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This is an true, short story from my case files. It's about airbags and those in the passenger front seat.
Some people disconnect those airbags because they can hurt a small person or even big ones when they deploy. These people, via personal experience... or heresay... are aware airbag deployments can cause damages greater than damage done to other parts of the human body were the airbag not there. People have been killed by airbags. But more people have been killed without them.
I too have seen and photographed the injuries left by airbag deployments: the bruises; burns; broken glasses; blackened eyes, the broken sternums.
However, it's a fact... and it's a law in many cases... that kids and people of a specific age, height and weight, are safer in the back seat.
I have also seen the damages caused by airbags that don't deploy. The result is catastrophic injuries to brain, hearts, often resulting in death.
Whenever you buy used a car you figure is new enough to have airbags... appears to have airbags... and the dealer says there are airbags, often the are airbags aren't there.
Either the newer cars without air bags had them stolen, because airbags are a hot property on the black market. Used car dealers also sell cars that were in prior accidents involving airbag deployments. The deployed airbags were not replaced and the airbag cover panel is snapped securely in place. So buyer beware.
Because I have seen airbags save lives...
Because I have witnessed airbags do more good than harm...
the passenger front seat airbag in my car remains in "on" or active status.
The passenger airbag control was also "on" in the car when my client, called Martha for these purposes, was seated in the passenger seat of her daughter's car.
Martha was 72 and was just released from the hospital after a long stay which resulted in a Trach tube being put in her neck. Martha was excited to be going home, despite the tube she'd need to keep there. She said she figured it was small price to pay for being out of the hospital and being with the grandkids who were all waiting for her at home.
They were one mile from the daughter's home, on a rural two-lane road, when a teenager driving at a high rate of speed while texting on a cell phone neglected to notice the double yellow line in the middle of the road.
The teenager hit the car Martha and her daughter were in head-on... at what police believe was an estimated 55 mph. Airbags deployed in all vehicles as they are programmed to do in a direct head-on hit at a high rate of speed.
The airbag in the passenger seat Martha was sitting in hit her in the neck, the primary impact was to her face and neck where the trach tube was.
The airbag knocked the trach tube out of Martha's neck and sent its black smoke of chemicals and other toxic particles into the open trach hole in Martha's throat. The smoke and air bag particles entered Martha's entire body, first down her trachea, then occupying her lungs, and ultimately commandeering her entire body.
Martha's daughter made a U-turn and raced Martha back to the hospital. The hospital did triage, then Martha was airlifted to a trauma hospital in Seattle. By then, though, it was too late. Her system was taken over by all the airbag chemical attack.
By the time I met with Martha she'd been told she would die within the month.
She wanted to to sue the insurance company of the parents who owned and insured the car their teenager was driving while texting. She wanted the proceeds from the case to go to her children and grandchildren.
She also asked about suing the airbag company. I said that was a question to ask the attorney.
I told Martha I don't know whether a jury would consider the airbag company liable. The airbag deployed as it was programmed to. It didn't know Martha had a trach tube in. The jury might also also say everyone knows car have airbags. They might say it was incumbent upon Martha and her daughter to mitigate their own injuries or damages.
Martha talked to me about about her impending death calmly, like it was just another "to-do" on her list. She was resigned to her fate, she said, and determined to go out with dignity.
Live long enough and you learn.
Some people go out fighting, screaming, kicking, resisting.
Others, they exit gracefully, with dignity, acceptance, a resolute calm.
That would be Martha.
She lived the one month the doctors predicted. She's been dead three years now.
I told the attorney on the case the auto companies need a "Trach" passenger front airbag warning just as they have a size and weight warning for children. He said it was good idea but it wasn't going to happen. He said the voluntary airbag control switch in the passenger seat puts liability in the driver's hands. Not the airbag's.
There was enough insurance in the teenagers parents policy to provide for Martha's family in a manner she would have been pleased with. Despite Martha's wishes, the lawyers chose not to go after the airbag company. Ultimately she'd agreed with their position before she passed.
Today, someone, somewhere, will be released from a hospital with a trach tube.
All I can do is tell this story... and hope they don't sit in the front passenger seat.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Bad Karma - DWI
I was sent to see a 34 year old man in his trailer. Let's call him Joe.
Joe's trailer was parked beside a pre-fab house. I saw an old man and woman, both with long white hair, peer at me through the dirty front window of the house as I walked past it, towards Joe's trailer. I gave the couple a wave. The old man returned a toothless grin. The old woman's blank expression didn't change.
I passed the house and stepped into the side yard where the trailer was. A pit bull with a giant head and wild eyes appeared from nowhere in the unfenced backyard. He barked and lunged at me, then was stopped by a chain which flung him back by the neck in the unfenced yard.
It was one of those instant adrenalin rush moments that are part of the private investigator's job description. All senses remained on high alert when I knocked on the trailer door and Joe opened it.
On paper, Joe's case appeared a no-brainer to both myself and the attorney who assigned it.
Joe was in an old Honda 4 door, when he was hit by a new BMW that crossed the center line and hit Joe's vehicle head on.
Joe's car didn't have airbags. He sustained multiple injuries: concussion, cracked sternum, torn rotator cuff and a broken ankle. Plus abrasions, contusions, rips and tears in various ligaments.
The man in the new BMW that hit Joe was wearing a suit and tie when he was arrested at the scene for DWI and taken away in a squad car. Joe was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Both cars were totalled and towed.
Joe's car was not insured. The BMW was.
My job was to meet and greet Joe, then investigate Joe's story and persona... to assess whether the personal injury attorney investing time and money in his case... could win if it went to trial.
I shook Joe's hand. He was 34 years old, decent looking, unshaven, rough around the edges.
It was a hot day, he was wearing a t-shirt with a Harley Logo on it. I observed the inside of his arms were speckled with faded track marks.
The interview started as they all do. He had a copy of the police report. The Defendant was cited on the police report and had insurance. The insurance company had been calling and Joe didn't want to talk to them. He wanted his own attorney to deal with the insurance company.
One part of my job is to evaluate a potential client, to see if his story and his presence are credible. I asked about pre-existing injuries, prior accidents. I asked about the track marks on his arms.
Joe said he used to be a heroin user, he stopped a month ago. Now he does methadone at the community clinic.
I looked from his arms to his eyes and asked him if there was anything else he wanted to tell me.
Any secrets confidences, priors?
He asked what I meant.
You know, I said, Any criminal charges? Any dead bodies buried in your backyard the attorney needs to know about?
Almost always, that question evokes a laugh of innocence. Occasionally, it strikes the raw nerve of guilt. In this case, it was the latter.
Well, Joe said, I did kill my sister and paralyze my brother in law.
I asked how it happened.
Jow said it was a drunk driving accident. He was driving. It was all his fault.
Ain't it ironic, Joe said, as lit up his cigarette and took a deep drag.
He said he was partying all day, then went to hang out with his younger sister and her husband at their new house. At some point before sundown, they ran out of booze. Joe said he'd drive them all to the the gas station about 3 miles up the rural road for some more beer and cigarettes. Joe said his sister and brother in law insisted on coming with him.
Joe said he was drunker than a skunk, nearly triple the legal blood alcohol limit, when he took a curve the wrong way and slammed the little car into the massive trunk of huge tree. The impact was to the right side of the car. His sister was killed instantly, her husband in the passenger seat behind his sister had to be cut from the car. Her husband's legs were both shattered. His spinal column was crushed. Doctors said he would never walk again.
Joe said the Medical Examiner discovered his sister was pregnant at the autopsy. Joe didn't know that, she didn't tell anyone before the accident. The baby died when Joe's sister died.
Joe didn't have auto insurance on that car either.
Joe ended up in Wallla Walla penitentiary for 10 years.
I just got out one month ago, Joe told me.
Clearly the laws of karma were in effect.
Joe was a drunk driver who killed his own sister, paralyzed her husband, did time. And within one month of his release from prison, got hit by a drunk driver.
I thought the situation wasn't a good fit for the attorney. I didn't know what a jury would think if Joe refused a settlement offer and wanted to go trial. I thought Joe's past will always come back to haunt him and his attorney.
I told Joe the same thing I tell a potential client who I think is not in the attorney's best interests to represent. I told him I'd call him later if I have more questions. Otherwise, the law firm will get back to him when they make a final decision.
