me. Oh, it’s Atlanta but I’ve got a condo on Singer Island.

Singer Island, where’s that? I asked.

Well, it’s actually Riviera Beach, you know, West Palm Beach.

Oh, actually I didn’t know. I’ll be meeting my new officemates and trying to find a place to live.

It was clear that she didn’t have to tell me where she lived, but she chose to do that. Yep, this was a signal.

So this is your first trip to West Palm? she asked.

Oh yes. I’ve made a lot of trips to Miami, but never West Palm.

She nodded at her co-worker and sat down in the aisle seat.

So you know nothing about Palm Beach?

Not a thing.

Now I was really smiling.

Well, where are you going to live? I mean, house, condo, apartment?

I don’t know, I guess I’ll be guided by the people I’m about to meet, I said in what I hoped was my best invitational tone.

Well, if you need any help, here’s my number, call me and I’d be happy to show you around.

And in all of about five seconds, she produced a pen, wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to me.

That’s very kind of you. By the way, what’s your name?

It’s Marlene, Mr. Shook.

I snatched the napkin and immediately went for my wallet, located my brand new cards, and handed one to her.

Department of Legal Affairs, Assistant Attorney General. Are you kidding, Jack?

Now I was Jack. Her eyes lit up again and I was almost speechless.

It’s just a title, I said, but I had to admit, it did sound impressive when she read it out loud. Just call the number and they’ll get a message to me. I’ll call you in a few days and maybe you can show me around.

I’d love to.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. What a good omen. I wasn’t even there yet and a beautiful creature was now in my crosshairs.

I wasn’t ready for her to leave yet. So, Singer Island, what’s the big deal?

Condos on the beach, Jack. Best deal for the money. Not too pricey. You can rent one for a while to see if you like it, and then buy one.

So what’s the name of yours?

Cote d’Azur, she replied.

So what’s your schedule?

In three days, I’m off for 10 days, and then back on for 10, she offered.

So how many days are you in West Palm?

Singer Island, Mr. Shook.

Oh, sorry. Now I was Mr. Shook again.

Say, I didn’t know the French Riviera included Riviera Beach and Palm Beach?

Laughing, she told me, Well, Jack, I’m here to tell you it’s no French Riviera, but it is nice. You’ll see.

Now I was Jack again.

Say, did you girls catch the drift of what’s going on in the back of the bus?

Yes, but we just ignored it. They’re a little rowdy in the back and the less time spent in smoking, the better. As a matter of fact, I can’t stand it.

Hmmm, a non-smoker, too. Lucky me.

So, what’s the story on the guy in row one? You girls have been busy with him.

So you’re picking up on that, Jack? Well, that’s Jack Mason. He’s our sky marshal today for our run down to Miami.

Sky marshals. I thought they were pretty rare.

Not when we’re heading south. Cuba is only 15 minutes from Miami, she reminded me.

I’ve heard of these guys, I said, but I’ve never met one.

I’m not supposed to tell you who he is, but since you’re also in law enforcement, I’m sure it’s OK.

So now I was a cop. She seemed to like cops.

Well, I’ve got to get back to work and relieve Cindy. We don’t have much time to get ready for West Palm. We’re probably approaching Jacksonville by now.

OK, Marlene, I’ll call you.

Please do, Mr. Shook.

Now I was Mr. Shook again.

With that, she stood up and walked forward into the galley. She was graceful and moved with confidence — obviously an athlete. I wondered what she looked like buck-ass naked. Her skin was light and soft when I shook her hand. As a woman, this one was a da Vinci.

This woman was strong, but maybe she was just a player and did this to anybody. No, dammit, stop that shit, I thought. Roll with it, dumb ass. A few more sips and I was back to normal.

Did I mention what a great flyer I was? Gotta send a note to Mr. Roman.

Just when I was thinking of closing my eyes for a minute, the noise picked up in the back and some dude came stumbling forward carrying a lit cigarette.

Marlene intercepted him at about row five.

Sir, you need to return to your seat if you are going to smoke.

Don’t fuckin’ tell me shit, dammit. He was obviously drunk. I want another drink and I’ve had my call button on for 10 minutes.

What a moron. Where did he think this is going to lead? This nitwit needed to work on his people skills.

Sir, return to your seat. We’ll be back there in just a minute, Marlene insisted.

Dial it down, bitch, he snarled.

Marlene stepped back and said nothing.

The next thing I saw was Mason on his feet. He wasn’t too big, but he was solid. He looked like an average businessman. There was nothing striking about him. Typical, I thought. Blends in. You’d never know.

Mr. Personality saw him coming.

Who the fuck are you, dickwad? he snarled at Mason.

Return to your seat, sir.

I’m not talking to you asshole. Shut the fuck up.

This was going to be good. This nitwit had just stepped into his own private shit storm.

Mason moved quickly. He took the drunk over the top, one hand on his testicles and the other arm around his neck.

Now he had Mr. Nitwit’s attention. What the fuck? he yelped.

Hostility had a price and Mr. Nitwit was about to find out how much.

You can’t do this. I’m a lawyer, I’m a fuckin’ lawyer!

It figured, but what an odd specialty. This mental midget member of the bar specialized in fornication. I smiled at my own clever description.

The takedown resulted in the cigarette flying forward right at me. I retrieved it from the floor and handed it to Marlene just as she started forward.

Brilliant, I thought, as I marveled at Mason’s takedown. Out came the handcuffs and up he was cuffed to the seat directly across the aisle from me.

But the moron wouldn’t shut up. You piece of shit, I’ll have your fuckin’ job. You can’t do this to me. I’ll sue you and own this airline.

Mason was still holding him in the seat. Sir, if you don’t pipe down, I’ll have to gag you.

