Wednesday, September 30, 2015

A Very Nosy Bee

Years ago, when I worked at the Weiner King in Flemington, my boss, Jack Little, would lay me off during summer months, usually some time in June. Former high school students, now in college, would come home and want to go back to work for him for two reasons: to make money and to work with their old friends and him. You see, Jack was, quite simply, the best boss ever. He would hire 3 or 4 kids in my stead and I would go off to paint houses and businesses. I made a decent living doing it, I was quite good, and it was therapeutic, so it was a win/win for everyone. Come September, I'd be back slapping burgers and dogs into buns.
One particular summer, I was painting the Weiner King at Turntable Junction, a touristy area with Colonial-style storefronts. People who worked there dressed in 1770s attire. Not at the Weiner King. Anyway, Jack's father-in-law hired me. Behind the restaurant and down the embankment are railroad tracks. An old steam locomotive with antique cars would take people on scenic rides through parts of Hunterdon County. Called the Black River & Western RR, it still runs today.
Along that embankment were countless nests of ground hornets. I remember setting empty syrup bottles out the back door and they would fill up with the darn things, but it never seemed to make a dent in their population. They pestered customers but we just couldn't get rid of them. Oh, back to my painting story...
Generally, the hornets - we called them bees - were pretty friendly unless provoked. I got used to bees and hornets from all of the outdoor work I did, and they didn't bother me at all. I had to paint an area above the patio one afternoon. Sometimes, I'd eat Weiner King food for lunch, but I got used to packing my own. I don't remember what I chose to eat that day and it's not really important, but when I decided to break for lunch, I unwrapped what I had and started to take some bites. Of course, the smell of food always attracted these little critters and I'd gently wave my hand. Eventually, they'd get the message and fly away.
Except for this one pesky guy. He just kept buzzing around me and my food. No matter how much I tried, there he was. Finally, he took the message and off he went. Or so I thought. I distinctly remember that fateful moment; the kind of moment filled with so much pain, you know you'll never, ever forget it.
I took a nice, big bite out of my sandwich and I was chewing away. Chewing and chewing and breathing through my nose. Mmmm... tasting and enjoying my lunch when, SUDDENLY, Mr. Bee decided to buzz the right side of my face. A wing brushed my cheek, and...
I sucked him right up my nose. Deep into the sinus cavity. Oh no.
I knew what was about to happen. You know, when bees get angry.
Oh, the pain. Such excrutiating pain in my sinuses. They swelled shut almost immediately and tears flooded down my face like a gushing waterfall. This wasn't funny at all! But it was. I jumped up and tried to walk it off, pacing violently back and forth on the 6-pitch roof. That was all I could do. No ice or anything would help.
You know, it's a good thing that, as a child growing up, I got over bee stings in no time. I had a great immune system and never caught poison ivy. Without it, I would have been in serious trouble.
I would say it took about 15 minutes and then, the pain was gone. My nose opened up and I was able to go back to painting. I know I didn't finish that sandwich because I had lost my appetite.
As I continued to paint, the bees came around again, but I left my sandwich on the other side of the roof. Just for them. And me. My bee buddy never came out. I didn't swallow him. I think he ended up down in one of my lungs but by then, he was a goner. Interestingly, it wasn't long after that incident that I switched from syrup to honey on my waffles, and I've been like that ever since.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Forever the Optimist

After the water pump was replaced and everything seemed to be back to normal, I was on my way to getting my groove back, so to speak. The next morning, a nice, little, two-part jingle popped into my bean and I sat down with the iPad on my lap. Then I opened one of the piano apps.
Years ago, I would sometimes wake up in the wee hours with beautiful songs playing in my head; full orchestration and all. One at a time, of course. What always roused me was the sense that I had never heard them before. I'd promptly sit up and within seconds, the song would disappear from my mind, gone forever. Today, it would be like my brain hitting the delete button. It was heartbreaking. Now, I've got my trusty iPad by my side, so when something pops up, I can play it out and record it for future use. Sometimes, these ditties hit me when I'm in the shower or during the day. I've disciplined myself to keep playing them over and over and over in my head until I can record them. Usually, but I've lost a few here and there.
On this particular morning, the song that came to me had a real country sound, which is unusual. I can't really classify my style, but having a western theme grabbed my attention. Clint Eastwood sauntered across my head. On horseback. Before I sat down, I went into the kitchen and toasted an English muffin, continuously looping the song so I wouldn't forget it. I don't like to eat too much butter, so I put peanut butter on one slice and butter on the other. OK, ready.
I went to the trusty iPad and played out the tune. Most of the time, I have to play it and play it and play it until I have it right. Then, I record it. On that particular morning, while I'm playing it, I'm eating the muffin. I saved the butter one for last, kind of as a reward because it tastes better than the PB one. Bite. Play. Bite. Play. Bite. Play...
Suddenly, I felt something rock hard in my mouth. Not large or anything, but I knew right away what it had to be. There was nothing THAT hard in the muffin. A tooth had broken off! Which tooth? I ran my tongue across the top front of my teeth and there it was -- a hole! I had lost #7 (as the dentist later called it) right at the gum line. It's one of the ones next to the two front teeth. Immediately, I stopped what I was doing and called the dentist.
"Can you come in right away? The dentist has time to see you now." If I couldn't go right then and there, I'd have to wait five days until the next opening, so I said I'd be right in. It's only a ten minute drive. I brushed my teeth, but had one final thing to do. I know how my memory works (and doesn't) and I had to record that song. It was of utmost importance. I sat back down, hit the red record button and played. Then, I hit save and off I went.
What's most interesting about this is that the same darn tooth problem happened to someone very near and dear to me, like smiling peas in a pod. One of the peas fell out! 
Fortunately, I was in no pain, and when the dentist scraped it with one of those nasty looking shiny metal tools, "Does that hurt?" everywhere on the tooth, I didn't feel a thing. Eventually, the office manager worked up a few different options. I decided to go with the best one. The remaining root had to come out, a screw hole had to be drilled into my top jaw, and a metal post had to be put in with a wrench. Of course, I was totally numb to it as he diligently did his work. Finally, my head turned slightly as he screwed the post in. Then, he capped it off, stitched it, and built a new cosmetic tooth so I wouldn't walk around looking like a redneck hillbilly... not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not my style. Good to go!
I was able to smile again, but when the Novacain wore off, I was in terrible pain. As days went on, the pain got worse and worse and spread to the back gum. I was in agony. The dentist gave me a prescription for Tylenol 3, which I filled and took, but it made me throw up. I also have Tramadol for migraines and bone pain (that's another story.) I don't like taking anything unless I really have to, and those pain meds raised havoc with my gut, without going into further detail. I stopped and decided that I simply had to cope with the pain.
This incident happened a week-and-a-half ago and, on Thursday, I returned to have the stitch removed. This was also the first day the pain somewhat subsided. My mouth is still sore, and I've lost five pounds, but I'm getting used to eating mashed potatoes and soup. At the end of January, the permanent implant will go in and I should be back to my old self. Except that I'm still waiting for something else in the house to break down. It's been a terrible year, not that I'm a pessimist or anything.
Oh yes, one more thing. When I came back from the dentist, I opened up the iPad to listen to the song I came up with. What was it? I forgot. OH NO!!! It was still in the "Save" mode, spinning around and around. I knew right then and there that the piano app had locked up, and I also realized that the song was gone forever. It was a good one, too, but I have to keep on smiling through and through. Because I can and...
The pea was back in the pod! Right where it belongs.