I got into my Jeep and exited the driveway.
As I turned the corner, I was surrounded by police.
They approached my car. I displayed my state P.I. license out the open driver's window and Identified myself verbally. One officer took the license, studied it, then asked me what my business was in that house. I said I was investigating a drunk driving accident for an attorney.
Another officer asked me if I knew the guy I was talking to in the trailer had killed his sister and paralyzed her husband. I said, Yes, I know that now. Didn't have a clue until the guy told me.
Then I asked the officers why they stopped and surrounded my car.
They said that the house was a well known crack house which runs a car theft ring. Allegedly, the leader of that ring drove a silver Jeep. The same color Jeep I drove. They thought I was doing illegal business at the residence. After more chatter about their surveillance on the property, the police gave me back my license and a couple of their business cards. We parted ways amiably.
I decided the victim didn't have the two things personal injury attorneys need most in their clients A.K.A. Plaintiffs: credibility; and what we call "jury presence" or appeal.
I called the attorney who hired me and told him about the track marks, pit bull, the deadly family dynamics and the cop stop. The attorney said it was the right decision to walk away from the case. I told the attorney I wanted hazard pay. He laughed, thought I was kidding.
Indeed, the law firm did step away from the case. I'm sure some other attorney took it on. However, the quality of a law firm is reflected by the quality of their clients. And this potential client was not of the higher quality variety.
Joe's trailer was parked beside a pre-fab house. I saw an old man and woman, both with long white hair, peer at me through the dirty front window of the house as I walked past it, towards Joe's trailer. I gave the couple a wave. The old man returned a toothless grin. The old woman's blank expression didn't change.
I passed the house and stepped into the side yard where the trailer was. A pit bull with a giant head and wild eyes appeared from nowhere in the unfenced backyard. He barked and lunged at me, then was stopped by a chain which flung him back by the neck in the unfenced yard.
It was one of those instant adrenalin rush moments that are part of the private investigator's job description. All senses remained on high alert when I knocked on the trailer door and Joe opened it.
On paper, Joe's case appeared a no-brainer to both myself and the attorney who assigned it.
Joe was in an old Honda 4 door, when he was hit by a new BMW that crossed the center line and hit Joe's vehicle head on.
Joe's car didn't have airbags. He sustained multiple injuries: concussion, cracked sternum, torn rotator cuff and a broken ankle. Plus abrasions, contusions, rips and tears in various ligaments.
The man in the new BMW that hit Joe was wearing a suit and tie when he was arrested at the scene for DWI and taken away in a squad car. Joe was taken by ambulance to the hospital. Both cars were totalled and towed.
Joe's car was not insured. The BMW was.
My job was to meet and greet Joe, then investigate Joe's story and persona... to assess whether the personal injury attorney investing time and money in his case... could win if it went to trial.
I shook Joe's hand. He was 34 years old, decent looking, unshaven, rough around the edges.
It was a hot day, he was wearing a t-shirt with a Harley Logo on it. I observed the inside of his arms were speckled with faded track marks.
The interview started as they all do. He had a copy of the police report. The Defendant was cited on the police report and had insurance. The insurance company had been calling and Joe didn't want to talk to them. He wanted his own attorney to deal with the insurance company.
One part of my job is to evaluate a potential client, to see if his story and his presence are credible. I asked about pre-existing injuries, prior accidents. I asked about the track marks on his arms.
Joe said he used to be a heroin user, he stopped a month ago. Now he does methadone at the community clinic.
I looked from his arms to his eyes and asked him if there was anything else he wanted to tell me.
Any secrets confidences, priors?
He asked what I meant.
You know, I said, Any criminal charges? Any dead bodies buried in your backyard the attorney needs to know about?
Almost always, that question evokes a laugh of innocence. Occasionally, it strikes the raw nerve of guilt. In this case, it was the latter.
Well, Joe said, I did kill my sister and paralyze my brother in law.
I asked how it happened.
Jow said it was a drunk driving accident. He was driving. It was all his fault.
Ain't it ironic, Joe said, as lit up his cigarette and took a deep drag.
He said he was partying all day, then went to hang out with his younger sister and her husband at their new house. At some point before sundown, they ran out of booze. Joe said he'd drive them all to the the gas station about 3 miles up the rural road for some more beer and cigarettes. Joe said his sister and brother in law insisted on coming with him.
Joe said he was drunker than a skunk, nearly triple the legal blood alcohol limit, when he took a curve the wrong way and slammed the little car into the massive trunk of huge tree. The impact was to the right side of the car. His sister was killed instantly, her husband in the passenger seat behind his sister had to be cut from the car. Her husband's legs were both shattered. His spinal column was crushed. Doctors said he would never walk again.
Joe said the Medical Examiner discovered his sister was pregnant at the autopsy. Joe didn't know that, she didn't tell anyone before the accident. The baby died when Joe's sister died.
Joe didn't have auto insurance on that car either.
Joe ended up in Wallla Walla penitentiary for 10 years.
I just got out one month ago, Joe told me.
Clearly the laws of karma were in effect.
Joe was a drunk driver who killed his own sister, paralyzed her husband, did time. And within one month of his release from prison, got hit by a drunk driver.
I thought the situation wasn't a good fit for the attorney. I didn't know what a jury would think if Joe refused a settlement offer and wanted to go trial. I thought Joe's past will always come back to haunt him and his attorney.
I told Joe the same thing I tell a potential client who I think is not in the attorney's best interests to represent. I told him I'd call him later if I have more questions. Otherwise, the law firm will get back to him when they make a final decision.
I got into my Jeep and exited the driveway.
As I turned the corner, I was surrounded by police.
They approached my car. I displayed my state P.I. license out the open driver's window and Identified myself verbally. One officer took the license, studied it, then asked me what my business was in that house. I said I was investigating a drunk driving accident for an attorney.
Another officer asked me if I knew the guy I was talking to in the trailer had killed his sister and paralyzed her husband. I said, Yes, I know that now. Didn't have a clue until the guy told me.
Then I asked the officers why they stopped and surrounded my car.
They said that the house was a well known crack house which runs a car theft ring. Allegedly, the leader of that ring drove a silver Jeep. The same color Jeep I drove. They thought I was doing illegal business at the residence. After more chatter about their surveillance on the property, the police gave me back my license and a couple of their business cards. We parted ways amiably.
I decided the victim didn't have the two things personal injury attorneys need most in their clients A.K.A. Plaintiffs: credibility; and what we call "jury presence" or appeal.
I called the attorney who hired me and told him about the track marks, pit bull, the deadly family dynamics and the cop stop. The attorney said it was the right decision to walk away from the case. I told the attorney I wanted hazard pay. He laughed, thought I was kidding.
Indeed, the law firm did step away from the case. I'm sure some other attorney took it on. However, the quality of a law firm is reflected by the quality of their clients. And this potential client was not of the higher quality variety.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A Survival Story
This post is dedicated Kent Sturgis, a publisher who owns Epicenter Press. Kent was kind enough to give me some advice about this blog and my writing. So it's quid pro quo time. Click on the title of this blog post and it will take you to Kent's website and some GREAT books you won't see anywhere else. Honor the independent press and order from Epicenter.
A Survival Story
Once upon a time, there was a man we'll call Dan who was working on a fishing boat in the Bering sea.
Dan was in the main cabin working on an electrical problem, a panel was open. The circuit was live and he was linked to it with one of his tools. At the same time, a rogue wave hit the boat... busted the window.... and a flood of seawater threw Dan's back flat against the open electrical panel he was still connected to. Water and electricity do not mix.
"You know those old cartoons where Wiley Coyote sticks his finger in a socket or something?" he asked me.
"You know how suddenly Wiley goes into this electrical spread eagle pose.... shakes and stutters, yells Yai-Yai-Yai-Yai-Yai? Well, that was me! I was pinned to that panel like a stuck pig being electrocuted!" he laughed.
His crew members, an airlift and many years of medical treatments saved him.
When we met, 10 years had passed. Now 45, he was in the living room of a low-income house north of Seattle.
His body was mottled with festering boils and sores left, he said, by the electricity. "It happens in some people struck by lightening," he told me. "The electricity re-wires your whole immune system"
And his left arm was amputated just below the shoulder.
"Electricity fried it right off," he said.