Fuck you, dick brain, you’re not going to do shit.

The sky marshal immediately produced a roll of duct tape. Two wraps around his head, mouth to neck, and the noise stopped.

I couldn’t help it. Looking at the idiot all taped up, I actually began laughing. I didn’t know duct tape was standard federal issue. A little crude, but very efficient. Once again, its not the gizmo itself, but how you adapt it. I was struck by this miscreant’s ability to use just about every four-letter word in some way in every sentence. And this guy was a lawyer? Damn. It was hard for me to believe he was a member of my own species. The guy was so dumb; he couldn’t find his seat with a search warrant.

The co-pilot appeared and had a brief discussion with Mason and then returned forward.

All was finally quiet on the Western front, but what a show.

Just when things were quiet again, the drunk’s girlfriend came up, and she was not exactly sober either.

What are you doing? I demand to see the Captain. How can you do this to Terry? All he wanted was a drink and so do I. She was now standing in front of Marlene. Don’t you people know he’s a fuckin’ lawyer?

Ma’am, please return to your seat, Marlene urged.

I’m not going anywhere until I see the Captain. I demand to see him.

You can’t, ma’am, he’s busy.

I don’t care what the fuck he’s doing, I demand to see him now!

From beside Marlene, Mason struck again, but this time made no contact with genitals. Down she went, another face plant.

You piece of shit, how dare you do that. I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got, you dirtbag.

Ma’am, you’re under arrest.

For what, asshole?

She started shrieking and the duct tape came out again, wrapped forward to back around twice and the noise stopped. She was cuffed in row two. The little moron struggled a bit; but then stopped, finally recognizing that any further abuse on her part was pointless, a fruitless exercise.

All of this took about five minutes and the co-pilot was out again to survey the carnage. He spoke to Mason and, satisfied the situation was under control, returned forward.

Where in the hell did those two random nitwits come from? I thought these Feds were supposed to be experts at profiling these troublemakers. All you needed was to be minimally observant.

Marlene was busy with Mason. There’s paperwork to be filled out in these circumstances, and they were concentrating on getting that done.

Then the Captain came on.

This is the Captain, folks. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’ve been assured by Federal Sky Marshal Mason that order has been restored in the cabin. Since we were about to begin our descent into West Palm at this time, I see no reason to divert to Daytona Beach or Melbourne. We’ll be on the ground in 20 minutes.

Thank you, Captain.

Marlene came back and sat next to me for a minute.

Jack, when we get close enough, I’ll show you the Cote d’Azur.

That would be delightful, Marlene.

Marlene got up and went forward again. Admiring her walk, I was again moved by what I saw. It reminded me of my old school days watching my girlfriend run track at Satellite High. She was poetry in motion.

I had settled down and was studying the two idiots still cuffed and taped. Now, there was a strange sight. Who the idiot was and what the hell kind of lawyer acts like that? I’d never seen this before. What a flight.

Good to her word, Marlene came back as the plane banked to the right and then left.

That’s it right there, Mr. Shook.

So now I was Shook again. I guessed a little formality was in order, considering they were trying to restore order to this crazy flight.

Looking out, I saw turquoise water, the city below, and condos on the beach.

Two buildings after that really big one.

I like it.

I knew that sounded lame to Marlene. It even sounded lame to me. But the truth was, I did like it.

Talk to you in a couple of days, Mr. Shook.

I look forward to it.

Mason came back and got my name and contact information.

Say, what’s this guy’s name anyway? I asked.

Gathering his paperwork, he answered, Terrance Lamar Robertson, Mr. Shook.

I couldn’t help wondering if I would ever run into this clown again. What a memorable flight. Damn, I loved flying.

Chapter 2

It was one of those unseasonably cold Florida evenings in late December, 1973. The temperature had already dropped into the low 50s and was headed even lower, down to the high 30s by early morning.

Larry found himself shivering already and the hunger that he felt in the pit of his stomach was setting in in spades. He knew he needed to find himself a warm place and something to eat.

His usual place of abode was a storage shed that he shared with his buddy Nick in the back of an old abandoned house a block south of Broward Boulevard, west of 441.

He was on foot, since someone had stolen his bike, and he found himself at the 7-Eleven at the corner. He had been trespassed here before, but he knew the clerk and she was new. He decided he would chance it and went inside. Going to the rear, he grabbed two sausage biscuits, popped them into the microwave, and made himself a large coffee, lots of cream, lots of sugar.

He gulped down half the coffee and inhaled one of the biscuits. He approached the clerk, who was alone.

Evening, Madam.

Good evening, sir. Did you need anything else, sir?

No, ma’am, was his reply.

Ma’am, I know you’re new, so let me introduce myself. I’m Larry Driscoll, U.S. Army, honorably discharged. I have no money, but I can do anything you need to pay for the biscuits and the coffee.

You mean that you don’t have money to pay for what you have, sir?

No, ma’am, I don’t. My money for the month has run out, but I can work it off, if you would permit it, please.

Well, I’m sorry, sir; but I can’t do that and we have a policy requiring us to call the police, she replied.

Well, OK ma’am. I’ll just wait outside for them to come.

Larry walked out the door and sat down on the curb, drinking the rest of his coffee and finishing his second biscuit.

Hell, he thought, I don’t mind going to jail tonight. At least I’ll be warm and I’ll get breakfast and lunch tomorrow before the judge lets me loose at first appearance.

Larry was well practiced at his routine. He frankly didn’t like the Broward County jail, but at least it was a bed and the food was almost tolerable.

Wintering in Fort Lauderdale had become a routine for Larry and he saw no reason to change his habit.

Larry was actually Lawrence Eugene Driscoll, a Vietnam vet who had fallen