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

My Garden of Weeden

By Doris Margaret Willman

After contracting polio in 1953, I faced the challenge of leg braces and crutches. By 1981, I became a wheelchair user with post-polio syndrome. By this time, my three daughters were quite self-sufficient and I had some blessed leisure time.
Coming from a family of avid gardeners, I thought, why not me too? My knowledge of gardening was quite limited, except for minor chores back home in the family garden before I acquired a disability. I obtained a copy of The Complete Vegetable Garden by John Seymore. And a very compassionate husband, fortunately for me, was handy with carpentry tools.
At first we erected four planters, measuring eight feet long and two feet wide with a depth of approximately 14 inches. These planters were supported by legs and cross braces to make an overall height of about 28 inches.
The planters were placed parallel to each other, with ample room to manoeuvre the wheelchair between each one. Each planter was filled with purchased garden soil and peat moss. A lightweight garden hose took care of the watering needs. My first crops consisted of radishes, onions, carrots, beets, Swiss chard and tomatoes.
There is an advantage to container planting: Because of the wide row system, radishes, carrots and the like can be spaced as little as two inches apart.
A good-sized crop can be harvested from a confined space. Close planting also creates shading, eliminating most weeds while retaining moisture in the soil. Most crops require tilling the soil only to a depth of eight inches. This can readily be done with small hand tools. Cucumbers, a vine crop, can be trained up five-foot poles and still be within easy reach of a gardener using a wheelchair. The height of the planters enables the wheelchair user to garden with a minimum of exertion. You are also in a position to make eye contact with any garden pests — get a jump on the flea beetle before he lands on your prized tomatoes!
My planters were so successful that my husband then built my “Garden of Weeden.” This garden is 45 feet long by 30 feet wide. With the exception of a small tool shed and gateway, two-foot-wide planters extend around the full perimeter. The central area comprises three planters measuring 10 feet by four feet, lawn space bordered with flowers, and a few small shrubs thrown in.
A wooden walkway provides sufficient space to service all planting areas. A watering hose is mounted at each end of the garden.
Unless you are a fanatic gardener like myself, a garden this size is an option rather than a necessity. Much success and pleasure can be derived from smaller ones.
I can truly say my “Garden of Weeden” has been my utopia — a place where I can get lost in the magic of nature. Stress evaporates once I wheel through that gate and am in complete control of my surroundings. I spend so much time in my garden, I expect my wheelchair tires will one day take root.
Like the saying goes, we have to “stop and smell the roses.” My philosophy is, “Let’s grow ’em!”

Friday, June 26, 2015

I Love You Doris Willman

This is written for my very special friend, Doris, who just passed away yesterday, June 25. She was an important part of my blogging during two criminal trials.