"Worst part was, I was left handed. Go figure. That's the arm I lose. Took me a while, but I finally learned to do everything pretty good with my right," he said. "Until this happened."
Which is why I was there.
The law firm sent me to see him because he was hit by a police car two days earlier. The police car... sirens screaming, lights flashing... was chasing a stolen car through an intersection.
The police car T-Boned Dan's car on the driver's side door. His left arm and shoulder took the brunt of the hit. He had a broken collar bone, torn rotator cuff and two fractures.
"Fingers still work though," he said, as he flapped his left hand in the sling he now wore.
"Wanna see my stump?" he added.
"Sure," I said, "And I'll have you know that's the first time a guy's ever used that line on me".
He laughed loudly, tension loosened. With the assist of a public health aid who was present, he was wrangled out of his shirt and photos were taken of new injuries and old. My camera zoomed in on the boils and burns covering his chest, neck. Then the stump of his right arm.
As I moved around him taking photos, I asked him how it was he kept it so together.
He had a great sense of humor, a calm disposition, a quiet strength and some kind of resolve I did not understand. Had I gone through what he did, I told him, I might walk off a cliff.
"Attitude is everything" he said.
He told me, as bad as it gets for him, "there's someone out there who has it worse. "
He talked about all the children in the burn unit at the Children's Hospital. He spoke of brain injury victims in Harborview. He talked about other fishermen he knew who died at sea.
We parted with a shake of his remaining five fingers. And I didn't lose touch with his case.
His left arm healed, the insurance company for the police paid his medical bills and his pain and suffering. He remains in the same house, the same space, the same mental place.... with grace.
Much much grace than I would ever have under that kind of pressure.
A Survival Story
Once upon a time, there was a man we'll call Dan who was working on a fishing boat in the Bering sea.
Dan was in the main cabin working on an electrical problem, a panel was open. The circuit was live and he was linked to it with one of his tools. At the same time, a rogue wave hit the boat... busted the window.... and a flood of seawater threw Dan's back flat against the open electrical panel he was still connected to. Water and electricity do not mix.
"You know those old cartoons where Wiley Coyote sticks his finger in a socket or something?" he asked me.
"You know how suddenly Wiley goes into this electrical spread eagle pose.... shakes and stutters, yells Yai-Yai-Yai-Yai-Yai? Well, that was me! I was pinned to that panel like a stuck pig being electrocuted!" he laughed.
His crew members, an airlift and many years of medical treatments saved him.
When we met, 10 years had passed. Now 45, he was in the living room of a low-income house north of Seattle.
His body was mottled with festering boils and sores left, he said, by the electricity. "It happens in some people struck by lightening," he told me. "The electricity re-wires your whole immune system"
And his left arm was amputated just below the shoulder.
"Electricity fried it right off," he said.
"Worst part was, I was left handed. Go figure. That's the arm I lose. Took me a while, but I finally learned to do everything pretty good with my right," he said. "Until this happened."
Which is why I was there.
The law firm sent me to see him because he was hit by a police car two days earlier. The police car... sirens screaming, lights flashing... was chasing a stolen car through an intersection.
The police car T-Boned Dan's car on the driver's side door. His left arm and shoulder took the brunt of the hit. He had a broken collar bone, torn rotator cuff and two fractures.
"Fingers still work though," he said, as he flapped his left hand in the sling he now wore.
"Wanna see my stump?" he added.
"Sure," I said, "And I'll have you know that's the first time a guy's ever used that line on me".
He laughed loudly, tension loosened. With the assist of a public health aid who was present, he was wrangled out of his shirt and photos were taken of new injuries and old. My camera zoomed in on the boils and burns covering his chest, neck. Then the stump of his right arm.
As I moved around him taking photos, I asked him how it was he kept it so together.
He had a great sense of humor, a calm disposition, a quiet strength and some kind of resolve I did not understand. Had I gone through what he did, I told him, I might walk off a cliff.
"Attitude is everything" he said.
He told me, as bad as it gets for him, "there's someone out there who has it worse. "
He talked about all the children in the burn unit at the Children's Hospital. He spoke of brain injury victims in Harborview. He talked about other fishermen he knew who died at sea.
We parted with a shake of his remaining five fingers. And I didn't lose touch with his case.
His left arm healed, the insurance company for the police paid his medical bills and his pain and suffering. He remains in the same house, the same space, the same mental place.... with grace.
Much much grace than I would ever have under that kind of pressure.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Killer Stories
First, her ears caught the sound of a hum, a buzz, but not like bees, in front of her. That's what drew her eyes to what she thought was fog ahead of her.
She left the familiar trail to the campground's bathroom and stepped into the woods, drawn toward the sunlight breaking through the forest, then a swarm of flies hovering mid-air like a helicopter, she said to the police. They were above something behind a log down to the right of the trail she'd walked off.
She looked up, big birds were circling over head. Then her nose alerted to the sweet, sickly smell.
And so she followed the primal forces called her senses through the forest until she came to the body of a woman, dead, and partially covered by a mattress
She was only 8 years old the day she found the dead woman.
I asked her how she felt when she found the body.
She answered me in just one word."Gross."
She ran and yelled for her father. Her father called the police.
It was supposed to be a father daughter camping weekend, with mama at home with her new baby. It turned into a whole different scenario.
The Police, Rangers, M.E.,... everyone... swarmed on the scene and took her daddy back to the police hive and took the terrified 9 year old home to her horrified mother and newborn sister.
The police first thought since she found the body and she was camping with her daddy, maybe daddy was the bad dude.
Turned out her daddy didn't do it. Daddy was set free. And the killer still roams free, identity unknown.
Fast forward.
I am talking to a 12 year old girl. They found her best friend, also 12 years old, who was missing two nights. She was dead and stuffed in a sewer pipe near a shopping mall I usually go to.
In fact, I was at that mall today. But this story I am telling you about happened maybe 7 years ago.
I asked the 12 year old how she felt when she heard what happened to her friend.
Again, just one word.
"Scared."
Eventually, they found the guys who did that one.
Keep fast forwarding.
For every year, there are more memories.
Another day, another dead body and broken family. Which makes tonight's blog post not the most pleasant of reads, I know.
However, it is a pertinent subject.
And I suspect if you've made it this far, you are one of us.
One of those with a strong stomach and a curious mind... one of those fascinated, compelled and motivated to bring justice to those who can not bring it on by themselves.
Our friend this weekend told me of a walk on the beach when she was 8. A man coming out of an old boarded up shack on the beach, grabbed her, and began pulling her to the shack. She said he stunk and he said something about how she was his now.
Instinct kicked in she became a tiger. Somehow, she said, she jammed her elbow into his crotch and ran screaming home. The cops found his stuff in the shack, but never found him. He'd been squatting there a long time.
Unless you live where we do, you may not be aware the Chief of the Tacoma police, who shot his wife in the head in a parking lot, then himself, while his kids sat waiting in the other car. These are the big stories, the public stories, we hear about on TV and the papers.
And then there are the other stories, the ones that don't get the press. The Vignettes. Blurbs. Short stories. Sidebars. Flashes in the pan. Cases we private investigators are assigned to. The cases where the families hire attorneys who hire private investigators because the police are either too busy or at a dead-end in the case and can't help them.
I teach investigation with a well-known and highly respected criminal defense investigator who was one of the investigators representing the Green River Killer. She was one who, according to stories I have heard, made maps marking dumping grounds and body finds. She realized some one else did some of the killings her client, Ridgeway, was accused of. She came up with a code name for another killer, the Red River Killer.
That name never has and never will make the news.
Nor will the other bodies scattered in the same areas serial killers use to dump, bury or revisit their victims.
Some of those bodies were placed there by opportunists... plankton hitching a ride on a killer whale's burial ground.
It is both possible and likely, a husband who felt angry, betrayed or justified, would kill his wife and place her where Gary Ridgeway put his victims. The hope being, that a body well-placed will deflect suspicion from them, by placing it on the obvious.
Dead body here. Another there. Killer stories in my head.
Man shot in sleeping bag left by I-5.
Young woman, I met at a party recently found dead strangled under a highway overpass.
I know people who've hung themselves, jumped off bridges. But this was their choice.
The dead clients I, as an investigator, represent... leave this planet with extreme reluctance and put up one hell of fight on the way out.
The identities of so many killers remain unknown during their lives.