Please read it


Thank you

Saturday, June 20, 2015

The Roof of All Evil

When I was around seven-years-old, I went squirrel hunting with my father. We were out in the woods somewhere in New Jersey when, suddenly, I spotted one of the critters up in a tree.
"Look, Dad!" I loudly and proudly proclaimed, pointing up into the tree at the innocent little guy minding his own business. Up went the gun...
Down came the squirrel, crashing to the ground with a light thump, about twenty feet or so below. I ran over to it to see the prize. It jerked and choked and gasped for air. I looked into his eyes and watched them glaze over as he took his final breath. It was a horrible experience -- to watch death unfold. There's just something weird about looking into the eyes of something or someone as they die.
I turned to my father, visibly shaken, and said that I never want to go hunting with him again. I never did, and soon afterward, he stopped, too.
To this very day, I have never owned a gun and I have no desire to ever possess one. But that doesn't make me an anti-gun person. I've enjoyed target shooting in the past, although it's been many years. I totally abhor shooting animals for game, but I'm not opposed to hunting for food. After all, I am a meat eater and I seem to look the other way when it comes to how chickens, for example, are treated by food giants like ConAgra and their many subsidiaries. I am trying to be more conscientious when it comes to the humane treatment of animals. Humane. How could you possibly show compassion or benevolence toward a creature whose sole purpose from birth on is to become food? That's a question to chew on, but I won't dwell on it right now since this is partially about guns, Charleston, and the Second Amendment stating that "the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
I'm not here to argue the rights and wrongs of gun control, but I do agree with the president (and anyone else who thinks) that we need to have a vigorous and rigorous debate regarding how easy they are to purchase. I'm not stupid enough to feel the necessity to take guns away because some people want it that way. Guns will always be around and there's no denying it. I think a minimum/mandatory sentence imposed on someone caught with an illegal firearm is something to consider, like 25 years. No parole. That may help to get them off the street, but it wouldn't have stopped Dylann Roof from mercilessly slaughtering nine people inside of a House of God. He bought his legally. It was a simple thing to do. Too simple in some states.
(There's some question about Roof's gun purchase. Federal law prohibits people like Roof from obtaining firearms because, in February, he was arrested and later charged with felony possession of Suboxone, a narcotic prescription drug. He was released, and the case is pending. Because of this, Roof shouldn't have been able to buy from a gun store. Federally licensed gun dealers are required to run background checks and this pending charge would have turned up as a red flag. According to his uncle, Roof got his pistol as a birthday present from his father, Reuters reported. No background checks are necessary in private transactions in South Carolina and the seller is not obligated to ask about felonies or felony indictments, although it is illegal to give guns as gifts to those people. If Roof's father knew about the indictment, he could spend 10 years behind bars.)
Unfortunately, there's no way to stop the crazies of the world from doing what they set out to do, and Roof is a perfect example of that and more. While I'm against the death penalty, this guy deserves to be snuffed out, with no grave or marker of any kind to identify him. He is evil through and through and he is proof positive that racism is pure evil, even in its simplest form. Nothing good ever comes out of evil. Ever.
What Roof did should open a debate about guns and rightly so; however, I'm hearing some disturbing things about this terrorist attack on humanity. Anyone who thinks this wasn't terrorism should think about the terror in the eyes of Roof's victims as he fired away. That was terror in its rawest form.
So what does a National Rifle Association executive in Texas have to say about it? Houston-based attorney Charles Cotton suggested that the murdered pastor of the church bears some of the blame for his opposition to permitting concealed handguns inside his house of worship. On, he insanely, absurdly wrote about the pastor of the church and South Carolina state senator Clementa Pinckney:
"[Pinckney] voted against concealed-carry. Eight of his church members who might be alive if he had expressly allowed members to carry handguns in church are dead. Innocent people died because of his position on a political issue."
Republican presidential hopeful Mike Huckabee stated:
"It sounds crass, but frankly the best way to stop a bad person with a gun is to have a good person with a weapon that is equal or superior to the one that he’s using.”
Does this mean we should ALL carry guns (me included) or face the consequences of evil people? Well, kiss my grits!
What I find abhorrently wrong with those two statements is that Roof entered a House of God with a gun. I'm sorry, but I think a church is a sanctuary; a place to go for solace and peaceful introspection -- something Root should have been doing. A church is a place to study. It should be the last place on earth to worry about violence. While a lot of Americans think it's an inherent right to mix God and guns, I think it's ridiculous. One does not need to believe in guns, nor God, to understand how opposite the two are, like night and day. One brings life into the world and the other takes it away. Unless, of course, you shoot targets in church or take out squirrels from the rafters.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015


Last Monday, January 5, George Zimmerman supposedly threw a bottle of wine at his erstwhile girlfriend after she broke up with him and attempted to flee his house, where she had been living for the past two to three months. Apparently, he demanded that she return one of his paintings and an argument ensued. He threw her cellphone to the ground, smashing it to pieces. Sound familiar? She called him a psychopath, which infuriated him to no end. After she left, she was pulled over by Lake Mary police for not having her headlights on. A nearby officer had heard the sound of glass breaking. She was a total wreck, panicking and crying. The reason, just in case you're not aware, why Zimmerman wasn't arrested the night of the alleged incident is pretty simple.
When police went to his house to investigate that night, the hot-tempered cop-wannabe was nowhere to be found. All week long investigators attempted to contact him, to no avail. He wasn't home and he refused to answer his phone. It wasn't until Friday that police found him at his residence, but he refused to come to the door or respond to phone calls for nearly two hours, and that was only after his attorney, Don West, was contacted. From what I understand, police could hear someone quiet the dog from inside the home prior to answering the door. He was then placed under arrest and charged with aggravated assault. Sadly, the victim claimed she didn't want to pursue charges against him on the night of the incident, and she still doesn't. Why? More on that, but...
Saturday morning, he easily bonded out after Circuit Judge John Galluzzo set it at $5,000. He was ordered to turn his guns over to a family member or friend and to stay out of Volusia County, where the woman now resides. He's still in Seminole. He cannot have any contact with her, either. True to typical Zimmerman form, he denied everything. She threw the wine bottle at the garage door after he refused to let her in. Her five-year-old son was the one who broke her phone long ago. He dumped her, not the other way around. Sound familiar? Nothing is EVER his fault. Poor boy, and you know something? He's going to get away with it again. Why?
The victim is refusing to cooperate with investigators and the prosecutor's office. There's a simple reason for that, so don't misunderstand or condemn her. George Zimmerman is toxic, to say the least. She wants nothing to do with plastering her name all over every newspaper and TV station across the country, including TMZ and whatever gossip show picks up on it. Would you? Odds are, Zimmerman would get away with it anyway, since he always does. After all, like OJ, his name is synonymous with 'getting away with murder,' and after calling him a psychopath to his face, she's got to be frightened to death of him now.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

No Baloney

I was shopping in a grocery store the other morning. It's one of those chains with a decent variety of organic foods. Sometimes, I like that kind of stuff. Sometimes, some of it is rather silly. Take this, for instance. While looking at the bread selections, I happened to see organic hot dog rolls. ORGANIC HOT DOG ROLLS???!!! Huh? What do you put inside a hot dog bun? HOT DOGS!!! What's good and healthful about hot dogs? No... please don't tell me about vegetarian weiners because they are probably as exciting as sex with blow-up dolls. What's the point?
It reminded me of a car I saw with my friend, Stewart, in the Sarasota area a while back. We were sitting at a red light. VROOM! VROOM! Or was it ZHHH! ZHHH!? It was a Toyota Prius Sport. SPORT???!!! We laughed. For some reason "Prius" and "Sport" go together like salt and sugar, and "organic" and "hot dog," don't you think? Anyway, I don't believe we'll be seeing any Prius Sports on the NASCAR circuit any sooner than I'll be eating a vegetarian hot dog on an organic bun. With ketchup.