We got lucky BTK resurfaced and blew his own cover after decades, before he could kill again.
Most, like Jack the Ripper, and The Zodiak, they walk among us, live among us and often die until, many years later, we sometimes figure out who they were.
I once lived in the same LA neighborhood as the Hillside strangler. I teach at a Univerity that Ted Bundy attended briefly. He could have had a very promising legal career, one judge told him (and I paraphrase), had he not chosen to become a serial killer.
Ted Bundy tried to pick up one of my best friends in his brown VW one day while she was walking to work. He tried to charm her, insisted he give her a ride so she get out of the rain. She said though he was quite handsome, she felt something wasn't right and walked away from him and his car. She later testified in his case.
In college, a close friend of mine was stabbed in the neck by a random insane stranger while on her way to the library.
Another disappeared after accepting a ride-share posted on a college bulletin board.
And just last year, a 17 year old client of mine, leaving a non-alcoholic christian night club, was shot in the neck and paralyzed when she left the club. She lived. But she will not live a life she deserves to have.
It was a drive by shooting. Shooter unknown. When I saw her paralyzed at 17 in her wheelchair at Harborview, she seemed to me in a trance. She could not process or fathom what the doctors told her parents. She would never walk again . She would never have children. She would never be able to live or eat or pee without the assist of tubes.
Before that, she was one of the most popular girls in her school.
I was hired to see if we could find someone liable. Meaning, find some money, somewhere, to pay her medical bills, her future medical bills, her lost wages (she worked after school and planned to become a nurse) and her pain and suffering. Her family had no money, she had three younger siblings and no health insurance. Harborview took her on as a charity case as they do for so many trauma patients here the northwest.
Since we couldn't find the shooter, and shooters usually don't have insurance anyway, we did find out that the the nightclub where she was leaving that night about 11:00 pm did have insurance. And for some reason the private security firm they usually hired was not at the club that night. Normally there's a lot of security, because there are minors in that club and it's not in the best area of town. However, there is a no drinking policy and it is a Christian based organization. So when mom let her daughter go there that Friday night, mom had expectations of security and her daughter's safety.
But on this night, for whatever reason you care to use to explain it, there was a horrific transgression... or transmutation... in time and space, that caused a random bullet to meet, then penetrate, a fragile young neck and obliterate a promising future.
As I write this post, the losses of friends, clients and strangers flood over me.... a hurricane Katrina in this investigator's head.... that's usually contained behind a dam of determination to make a miserable situation better.
I tell the families of the injured or dead this:
It's like throwing a pebble in the water. An accident, injury, death, causes a ripple effect, with smaller circles first... to family, friends, community, co-workers... then beyond. Everyone is affected in some way.
And this is the point where I say no more because there's no more to be said.
What's done can't be undone.
All we have... really... is now. This moment, this day, this night.
From this point on, it's all a go-forward. Unless...
we stop and look back.
She left the familiar trail to the campground's bathroom and stepped into the woods, drawn toward the sunlight breaking through the forest, then a swarm of flies hovering mid-air like a helicopter, she said to the police. They were above something behind a log down to the right of the trail she'd walked off.
She looked up, big birds were circling over head. Then her nose alerted to the sweet, sickly smell.
And so she followed the primal forces called her senses through the forest until she came to the body of a woman, dead, and partially covered by a mattress
She was only 8 years old the day she found the dead woman.
I asked her how she felt when she found the body.
She answered me in just one word."Gross."
She ran and yelled for her father. Her father called the police.
It was supposed to be a father daughter camping weekend, with mama at home with her new baby. It turned into a whole different scenario.
The Police, Rangers, M.E.,... everyone... swarmed on the scene and took her daddy back to the police hive and took the terrified 9 year old home to her horrified mother and newborn sister.
The police first thought since she found the body and she was camping with her daddy, maybe daddy was the bad dude.
Turned out her daddy didn't do it. Daddy was set free. And the killer still roams free, identity unknown.
Fast forward.
I am talking to a 12 year old girl. They found her best friend, also 12 years old, who was missing two nights. She was dead and stuffed in a sewer pipe near a shopping mall I usually go to.
In fact, I was at that mall today. But this story I am telling you about happened maybe 7 years ago.
I asked the 12 year old how she felt when she heard what happened to her friend.
Again, just one word.
"Scared."
Eventually, they found the guys who did that one.
Keep fast forwarding.
For every year, there are more memories.
Another day, another dead body and broken family. Which makes tonight's blog post not the most pleasant of reads, I know.
However, it is a pertinent subject.
And I suspect if you've made it this far, you are one of us.
One of those with a strong stomach and a curious mind... one of those fascinated, compelled and motivated to bring justice to those who can not bring it on by themselves.
Our friend this weekend told me of a walk on the beach when she was 8. A man coming out of an old boarded up shack on the beach, grabbed her, and began pulling her to the shack. She said he stunk and he said something about how she was his now.
Instinct kicked in she became a tiger. Somehow, she said, she jammed her elbow into his crotch and ran screaming home. The cops found his stuff in the shack, but never found him. He'd been squatting there a long time.
Unless you live where we do, you may not be aware the Chief of the Tacoma police, who shot his wife in the head in a parking lot, then himself, while his kids sat waiting in the other car. These are the big stories, the public stories, we hear about on TV and the papers.
And then there are the other stories, the ones that don't get the press. The Vignettes. Blurbs. Short stories. Sidebars. Flashes in the pan. Cases we private investigators are assigned to. The cases where the families hire attorneys who hire private investigators because the police are either too busy or at a dead-end in the case and can't help them.
I teach investigation with a well-known and highly respected criminal defense investigator who was one of the investigators representing the Green River Killer. She was one who, according to stories I have heard, made maps marking dumping grounds and body finds. She realized some one else did some of the killings her client, Ridgeway, was accused of. She came up with a code name for another killer, the Red River Killer.
That name never has and never will make the news.
Nor will the other bodies scattered in the same areas serial killers use to dump, bury or revisit their victims.
Some of those bodies were placed there by opportunists... plankton hitching a ride on a killer whale's burial ground.
It is both possible and likely, a husband who felt angry, betrayed or justified, would kill his wife and place her where Gary Ridgeway put his victims. The hope being, that a body well-placed will deflect suspicion from them, by placing it on the obvious.
Dead body here. Another there. Killer stories in my head.
Man shot in sleeping bag left by I-5.
Young woman, I met at a party recently found dead strangled under a highway overpass.
I know people who've hung themselves, jumped off bridges. But this was their choice.
The dead clients I, as an investigator, represent... leave this planet with extreme reluctance and put up one hell of fight on the way out.
The identities of so many killers remain unknown during their lives.
We got lucky BTK resurfaced and blew his own cover after decades, before he could kill again.
Most, like Jack the Ripper, and The Zodiak, they walk among us, live among us and often die until, many years later, we sometimes figure out who they were.
I once lived in the same LA neighborhood as the Hillside strangler. I teach at a Univerity that Ted Bundy attended briefly. He could have had a very promising legal career, one judge told him (and I paraphrase), had he not chosen to become a serial killer.
Ted Bundy tried to pick up one of my best friends in his brown VW one day while she was walking to work. He tried to charm her, insisted he give her a ride so she get out of the rain. She said though he was quite handsome, she felt something wasn't right and walked away from him and his car. She later testified in his case.
In college, a close friend of mine was stabbed in the neck by a random insane stranger while on her way to the library.
Another disappeared after accepting a ride-share posted on a college bulletin board.
And just last year, a 17 year old client of mine, leaving a non-alcoholic christian night club, was shot in the neck and paralyzed when she left the club. She lived. But she will not live a life she deserves to have.
It was a drive by shooting. Shooter unknown. When I saw her paralyzed at 17 in her wheelchair at Harborview, she seemed to me in a trance. She could not process or fathom what the doctors told her parents. She would never walk again . She would never have children. She would never be able to live or eat or pee without the assist of tubes.
Before that, she was one of the most popular girls in her school.
I was hired to see if we could find someone liable. Meaning, find some money, somewhere, to pay her medical bills, her future medical bills, her lost wages (she worked after school and planned to become a nurse) and her pain and suffering. Her family had no money, she had three younger siblings and no health insurance. Harborview took her on as a charity case as they do for so many trauma patients here the northwest.
Since we couldn't find the shooter, and shooters usually don't have insurance anyway, we did find out that the the nightclub where she was leaving that night about 11:00 pm did have insurance. And for some reason the private security firm they usually hired was not at the club that night. Normally there's a lot of security, because there are minors in that club and it's not in the best area of town. However, there is a no drinking policy and it is a Christian based organization. So when mom let her daughter go there that Friday night, mom had expectations of security and her daughter's safety.
But on this night, for whatever reason you care to use to explain it, there was a horrific transgression... or transmutation... in time and space, that caused a random bullet to meet, then penetrate, a fragile young neck and obliterate a promising future.
As I write this post, the losses of friends, clients and strangers flood over me.... a hurricane Katrina in this investigator's head.... that's usually contained behind a dam of determination to make a miserable situation better.
I tell the families of the injured or dead this:
It's like throwing a pebble in the water. An accident, injury, death, causes a ripple effect, with smaller circles first... to family, friends, community, co-workers... then beyond. Everyone is affected in some way.
And this is the point where I say no more because there's no more to be said.
What's done can't be undone.
All we have... really... is now. This moment, this day, this night.
From this point on, it's all a go-forward. Unless...
we stop and look back.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The Lady In White
There are so many stories to tell. Days, months, years of them. The faces and cases blend together in a collage of memories and realities... each investigation running the gamut from highly aggravating and life-altering, to catastrophic.
To share such stories on a forum like this one requires both caution and respect.
Caution... because there are issues of privacy in all investigations -- legal, ethical and moral.
Respect... because by the time a client hires a private investigator, things in their life have gotten very grim. And a person who is willing to fight for their rights, willing to hire the warriors.... the attorneys, the p.i.'s, the mercenaries .... to do battle for them, deserves respect. Yet at the end of the day, in some cases... I find the respect I initially invested, poorly spent.
The justice system has flaws in its structure.
There are innocent people on death row and guilty people on the streets.
The bad guys look like good guys, and the good guys are often overlooked.... because the bad guys disguised as good guys seduce their targets, victims, subjects.
Let me preface the case study that follows by saying, just because it appears to feature a female victim, men are victims as much, if not more as women from domestic dramas, traumas, confrontations.
We all have our illusions and delusions of love when we think we are falling in love.
But that stage of falling is more like we are being led by forces beyond ourselves that are actually within ourselves.
Because in the first moments of new physical relationships, it is hormones, primal instinct... not our brains... that launch, then drive us. It is instinct, passion, need, desire, want, lust... those are the things that first fuel a fire of attraction that may or may not remain lit.
That initial fire of infatuation either extinguishes itself over time, or continues to grow. Sometimes it's contained. Sometimes it leaps boundaries, burns homes, consumes lives and leaves ashes in its wake. Forget logic, reason, rationality.
Some relationships are so sick, or co-dependent, they're like those birthday candles you blow out that perpetually re-ignite. The abused return to the abuser. The apologies work until the next offense. Then the patterns repeat themselves.
People keep making the same mistakes over and over again until they either get it right. Or die trying.
Case In Point: The Lady In White
Domestics are the most violent of all cases for police calls. That's because passions are ignited like wildfires, weapons are often involved. Lovers scorned can and will hurt or kill each other every day.
This is the story of one domestic... A single vignette from a huge canvas of possibilities I could pick from. My challenge will be to sum up this story, to span many weeks into just a few paragraphs.
It started at sushi bar when I first met my client-to-be...
the beautiful 39 year old white lady dressed in a white blazer, white turtleneck, white pants and white sandals which revealed white tipped french manicured toenails that matched the tips of her fingernails. the sushi bar i was seated next to her at was painted a soft white with a clean white countertop. The sushi chefs wore their white coats and hats.
I got a lot of cases from sushi bars in my early days as a P.I. Sitting by myself, at the sushi bar, ordering in Japanese, chatting with the sushi chef, sometimes sipping sake, maybe reading a book or writing....that draws attention. I wait for someone to talk to me. Or I comment on something they order. Ultimately, people ask what I do. I tell them.
And poof! a case arrives. Just like that.
So that's how I met the lady dressed in white who looked like Sharon Stone, with very short cropped blond. hair. She asked me for my business card when I told her what I did.
When I asked her what she did, she said, "Marketing."
I asked what kind. "Business," she replied.
Then she changed the subject to the one that pays the bills. She wanted to hire me to investigate her new boyfriend.
She is 39 years old she says. She lives in a mansion, (she really used that word), in Redmond (Microsoft-ville) all by herself. I asked if she was married. She hesitated, said no, then started talking again.
She said she hired a counter man/handyman type to put white marble on all her counter tops She said he's actually a very handy and exceptionally smart man. She said you wouldn't know how smart he was to look at him, because he needed major dental work and had a kind of rough appearance. He wasn't exactly ugly, she said, but he needed a bit of fixing up. Besides, she said, it was his soul, his spirit she was attracted to.
She said he was divorced, living in an apartment and had partial custody of a 17 year old daughter.
She said having this man work on the counters of her house... she couldn't help herself. He was so charming, so witty, so strong. One minute they were talking, the next, her botox lips with expensively capped teeth met his smarmy mouth and somewhere in that mix, love blossomed.
She said, they've been intimate two nights a week ever since. He'll spend Mondays and Thursdays nights at her house but had to take care of his 18 year old daughter the other nights. She had never been to his apartment, never met his daughter. Now she wanted him to move in. And she wanted me to check him out.
I asked her what her house is worth. She said a half million dollars.
I ask her what assets she knows he has. She said none.
She said she doesn't want me to get the wrong idea.
She's a smart woman, she said.
Before she moves him into the house, he'll live in a tent in the backyard. The tent was his suggestion, she said. She told him yes he could come in use the shower and bath, but she'd prefer most night to sleep alone and she said he was fine with that.
She said she liked the idea because she felt good having a man around to keep an eye on things.
She didn't tell me why he liked the idea.
I had that one all figured out.
He liked the idea because he could live rent free in a tent in the back yard of a beautiful, evidently rich woman's home...and ultimately move in on her... to fulfill whatever motive he had up his sleeve. And being who I am and what I do, I suspected said motive was nefarious.
She added one more point to the story. He agreed to do handyman work for her around the house and in return, she would pay his dental work, a completely new set of teeth. She guessed this would cost about 25k.
This was told me at the sushi bar.
The next time I spoke to her was at her house. Her "mansion." And that it was.
I parked next to the white Mercedes in her driveway.
She answered the door at 10:00 am in a white cashmere bathrobe that almost reached the floor. Her entire house was white, walls, rugs, furniture, picture frames.
Oddly there was only one personal picture in the living room. The same picture was in her bedroom, above the bed with a white mink-like coverlet on it. The picture was a photo of the lady in white, in white, hugging her white-haired dog, a Husky, who came out of the lily white kitchen to greet me.
She gave me a tour of her home. White staircase to white bedroom, white walk-ins, sitting rooms, bathrooms with white Italian tile and granite.
When we sat down at her white kitchen table, I asked her again what she did for a living.
She again was evasive, said she does some marketing for a friend's company and mainly she'd come into money.
She owns the house outright she said. Money is no object, she continued, as she wrote out a check and handed it to me.
I had her figured as a high class hooker or a trust fund baby who was either into the white thing.. or an obsessive compulsive thing.
I saw no office in the place, it was this make-believe Barbie Doll house in Arctic white.
Now... we fast forward.
I did my investigation. The guy was bad. Very bad. He'd beaten one wife he'd divorced. I called and talked to her, She was still terrified of him. She said she thinks he is evil. She said one time he got mad at the new kitty she just got and threw it out the window and down three stories. Crushed kitty's skull. And that was just the beginning of it all.
So I tell the lady in white this. She stares at me blankly from across her white kitchen table.
I tell her again... he killed a kitten, do you get that?
Her response was, "I'm an animal right advocate, that is disturbing. But people change."
I gave her the rest of his story. I'd done a background and surveillance on him.
He was still married.
His wife lived with a woman who I later I.D.'d via the open living room window and my camera as the wife's lesbian lover. Or part of a threesome involving the handyman.
I told my client that was where he spent the nights because he didn't have an apartment. That's why she never saw his apartment, I tell her. And he didn't have a daughter either. At least I couldn't identify one.
When he told my client he went home to the daughter, he usually boozed it up with Thelma and Louise.... then one, two or three retreated into the bedroom.