Monday, December 08, 2014

Whiskey River and the 3 Marlboro Omelet

This is a piece I wrote in February, 2006, although I did edit it a little the last time I published it on Dec. 27, 2012 because my writing style improved. Today, I left it intact.
Here we are, eight years after this story, and where are we? I see more racism now than I did in 2006, and I see it on both sides of the fence. If anyone thinks it's a one-way street, they are blind to society. 

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 brought up some Yankee thing to tease me about, I always 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.”
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?

 See it HERE or:

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

I want to thank the prosecutor's wife

In light of Ferguson, I was reminded of an experience I had with a couple of local police and a prosecutor back in the 1970s. While there are no comparisons, it's still something that came to mind. Everyone handles situations their own way. This is how I handled mine.

In 1975, I was 23 and the spirit of youth was still in full bloom. It was a great time in my life except for one harrowing experience with the Delaware Township Police Department, located in central New Jersey. I had gone out that night with a friend of mine, Ken [Redacted.] We hit a couple of bars and settled in at a place in New Hope, PA, called John & Peter's. There's a cafĂ© in front and a small listening room in the back. As small as it was (and still is,) they had some pretty big name bands perform, like Iron Butterfly and The Chambers Brothers. One of the local favorites back then was a group out of Philly called Johnny's Dance Band. Some nights, you just didn't know unless a barmaid let you in on the secret of who it would be. It didn't matter who was playing the night we showed up. We didn't go out for that. We didn't even go out to drink much. We just went out to have a good time until he dropped me off at my apartment...
My place was right in the center of Sergeantsville, a very rural community with one blinking light. You were in and out town before you knew it. Directly across the street was the municipal building and home of the police department. We sat there for a few minutes discussing what the rest of the week was looking like, sort of like planning another night to run around, drink a few, and hit on some babes. Slowly, a police car crept up across the street and parked. Two officers got out and started to walk towards us. I wasn't afraid of anything. Neither of us were drunk and we certainly weren't doing anything wrong. I recognized one of them, Rich [Redacted,] from my high school days. I got out and stood at the front of my friend's Dodge van. Rich and I greeted each other, shook hands and talked about what we had been up to since those earlier times. The other officer went over to the driver's window. Both Rich and I were oblivious to what was transpiring until we both heard, "I smell marijuana. Get out of the van right now! You are under arrest!"
Rich and I looked at each other with surprise. I turned to face the other officer and said, "Hey, what are you doing?"
He stared at me and said, "You are under arrest, too!"
He made my friend get out of the vehicle and ordered us over to the police car, where he demanded that we empty our pockets. I didn't respond in the split second time he wanted, so he thrust me down on to the hood of the car, knocking the wind out of me. In two seconds flat, I was in handcuffs and he was emptying all of my pockets, where he found a frog, a couple of marbles and a secret agent compass. Maybe some pocket change, too, but absolutely nothing illegal. As a matter of fact, nothing of interest was found in my friend's pockets, either. I asked this overzealous cop what we were being arrested for. He hesitated and said, "For being drunk and disorderly!"
I knew right then and there we were being charged with something trumped-up. We weren't drunk and we weren't disorderly. Had we been drunk, this stupid officer, Jack Demeo, should have been smart enough to charge the driver with a DUI (or DWI back then.) The keys were in the ignition.
The cop commandos marched us up the stairs and into the police station.
"Watch them," Demeo said to Rich, giddy with delight, as if he had just apprehended serial rapists or something. He went outside and returned with the ashtray, He dumped it on his desk and went picking through the cigarette butts. Lo and behold, he pulled out a marijuana roach that amounted to...
2/10 of a gram!
Whoa! The biggest bust of the century! "Ha, ha, ha...I gotcha now!!!" An obvious glee and an evil grin had overtaken him, as we were soon to be facing life in prison in his eyes. "So, on top of being drunk and disorderly, I've got you on a CDS charge, too!"
"What's CDS?" I asked.
"Controlled Dangerous Substance," he snapped back, with a sarcastic snarl. That roach could have been in the ashtray for weeks, for all we knew. The ashtray was packed with butts, but had we known it was there, we would have smoked it long before the cops showed up.
After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, I had to pee. I asked Demeo if I could go. "NO!" I asked him several times and got the same commanding response. Finally, I pulled something out of my head...
"As a U.S. citizen and subject to rule number 17 of the U.S. Constitution, Section C, Part 203, I am allowed to use a restroom facility when I consider it necessary, under penalty of law."
"Take him into the men's room," he ordered Rich, "but watch him."
As I was peeing, he was apologetic. "Hey, Dave, I had nothing to do with this."
Demeo was filling out paper work interrogating my friend when we returned. He looked at me and attacked like a junk yard dog. "Where'd you get this stuff?"
"I don't know."
"Tell me!"
You're going to bust us with that? You're a joke."
After about a half hour of brutal questioning, he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere, so they loaded us into the back of the squad car and drove us to the Hunterdon County Jail. The entire ride consisted of Demeo making wise cracks and telling us we were the lowest and vilest sub-humans of the community. We laughed. Oh, how it angered him more.
Finally, we arrived to the fanfare of the hungry jailers. They took our mug shots and fingerprints. One of the guards was a high school teacher who moonlighted at the jail and remembered us. He took us upstairs and put us in a holding cell, It was just me and Ken.
"I'll come back and put you in a better cell as soon as we get rid of these asshole cops," he said, and he did. When we awoke the next morning, the TV was showing an old science fiction movie. Yes, it was high-class. Color, too. There was another guy who was already there. We introduced ourselves, shook hands and I asked him what he was in for.
"Oh." I didn't want to pursue that conversation, so we just settled in. At one point, he got up and switched the channel to American Bandstand. I wasn't about to say, "TURN IT BACK! I WAS WATCHING THAT MOVIE!"
Later that morning, the jail doors were opened to freedom, fresh air and sunlight, and our nightmare was temporarily over. $50 later.
We knew we had to get legal representation. My friend got a lawyer and I talked to an attorney friend of mine, Jay Thatcher. We were in the JAYCEES together. I told him I didn't have money to hire a lawyer. He asked me to tell him what transpired that evening. I told him. He said, "Dave, this is the most ridiculous injustice I've ever heard. I'm going to represent you for free."
Jay was a great guy and a very good friend. I was so glad he decided to help out someone in need. He got in touch with the other attorney and they both agreed to file a Motion to Suppress Evidence, a request to a judge to keep out evidence at a trial or hearing, often made when a party believes the evidence was unlawfully obtained.
The judge at our arraignment hearing was Thomas Beetel. Years earlier, my Aunt Bertie worked for him when he was in private practice before being appointed to the bench. We shared the same last name and they didn't get along. I think he might have fired her. I wasn't aware of any connection at that time - I was told later - but he should have recused himself on grounds of prejudice. He did not. Our respective attorneys requested that both officers not be present in the courtroom together when each was to give their own testimony. The judge did allow that. Both cops gave conflicting reports of what transpired that fateful night. I assumed my old high school "friend" would set the record straight. He did not. He lied through his teeth even more than the arresting officer did. I could not believe what I was hearing. Then, Demeo told the judge he was trained by the Marines to smell marijuana better than a dog. When I took the stand, I noticed the judge was doodling stupid little pictures, as if he wasn't paying attention, and had already made up his mind. I guess he did because he sent it on to trial. Motion to Suppress Evidence denied!
On the morning after our arrest, the judge we were going to be facing, Jacob Chantz, was attending a funeral with my grandfather, Reverend George W. Landis. They were very close friends. He should have recused himself, too, because of that friendship, but he didn't, and I guess I am thankful for it. The evening we went to trial, it was one big family; the two officers, the prosecutor, our respective attorneys and us. My close friend, Frank Foran was sitting in the gallery, along with my parents. Our trials were to be handled separately, but together, if that makes sense. Our attorneys approached the prosecutor to work out plea deals. 
After minutes of whispering, Jay came back to me and said, "Dave, this is what the prosecutor wants. He's willing to drop the drunk and disorderly charge if you plead to the CDS charge. It means that after a year, you can apply to have your record expunged and it's completely erased. It's as if you were never arrested. You pay a fine now and there is no jail time. What do you want to do?"
"No way am I going to plead guilty to anything. I didn't do anything wrong."
"Great! That's exactly what I was hoping to hear you say." He went back to the prosecutor with my response.
"Oh no," the prosecutor told him, and there came a very special AHA! moment. You see, prosecutors can be moved around to different jurisdictions if the need ever arises. The need arose that particular evening. 
"What do you mean?" my lawyer asked.
"My wife is 99.9% pregnant. I came up from south Jersey. I'm filling in for the regular prosecutor, who's on vacation. She could have the baby any minute. I just want to get this over with and go home. How long is this going to take?" 
"At least seven hours as far as I'm concerned. I'm going to pick every legal trick out of my hat on this one."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, I am not. My client is 100% innocent of these charges and I intend to fight it all the way to the Supreme Court, if necessary."
"This isn't all that important of a case to me. Let's just drop the charges."
That was it. It had absolutely nothing to do with my guilt or innocence. Case dismissed. All on account of the prosecutor's wife being pregnant. Now that was justice.
My friend had the drunk and disorderly charge dropped but the prosecutor said someone had to take the rap for the 2/10 gram of Mary Jane. It was his vehicle, so he did and a year later he did have his record expunged.
So went my first foray into the legal system. The judge later told my grandfather it never should have reached his courtroom. It should have been dropped at the Motion to Suppress stage and, if not, he had planned on dismissing the charges against me anyway.
Oh, yeah. Good old Jack Demeo. He got himself into a little trouble about a year or so after our trial. He was accused - on several occasions - of flashing his badge out of his territory and for trying to pick up women he pulled over. He should have been dealt with for breaking the law but he wasn't. Cop. Good old boy syndrome, I guess. I also heard he had been planting pot in cars to make busts, but had he done that to us, I'm sure more than 2/10 of a gram would have been found. The clincher that finally sealed his fate and brought his law enforcement career to a screeching halt was when he was in Atlantic City inside a casino, Unfortunately for him but lucky for the rest of the country, he flashed his badge at the wrong people at the wrong time. He told a dealer he was with the NJ Division of Alcoholic Beverage Control and he was doing an investigation. What kind of favors can you do for me? The manager of the casino got involved and promptly called his brother-in-law, who worked for the ABC. Why is one of your guys trying to bribe me?
The agency launched an investigation faster than a poker player folds on a five high hand, and dispatched agents to the scene immediately. Jack Demeo was arrested on the spot. Because of that, his credentials were stripped and he was told he could never be a police officer again. The former police chief of Delaware Township, where I was arrested with my friend, told me he did try years later, but the retired chief, the late Warren Peterson, put the screws to that. My guess is that he's probably assistant head of security at a Dollar General store somewhere in Podunk, Arkansas. I did run into Rich a couple of years later and he wanted to extend an apology for what had transpired. I told him that, "as an officer of the law, you were there to tell the truth. You didn't. I'm having a tough time with what you put me through."
Quite obviously, that experience was still on my mind. One day, he approached me at the Weiner King in Flemington, where I was the manager, to tell me he could get me a really good deal on a Jaguar XKE. He had hung up his gun and went to work for a car dealer. The car had just come in and it wasn't even prepped yet. I took him up on the offer, it was a great deal, and I forgave Rich after all. I think he just got caught up in the cop ego trip thing and eventually let it go. All was well between us and I know it ate at him all those years. He really wanted to make things right, and he did. I don't hold a grudge.
I learned my lesson that you can't always trust a man with a badge and prosecutors don't always work for true justice. I've known a lot of police officers and a few prosecutors over the years and most of them are honest and hard-working. Never again have I run into a bad cop like Jack Demeo, but that one time was all it took to keep me on my toes. Fortunately, most guys like him are eventually weeded out of police departments, but not always.
Oh yes, one more thing. The guy we spent the night in jail with who was charged with murder? He was found not guilty. He had a different prosecutor, too.