I wrapped my summary for her by suggesting she get him out of her life immediately, cut off contact, no tent, no future, no nothing. I also suggested Thelma and Louise may be in on the whole thing.
She seemed oddly calm and said this:
"While the information surprises me, I don't think it will change my mind about letting him move in."
I, of course, was dumbfounded.
I re-stated my case to her.
I showed her the records, the court files, report of interview with the ex wife, photos of the current wife and restraining orders. I show her the residency databases, the fact that he shares a permanent address with a woman he is still married to.
The lady in white calmly said, "Thank you I will take it under advisement."
I pondered the next move. Were she not a client, a good slap upside the head might be in order. Instead, I asked, "Who pays for this place, really? What's going on?"
It was the right question because the rest of the story unfolded.
"It's a secret," she said to me, smilingly mischievously.
She said she used to be a waitress in a diner in Wenatchee which is a more rural city in Eastern WA, reminiscent more of cowboys than metro-sexual city types.
She was living in a trailer with a guy who did too much coke and hassled her all the time. He beat her once, she said. She grew up in Wenatchee, she said and she wanted out.
The area there was all white people, she explained. She had red hair then.
So one day, this man, "a colored man" she called him, he told her he was 82 and was dressed in a very expensive suit, carried a fancy leather briefcase.... and he must have been 6 '3". He ordered eggs, toast and jam from her and she struck up a conversation with him. He was very well spoken she said, very well educated.
Turned out, she said, he was a wealthy man who owned land and was here to settle his dead sister's estate. He was the only one left alive in his family. She owned orchards. He inherited her money and had a lot of his own. There is no one else alive, it was all on his shoulders now, he told her.
He was in town a week. He came back to the diner the next morning, then the next and she courted him, she admitted to me.
On the day before his last breakfast at the diner before heading back to Seattle...
she told him her life was in danger, her boyfriend was in jail and if he was released, he would kill her. She needed to escape.
She told me he instantly asked her to marry him. He would move her to Seattle where he lived. So he, the 82 year old man married the 39 year old, red head turned blond.
She told me she agreed to marry him as long as they didn't have sex.... to which i said "Bullshit.:" She said, "No its true."
It's not about the sex she said. They have a spiritual connection.
Ultimately, she told him Seattle gave her the creeps, so she picked out a house in Redmond in a gated community next to a pond for him to buy her. She told him she had a nervous condition and has to be alone most of the time. All he asked is to spend every Sunday night with her, she told me. She would fix him something special and dress like she did in the diner. She also added that he signed his will.... everything over to her.
So when he dies, not only will the house remain with her because it is in her name, she will also get his house in Seattle, and all his other assets from his entire deceased family, which are significant.
So... she said to me, concluding her story, the handyman is just that. A handyman. She doesn't intend to marry him because she is already married. She just intended to have him handy in case she needed him for "something."
I have pondered that "something" for years now.
Once I walked away from her door, I refused further work for her.
I checked up on her husband for a year or so, he was still alive.
I don't know whether the handyman is around... whether he has a new set of teeth...
whether she was planning to use him as a handy hit-man or a foil for the SODDI defense (Some Other Dude Did It.)
Many single or newly single women are drawn to handymen they hire.
I investigate a lot of these cases. Landscapers, carpet cleaners, roofers, handymen... there are predators in every business where people are alone, vulnerable and in need of an assist.
Predators know many independent women with assets secretly want to be loved and they play white knight until darkness descends and they can separate their prey and their assets. In this case, I'm not sure who was the prey, really. It's like everyone used each other.
Ultimately, I'd say the men were the ones being played by a player, the likes of which I never saw coming.
To share such stories on a forum like this one requires both caution and respect.
Caution... because there are issues of privacy in all investigations -- legal, ethical and moral.
Respect... because by the time a client hires a private investigator, things in their life have gotten very grim. And a person who is willing to fight for their rights, willing to hire the warriors.... the attorneys, the p.i.'s, the mercenaries .... to do battle for them, deserves respect. Yet at the end of the day, in some cases... I find the respect I initially invested, poorly spent.
The justice system has flaws in its structure.
There are innocent people on death row and guilty people on the streets.
The bad guys look like good guys, and the good guys are often overlooked.... because the bad guys disguised as good guys seduce their targets, victims, subjects.
Let me preface the case study that follows by saying, just because it appears to feature a female victim, men are victims as much, if not more as women from domestic dramas, traumas, confrontations.
We all have our illusions and delusions of love when we think we are falling in love.
But that stage of falling is more like we are being led by forces beyond ourselves that are actually within ourselves.
Because in the first moments of new physical relationships, it is hormones, primal instinct... not our brains... that launch, then drive us. It is instinct, passion, need, desire, want, lust... those are the things that first fuel a fire of attraction that may or may not remain lit.
That initial fire of infatuation either extinguishes itself over time, or continues to grow. Sometimes it's contained. Sometimes it leaps boundaries, burns homes, consumes lives and leaves ashes in its wake. Forget logic, reason, rationality.
Some relationships are so sick, or co-dependent, they're like those birthday candles you blow out that perpetually re-ignite. The abused return to the abuser. The apologies work until the next offense. Then the patterns repeat themselves.
People keep making the same mistakes over and over again until they either get it right. Or die trying.
Case In Point: The Lady In White
Domestics are the most violent of all cases for police calls. That's because passions are ignited like wildfires, weapons are often involved. Lovers scorned can and will hurt or kill each other every day.
This is the story of one domestic... A single vignette from a huge canvas of possibilities I could pick from. My challenge will be to sum up this story, to span many weeks into just a few paragraphs.
It started at sushi bar when I first met my client-to-be...
the beautiful 39 year old white lady dressed in a white blazer, white turtleneck, white pants and white sandals which revealed white tipped french manicured toenails that matched the tips of her fingernails. the sushi bar i was seated next to her at was painted a soft white with a clean white countertop. The sushi chefs wore their white coats and hats.
I got a lot of cases from sushi bars in my early days as a P.I. Sitting by myself, at the sushi bar, ordering in Japanese, chatting with the sushi chef, sometimes sipping sake, maybe reading a book or writing....that draws attention. I wait for someone to talk to me. Or I comment on something they order. Ultimately, people ask what I do. I tell them.
And poof! a case arrives. Just like that.
So that's how I met the lady dressed in white who looked like Sharon Stone, with very short cropped blond. hair. She asked me for my business card when I told her what I did.
When I asked her what she did, she said, "Marketing."
I asked what kind. "Business," she replied.
Then she changed the subject to the one that pays the bills. She wanted to hire me to investigate her new boyfriend.
She is 39 years old she says. She lives in a mansion, (she really used that word), in Redmond (Microsoft-ville) all by herself. I asked if she was married. She hesitated, said no, then started talking again.
She said she hired a counter man/handyman type to put white marble on all her counter tops She said he's actually a very handy and exceptionally smart man. She said you wouldn't know how smart he was to look at him, because he needed major dental work and had a kind of rough appearance. He wasn't exactly ugly, she said, but he needed a bit of fixing up. Besides, she said, it was his soul, his spirit she was attracted to.
She said he was divorced, living in an apartment and had partial custody of a 17 year old daughter.
She said having this man work on the counters of her house... she couldn't help herself. He was so charming, so witty, so strong. One minute they were talking, the next, her botox lips with expensively capped teeth met his smarmy mouth and somewhere in that mix, love blossomed.
She said, they've been intimate two nights a week ever since. He'll spend Mondays and Thursdays nights at her house but had to take care of his 18 year old daughter the other nights. She had never been to his apartment, never met his daughter. Now she wanted him to move in. And she wanted me to check him out.
I asked her what her house is worth. She said a half million dollars.
I ask her what assets she knows he has. She said none.
She said she doesn't want me to get the wrong idea.
She's a smart woman, she said.
Before she moves him into the house, he'll live in a tent in the backyard. The tent was his suggestion, she said. She told him yes he could come in use the shower and bath, but she'd prefer most night to sleep alone and she said he was fine with that.
She said she liked the idea because she felt good having a man around to keep an eye on things.
She didn't tell me why he liked the idea.
I had that one all figured out.
He liked the idea because he could live rent free in a tent in the back yard of a beautiful, evidently rich woman's home...and ultimately move in on her... to fulfill whatever motive he had up his sleeve. And being who I am and what I do, I suspected said motive was nefarious.
She added one more point to the story. He agreed to do handyman work for her around the house and in return, she would pay his dental work, a completely new set of teeth. She guessed this would cost about 25k.
This was told me at the sushi bar.
The next time I spoke to her was at her house. Her "mansion." And that it was.
I parked next to the white Mercedes in her driveway.
She answered the door at 10:00 am in a white cashmere bathrobe that almost reached the floor. Her entire house was white, walls, rugs, furniture, picture frames.
Oddly there was only one personal picture in the living room. The same picture was in her bedroom, above the bed with a white mink-like coverlet on it. The picture was a photo of the lady in white, in white, hugging her white-haired dog, a Husky, who came out of the lily white kitchen to greet me.
She gave me a tour of her home. White staircase to white bedroom, white walk-ins, sitting rooms, bathrooms with white Italian tile and granite.
When we sat down at her white kitchen table, I asked her again what she did for a living.
She again was evasive, said she does some marketing for a friend's company and mainly she'd come into money.
She owns the house outright she said. Money is no object, she continued, as she wrote out a check and handed it to me.
I had her figured as a high class hooker or a trust fund baby who was either into the white thing.. or an obsessive compulsive thing.
I saw no office in the place, it was this make-believe Barbie Doll house in Arctic white.
Now... we fast forward.
I did my investigation. The guy was bad. Very bad. He'd beaten one wife he'd divorced. I called and talked to her, She was still terrified of him. She said she thinks he is evil. She said one time he got mad at the new kitty she just got and threw it out the window and down three stories. Crushed kitty's skull. And that was just the beginning of it all.
So I tell the lady in white this. She stares at me blankly from across her white kitchen table.
I tell her again... he killed a kitten, do you get that?
Her response was, "I'm an animal right advocate, that is disturbing. But people change."
I gave her the rest of his story. I'd done a background and surveillance on him.
He was still married.
His wife lived with a woman who I later I.D.'d via the open living room window and my camera as the wife's lesbian lover. Or part of a threesome involving the handyman.
I told my client that was where he spent the nights because he didn't have an apartment. That's why she never saw his apartment, I tell her. And he didn't have a daughter either. At least I couldn't identify one.
When he told my client he went home to the daughter, he usually boozed it up with Thelma and Louise.... then one, two or three retreated into the bedroom.
I wrapped my summary for her by suggesting she get him out of her life immediately, cut off contact, no tent, no future, no nothing. I also suggested Thelma and Louise may be in on the whole thing.
She seemed oddly calm and said this:
"While the information surprises me, I don't think it will change my mind about letting him move in."
I, of course, was dumbfounded.
I re-stated my case to her.
I showed her the records, the court files, report of interview with the ex wife, photos of the current wife and restraining orders. I show her the residency databases, the fact that he shares a permanent address with a woman he is still married to.
The lady in white calmly said, "Thank you I will take it under advisement."
I pondered the next move. Were she not a client, a good slap upside the head might be in order. Instead, I asked, "Who pays for this place, really? What's going on?"
It was the right question because the rest of the story unfolded.
"It's a secret," she said to me, smilingly mischievously.
She said she used to be a waitress in a diner in Wenatchee which is a more rural city in Eastern WA, reminiscent more of cowboys than metro-sexual city types.
She was living in a trailer with a guy who did too much coke and hassled her all the time. He beat her once, she said. She grew up in Wenatchee, she said and she wanted out.
The area there was all white people, she explained. She had red hair then.
So one day, this man, "a colored man" she called him, he told her he was 82 and was dressed in a very expensive suit, carried a fancy leather briefcase.... and he must have been 6 '3". He ordered eggs, toast and jam from her and she struck up a conversation with him. He was very well spoken she said, very well educated.
Turned out, she said, he was a wealthy man who owned land and was here to settle his dead sister's estate. He was the only one left alive in his family. She owned orchards. He inherited her money and had a lot of his own. There is no one else alive, it was all on his shoulders now, he told her.
He was in town a week. He came back to the diner the next morning, then the next and she courted him, she admitted to me.
On the day before his last breakfast at the diner before heading back to Seattle...
she told him her life was in danger, her boyfriend was in jail and if he was released, he would kill her. She needed to escape.
She told me he instantly asked her to marry him. He would move her to Seattle where he lived. So he, the 82 year old man married the 39 year old, red head turned blond.
She told me she agreed to marry him as long as they didn't have sex.... to which i said "Bullshit.:" She said, "No its true."
It's not about the sex she said. They have a spiritual connection.
Ultimately, she told him Seattle gave her the creeps, so she picked out a house in Redmond in a gated community next to a pond for him to buy her. She told him she had a nervous condition and has to be alone most of the time. All he asked is to spend every Sunday night with her, she told me. She would fix him something special and dress like she did in the diner. She also added that he signed his will.... everything over to her.
So when he dies, not only will the house remain with her because it is in her name, she will also get his house in Seattle, and all his other assets from his entire deceased family, which are significant.
So... she said to me, concluding her story, the handyman is just that. A handyman. She doesn't intend to marry him because she is already married. She just intended to have him handy in case she needed him for "something."
I have pondered that "something" for years now.
Once I walked away from her door, I refused further work for her.
I checked up on her husband for a year or so, he was still alive.
I don't know whether the handyman is around... whether he has a new set of teeth...
whether she was planning to use him as a handy hit-man or a foil for the SODDI defense (Some Other Dude Did It.)
Many single or newly single women are drawn to handymen they hire.
I investigate a lot of these cases. Landscapers, carpet cleaners, roofers, handymen... there are predators in every business where people are alone, vulnerable and in need of an assist.
Predators know many independent women with assets secretly want to be loved and they play white knight until darkness descends and they can separate their prey and their assets. In this case, I'm not sure who was the prey, really. It's like everyone used each other.
Ultimately, I'd say the men were the ones being played by a player, the likes of which I never saw coming.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Drugs Of Choice - Martial Law on Smoking?
Interesting how it works. You do something. It gives you pleasure. You do it again. It continues to give you pleasure. And so you keep doing it.
Doesn't really matter what it is you do, you do it enough, it becomes habit. You want it more.... and more.... until finding it... having it... ingesting it... consumes you. That's what's called an addiction and that's what's happening to me with this blog. It calls me all the time. The challenge is finding the time to write in it before it becomes static, dull, ignored.
Driving into Seattle to deliver cases on the early ferry this morning.... listening to B.J. Shea, on his wonderful radio show "The B.J. Shea Morning Experience (Google it - 6-10am, Seattle 99.9 FM)... B.J. was ranting about how the military is considering banning cigarette smoking among soldiers.
Being of a similar age as B.J., I share most of his rants. I feel the same way he does about certain idiots making idiotic decisions that affect the rest of decent folks out here who have a right to live our lives the way we choose.
However, I am not B.J., so I will spare my rant about politically and religiously driven B.S. Instead, I will weave his story about the ban on smoking in the military into this blog post.
Just one thing before proceeding: I am not a smoker and my father died from smoking cigarettes. I will also say I am married to a retired Marine, 14 years military who smoked from the day I met him and stops every now and then.
That said, I think it is absolutely ridiculous to tell soldiers, going to battle, that not only can they have no more than two beers a month... but they may not smoke a cigarette in
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, on a ship in stormy or calm seas, in desert and foxhole, on Fort Campbell, Fort Lewis, Madigan, Bumfruck Egypt, anywhere they are stationed, away from family and friends, serving this country... putting their lives on the line for us.
One reason tobacco is the drug of choice for so many people...
one reason why people say it is as hard, if not harder than heroin to quit...
is because the powerful effects of the drug, the nicotine, have on the human body and psyche.
Unlike any other drugs, tobacco has a unique quality. For those addicted to it, it lifts them up when they are depressed, bleak, feeling dark.
It mellows people out when they are hyped, angry, anxious, feeling cornered, freaked.
I must also add that smoking tobacco blackens your lungs, creates a sludgy coat of tar in your body, clogs and ultimately chokes your heart, arteries, clouds your brain, gives you cancer and you die a premature and often painful death. So it's not all fun and games.
I recall working with one retired FBI agent. He laughed as he told me he used to "smoke like a fish, a smoked fish". However, he had a hole in his throat he spoke, then smoked the cigarette through, after telling me his story. It was hard moment to process.