Monday, November 24, 2014

What's Age Got To Do With It?

I'm not a violent man. Never was. I know that, as I get older, I'm supposed to be more temperamental. Maybe I am. Perhaps I am quicker to anger. Old codger stuff. Is it just a male thing?
Today, I had an urge to eat French fries. Why? I don't know. I don't usually crave them. Call it a "hankering." I knew that, if I were to order them at the nearby McDonald's, I'd have to ask for them without salt. Would they do that?
As I wheeled into the parking lot, some a-hole cut me off. Zoomed in right in front of me! I almost hit him. Just who did he think he was? JERK! He quickly pulled into a parking spot and I soon followed into a nearby one. He jumped out of his car in a flash and ran toward the side door. I really thought about giving him a piece of my mind as I exited mine, but three things stopped me from saying a word...
#1 Age. I was a lot older, wiser and more experienced. Patience goes a long way. Or, it should.
#2 He was a construction type dude. Bigger than me, in other words. He would have kicked my you know what. Plus, he was a lot faster than me.
#3 He made a bee-line to the men's room.
That third one (#3) told me he was in a hurry to do a number two, probably, without going into further detail, and that gave him license to get where he needed to go as quickly as humanly possible. That's where #1 came in. There may be circumstances beyond someone's control that cause something to happen. (Imagine if he had come along a second or two earlier. BAM! He would have hit me and there would have been two accidents.)
As he disappeared into the restroom area, I went through the main door and waited near the front counter to order. A minute or two later, I was able to ask for them without salt. Yes, I was told, and they come out fresher that way, but it took a little longer.
That guy? As I left, he was still in there somewhere, I'm sure, but I had no desire to go reprimand him for anything. Actually, I didn't give him a thought at all. Instead, I learned a simple little lesson about maintaining a level head. Self-control prevailed. I'm sure we've all been there before - old and young.
Cross-posted on Daily Kos

Saturday, November 15, 2014


One of the definitions of the word "state" is the particular condition that someone or something is in at a specific time. Skip that definition for now. Let's move on to another one.

STATE: a nation or territory considered as an organized political community under one government.

Robert Owen Paxton (1932 -) is an American historian who specializes in Vichy France, fascism and Europe during the WWII era. He wrote that fascism is:
"... a form of political behavior marked by obsessive preoccupation with community decline, humiliation, or victimhood and by compensatory cults of unity, energy, and purity, in which a mass-based party of committed nationalist militants, working in uneasy but effective collaboration with traditional elites, abandons democratic liberties and pursues with redemptive violence and without ethical or legal restraints goals of internal cleansing and external expansion." 

What is the definition of Islamic State when there is no nation under one government? For that matter, why is state capitalized at all? There is no "State." Instead of IS or ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria) or ISIL (Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant), what should we call this group of butchers? They are savages, indeed, straight out of the 7th century; save their leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, who has expensive tastes in modern-day accoutrements like watches, and sports dazzlingly white, perfectly-formed teeth (for an otherwise third-world slaughterer.) Or is he? Most are hypocrites at best. Yes, his followers are pretty high-tech, but they rape, murder and pillage at will. Very low-class. They force themselves upon their own version of disbelievers. If they don't like you, you're an infidel. Naked women. Young children. Men dropped to their knees. Off with their heads! That's what they capitalize on. TOTAL FEAR. Annihilation. Devastation. Their goal is violent cleansing and expansion throughout the world. They want total domination of the world in the name of religion. I suggest calling them islamifascists. No capitalization because the majority of Muslims disagree with what they do in the name of their god - I think; however, no one in Syria, Iraq or Turkey has ever lived under a democracy and most Muslims remain quiet. Is it out of fear for their lives or is al-Baghdadi the one true caliph, a descendant of the Islamic prophet Muhammad as he claims, and they don't know what to believe?

Whatever. These islamifascists want their convoluted religious law to spread like cockroach infestations and beyond. We will never rid ourselves of their kind, but we must contain them by any and all means possible. Except palling around with Sayyid Ali Khamenei. He's a fire ant. Bashar al-Assad is a killer bee. I am a most passive man, but these are two men we should never trust. 

Like the islamifascists, Saudi Arabia likes beheadings, too, yet when the kingdom drops its cost per barrel of oil (is it due to cheap black market IS oil?) and our gas price goes down at the pump, we're happy. Just in time for America's Thanksgiving and the Christian world's most commercialized holiday! Praise the..! Oh my... I'm most definitely in a STATE OF CONFUSION! All capital letters! Will any good ever come of this? Why are conservatives still so up in arms over alternative energy sources?

Sunday, July 06, 2014

Cheney Mason Jars the Truth, By George!

It's hard to believe that Casey Anthony was found not guilty of first-degree murder three years ago, but she was. My coverage of the case began in November of 2008 and continued in earnest until the verdict. That's when it ended. Many people wanted me to resume writing about her -- the lawsuits and bankruptcy -- but my job was finished. Those news stories were of little relevancy to me, so I never wrote about her again. Until now. Something (or someone) has piqued my interest. Most assuredly, it must be of major importance to stir me from my restful, peaceful, crime-free, post-Zimmerman Rip Van Winklish sleep, right? Yes, and it's Cheney Mason. Just as the Casey Anthony saga began with a flurry of horrible lies, the nest of iniquity continues.

Certainly, I have reasons to seek vengeance on those who took down the presiding judge at my expense, but I'm not a begrudging type, and the years have softened my stance to some extent. Jose Baez apologized years ago. It was nothing personal against me, he said, but he didn't feel Casey could get a fair trial, especially in light of the check fraud pleas. That's a different story and I understand more about the incident after years of study and reflection; however, I firmly believe the idea was the brainchild of a vindictive Cheney Mason. Mason had it in for Judge Stan Strickland and you are just going to have to trust me on it with no further explanation at this time. Asking the judge to recuse himself from this case is not the reason why I decided to pick up my pen. It's to set the record straight over what I consider to be a persistent and perpetuating lie perpetrated by Mason -- that poor, little Casey is innocent of any and all wrongdoing, and that the media and prosecution are guilty of everything.

In his book, Presumed Guilty | Casey Anthony: The Inside Story, Baez wrote:

Casey and I had discussed her sexual abuse, and I felt it was only a matter of time before she would tell me the truth about what happened to Caylee.

This was immediately followed by:

The day I had a major breakthrough with Casey came in the early months of 2009 [...]

He continues to explain what Casey told him about the drowning and her father's involvement:

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. I'm taking care of it. Don't say a word of this to anyone, especially your mother," and he walked away.

Believe what you want. My point is that for over two years, until the onset of the trial in downtown Orlando, her defense team maintained an oblivious facade about the cause of Caylee's death, and the public and many facets of the media were eschewing whatever Baez, et al, spit out. If she was so innocent, why not come forward much sooner than the trial? To be Nancy Grace-like, it would have been a BOMBSHELL and it would have sent the prosecution reeling into a downward, spiraling tizzy... momentarily, at least, until it had a chance to regroup. Instead, the young woman sat in jail from October 14, 2008 to July 17, 2011.

(I think it's important to remind you, before I go on, that Baez was not death penalty qualified, so Mason was hired, pro-bono, in March of 2010, a year before Casey opened her mouth about the death of her daughter, as cited above. Mason had collaborated with Baez prior to officially joining the defense, too, so he was aware of his new client's alibi and the accusation of sexual abuse. Unfortunately for George Anthony, he was going to be the defense scapegoat and he didn't have a clue. If I was a minor target, George was huge.)


Presently, I know precisely what Mason is spewing. It's called marketing propaganda and he's doing it to promote his new book, Justice in America: How the Media and Prosecutors Stack the Deck Against the Accused due out soon. I think it's important and fair to first note that Mason does come with credentials. He's a highly regarded veteran of criminal defense trials, as CNN's Jean Casarez just pointed out in her interview with him, What life is like for Casey Anthony, updated July 4:

A former president of the Florida Association of Criminal Lawyers, Mason, who just that year had been selected by Florida Monthly magazine as one of Florida's top lawyers, was disgusted with the local media coverage about the relatively inexperienced Baez.

That's great. What a hero. Definitely, Baez was treated with contempt by the public and press, but it came with the territory of representing the most reviled woman in America and Baez knew that. What he needed was help forming a strong and capable defense, not a pompous ass press secretary/superhero. For now, though, let's continue with the version Casarez wrote and elicited from Mason:

Shortly before jury selection was to begin, Mason got word that Anthony's handwritten letters describing sexual abuse at the hands of her father were going to be made public under Florida's open records law.

He believed it was only right that Anthony's parents, George and Cindy, were warned. He called them to his office late on a Friday afternoon.

"We had them one at a time come into my personal office and made the announcement: 'Monday's going to be a bad day for you George. I felt man to man I would tell you in advance.""

Mason said George Anthony's reaction was "basically none." "He looked at me ... I turned sideways a little bit, he clapped his hands down on his thighs -- let out a big sigh but didn't say anything," Mason said.

"He never admitted doing anything," Mason said. "All we had were the letters and (separately) the statements Casey had made to the psychiatrist."

According to Mason, he then called Cindy in to inform her.

Next it was Cindy Anthony's turn. "We called Mom in, Cindy, and told her and she immediately welled up with emotion, cried, was very upset," Mason said.

This is not what I recall from my experience with the case. Please note that Mason said George and Cindy Anthony went to his personal office after he got word, yet in his book, Baez wrote something contrary to Mason's revelation.

Two psychiatrists evaluated Casey for the defense, Drs. Jeffrey Danziger and William Weitz. Danziger was initially appointed by the court in 2008 following her arrest. For the defense, he met with her four times in November and December of 2010. Weitz conducted two interviews in February and March of 2011.

According to Baez:

After the prosecution took the depositions of the two psychiatrists, both sides agreed they should be sealed because they contained medical information as it related to Casey's mental health, and there were issues of sexual abuse by George and Lee, which was protected under state law. Perry immediately sealed them, saying that he wanted to review them before deciding whether they should remain sealed.

Baez continued:

A couple of days later, Cindy called me to say she and George had an appointment the next day at the state attorney general's office to discuss the depositions of the shrinks.

I lost it. I smelled the skullduggery of Ashton and immediately contacted Perry, telling him that the state was planning to meet with the Anthonys to discuss the information that he had sealed.

Perry had a clear response: "Sealed means sealed." Despite this clear message from the judge, the prosecution went ahead and had its meeting anyway. That was the arrogance of Ashton, whose attitude was, "I can do anything I want because I can get away with it."

And get away with it he did.

In fact, according to Baez, the prosecution didn't show the Anthonys the depositions, it showed them the notes they took during the depositions:

[...] The benefit to the prosecution by making sure the Anthonys found out what was in the shrinks' depositions, of course, was that when the Anthonys found out that Casey was revealing George's sexual abuse, they would turn on Casey, no longer support her, and became [sic] state-friendly witnesses.

I thought Cheney was going to have a heart attack. [...]

This is proof that Mason did not call the Anthonys into his office to "warn" them. Instead, Baez warned Mason about what they learned from prosecutors. But wait! There's more...

Before Presumed Guilty was released, then assistant state attorney Jeff Ashton published his book, Imperfect Justice | Prosecuting Casey Anthony. He had something to say about this matter, too, and it offers a third view, far removed from Cheney Mason's.  Beginning on page 215:

Even though the witnesses had been withdrawn [Danziger and Weitz], Linda [Drane Burdick], Frank [George] and I wondered how much of this George and Cindy knew. Just because the defense had dropped the witnesses didn't mean they were abandoning the argument completely. There was still a chance that George could be dragged into this.

One evening around the time that all this was happening, Mark Lippman, the attorney who by then was representing George and Cindy, filed a strange press release. It said something to the effect that George Anthony had nothing to do with the disappearance of Caylee.

Ashton contacted Lippman, assuming that Baez had spilled the beans:

Mark told me that a few days earlier, Baez had asked for a meeting with just Cindy. When she arrived at his office, Baez, Dorothy Sims, and Ann Finnell via the phone were waiting for her with important news. Baez proceeded to tell Cindy that Casey had authorized him to say that Caylee had died at the house and that her death had been an accident. Baez also told Cindy that the state was investigating George's involvement with Caylee's death. Baez claimed that the authorities had information from a witness who said that George's phone records held valuable clues.

I was speechless. Poor Mark only knew the tip of the iceberg. It was the cruelest thing I have ever seen an attorney do. [...] To tell this grieving woman...

To say that Ashton was outraged would be an understatement. This is what pushed him to tell the Anthonys the whole story -- to warn them.

I told Mark we weren't investigating George, although sadly, there was more bad news. But I had to get back to him about it. Linda and I discussed the best way to handle the therapists' reports and we decided to invite Mark, Cindy, and George to our office. I gave Mark a call.

"Are they saying that George disposed of the body?" He responded by telling Lippman it was worse than that.

When Baez found out that Cindy was coming to our office to see what the doctors had said, he immediately shot off an e-mail to Judge Perry, essentially accusing us of violating Perry's order.

Linda said that Judge Perry's order indicated only that the transcripts would not be made public documents; it never restricted our ability to investigate the story, and there was no way we were going to let Jose's lies go unchallenged. Baez would later attack us on this point, but the judge agreed with us.

The prosecutors decided to discuss their notes and recollections with the Anthonys since the depositions were, in fact, sealed. Caylee's grandparents needed to know the truth about what was actually going on, despite the inherent risk of possible witness tampering accusations.

George and Cindy were visibly upset when they arrived at the state attorneys office, Ashton pointed out.

Before the meeting, we'd told Mark that we would speak to him privately and share what we knew with him. Then it would be up to him to decide what to tell the Anthonys. We put George and Cindy in the conference room and took Mark into the office with us.

Lippman heard the entire story...

Mark left and went to the conference room to talk to the Anthonys for what seemed like twenty to thirty minutes. Linda and I were in a nearby conference room when Mark came to find us. Cindy and George had questions, and we accompanied him back to the conference room. Cindy was sitting at the table just looking down. George was next to her, his face bright red. Cindy looked angry. George looked like he had been crying, like someone had just killed Caylee all over again. He was just devastated.

"I just want you to know that none of this is true," George said to us.

Cindy patted him on the hand and said, "It's okay, George. Nobody believes this."

His words would catch in his throat as he assured us one more time, "I just want you to know that everything I told you is the truth and I am not changing any of it."

I remember Cindy saying something like, "I don't know what's wrong with her," referring to Casey. At least she was finally willing to admit that there was something not right about Casey. How it would affect her testimony at trial, though, was anyone's guess.

There you have it. The rest is history. But is Cheney Mason rewriting the history books to glorify himself? To give himself most of the credit for saving poor, innocent, child-like Casey? Sometimes, certainly in this case, when someone keeps telling himself the same thing over and over and over again, he begins to believe it. Mason is, after all, one of Florida's BEST attorneys, as I'm sure he would quickly remind us and his mirror. And if Washington chopped down the cherry tree, he chopped down the giant Ashton tree. And didn't tell a lie. Yes, man-to-man, he gently pulled George into his office to softly break the news. What a kind and compassionate father figure. Only, I wouldn't buy a used lemon from the man.

The Website promo intro of Mason's book says, "He shares never before revealed media bias, and enough case secrets to make readers re-examine their conscience and the quick path to judgment and personal conviction of Anthony."

I am deeply concerned about the honesty of those case secrets, especially coming from a man with so much documented bias against the media. Until he needs to use us.


I think it's important to mention something more enlightening about the two defense psychiatrists, Drs. Danziger and Weitz. They were most likely removed as witnesses out of fear that the judge would have granted the state their own psychiatrist, who would have interviewed their client. That would have been problematic for Casey and the entire defense. It's also necessary to say that Danziger was highly uncomfortable with being a mouthpiece for these "very, very serious allegations against someone in a situation where there is no other evidence he actually did anything." (Imperfect Justice, Page 210.)