However, those are not things a soldier thinks about after he or she has just deployed, is in a frightening foreign environment, is away from home for the first time, or just saw a buddy blown up.
For a soldier the positive effects of those already addicted to cigarette smoking , added to the camaraderie that comes from a close group gathered like birds (I call them puffins), wings flapping, and swapping stories... there is a something almost sacred among their smoke-filled circles.
And to demand the people in our society who are under stress the most, must not smoke, they must literally go through withdrawal and maintain sobriety in the military ....and have no release... is absurd to me. And in this blogger's humble opinion, worth a post.
I know so many people will disagree with my point of view. I understand every argument to the contrary. I hate the smell the smell of cigarette smoke. I hate that people I love do it. However, I respect every one's right to live their lives as long as it doesn't intrude on mine. So people who smoke in my personal life around me are respectful of how I feel about it. They have a right to smoke, just like I have a right not to.
There are moments, however, on the job, when I must have smoke blown my way to get information. I usually go into people's homes to meet them, it gives me and the attorneys a better sense of who and what we are dealing with.
In some cases, I walk into a living room, see a butt filled ashtray and a nervous subject. Ultimately they say, "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Meaning -- do you mind if I smoke right here in my own home while you talk to me?
I say, "No, of course not. It's your house. And, I'm a second hand smoker anyway."
That answer usually produces a a few seconds of silence... then a laugh.
I on the other hand, have carefully crafted a calculated response that establishes a rapport with someone I am interviewing, while showing respect for what they do even though I do not do it. Respect is key to getting information out of anyone.
And I think not allowing soldiers to smoke is showing a lack of respect to what they do for us. They put themselves on the line for us, so they have the right to make their own decisions on how to cope with physical and psychological traumas they face in the field.
To B.J. I say, "Right on." We need more voices to speak up and drown out the lunacy out there. The President of the United States smokes. Who's going to tell him to stop?
Doesn't really matter what it is you do, you do it enough, it becomes habit. You want it more.... and more.... until finding it... having it... ingesting it... consumes you. That's what's called an addiction and that's what's happening to me with this blog. It calls me all the time. The challenge is finding the time to write in it before it becomes static, dull, ignored.
Driving into Seattle to deliver cases on the early ferry this morning.... listening to B.J. Shea, on his wonderful radio show "The B.J. Shea Morning Experience (Google it - 6-10am, Seattle 99.9 FM)... B.J. was ranting about how the military is considering banning cigarette smoking among soldiers.
Being of a similar age as B.J., I share most of his rants. I feel the same way he does about certain idiots making idiotic decisions that affect the rest of decent folks out here who have a right to live our lives the way we choose.
However, I am not B.J., so I will spare my rant about politically and religiously driven B.S. Instead, I will weave his story about the ban on smoking in the military into this blog post.
Just one thing before proceeding: I am not a smoker and my father died from smoking cigarettes. I will also say I am married to a retired Marine, 14 years military who smoked from the day I met him and stops every now and then.
That said, I think it is absolutely ridiculous to tell soldiers, going to battle, that not only can they have no more than two beers a month... but they may not smoke a cigarette in
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, on a ship in stormy or calm seas, in desert and foxhole, on Fort Campbell, Fort Lewis, Madigan, Bumfruck Egypt, anywhere they are stationed, away from family and friends, serving this country... putting their lives on the line for us.
One reason tobacco is the drug of choice for so many people...
one reason why people say it is as hard, if not harder than heroin to quit...
is because the powerful effects of the drug, the nicotine, have on the human body and psyche.
Unlike any other drugs, tobacco has a unique quality. For those addicted to it, it lifts them up when they are depressed, bleak, feeling dark.
It mellows people out when they are hyped, angry, anxious, feeling cornered, freaked.
I must also add that smoking tobacco blackens your lungs, creates a sludgy coat of tar in your body, clogs and ultimately chokes your heart, arteries, clouds your brain, gives you cancer and you die a premature and often painful death. So it's not all fun and games.
I recall working with one retired FBI agent. He laughed as he told me he used to "smoke like a fish, a smoked fish". However, he had a hole in his throat he spoke, then smoked the cigarette through, after telling me his story. It was hard moment to process.
However, those are not things a soldier thinks about after he or she has just deployed, is in a frightening foreign environment, is away from home for the first time, or just saw a buddy blown up.
For a soldier the positive effects of those already addicted to cigarette smoking , added to the camaraderie that comes from a close group gathered like birds (I call them puffins), wings flapping, and swapping stories... there is a something almost sacred among their smoke-filled circles.
And to demand the people in our society who are under stress the most, must not smoke, they must literally go through withdrawal and maintain sobriety in the military ....and have no release... is absurd to me. And in this blogger's humble opinion, worth a post.
I know so many people will disagree with my point of view. I understand every argument to the contrary. I hate the smell the smell of cigarette smoke. I hate that people I love do it. However, I respect every one's right to live their lives as long as it doesn't intrude on mine. So people who smoke in my personal life around me are respectful of how I feel about it. They have a right to smoke, just like I have a right not to.
There are moments, however, on the job, when I must have smoke blown my way to get information. I usually go into people's homes to meet them, it gives me and the attorneys a better sense of who and what we are dealing with.
In some cases, I walk into a living room, see a butt filled ashtray and a nervous subject. Ultimately they say, "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Meaning -- do you mind if I smoke right here in my own home while you talk to me?
I say, "No, of course not. It's your house. And, I'm a second hand smoker anyway."
That answer usually produces a a few seconds of silence... then a laugh.
I on the other hand, have carefully crafted a calculated response that establishes a rapport with someone I am interviewing, while showing respect for what they do even though I do not do it. Respect is key to getting information out of anyone.
And I think not allowing soldiers to smoke is showing a lack of respect to what they do for us. They put themselves on the line for us, so they have the right to make their own decisions on how to cope with physical and psychological traumas they face in the field.
To B.J. I say, "Right on." We need more voices to speak up and drown out the lunacy out there. The President of the United States smokes. Who's going to tell him to stop?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Finding Normal
I don't know why I'm drawn to unusual people and circumstances. Maybe they are drawn to me.
Perhaps I am a magnet that attracts the the unique, the different, the aberrations of what whoever "they" is call normal.
Diane Arbus is a photographer, worth googling, who insired me when I was young. She sought out the abnormal within the normal. She was the one who first made me realize our faces are simply masks you can see though... if you look hard enough.
Whoever "They" is, "They say" say... the only place you'll find normal is on your washer/drier setting dial. I say... there is no place called normal, no specific line of demarcation between normal and abnormal. Normal is not a space or place you can see or define, like the horizon line, where the ocean meets the sky.
Normal is only what we know. And what we know is what we've been taught.
Some people, either by nature, nurture or a combination of both, see love, kindness, positive attributes, basic human decency as normal.
Other people, either by nature, nurture, or a combination of both, see the hustle, the con, the hype, the game, the lies, deceptions, delusions as normal.
In my humble opinion, the ten commandment and countless versions of the bible were an attempt to establish a positive based, "normal" pattern of human behavior among the people who moved in those particular religious circles. For some it is normal to beleieve in God. For others, it is normal to believe in a different God. or many Gods. Or no God. Or Mother Earth.
Religious zealots called Native Americans "savages" or "heathens" because they weren't "normal" according to their zealot standards. The Natives Americans called their bluff and lost their ground. But not their faith.
Take all the religious people in the world... the Christians, Catholics, Episcopalians, Jesuits, Jehovah's, Jews, Palestinians, Zen, Amish, Druids, Native Americans, Mormons, etc etc etc... We are all molded by whoever raised us and whatever genes and DNA run our through our individual internal operating systems.
Some people clearly aren't normal. The ones who are easiest to deal with are the ones you see coming. They do not act, appear, or behave by any standards anyone of us would conclude is normal.
Other people appear normal, almost too normal, while underneath, they are ticking time bombs of destruction and death. These are the people who've been taught or self-taught how to act normal even though there's a monster under skin.
Sometimes, the flukes of human nature are created by nature itself. Sometimes, its solely nurture, how we are raised from day one. Sometimes, it's a combination of both.
Othertimes... or at the same time... something's wrong with the wiring in the brain, the circuits, the way thoughts flow through space and time within the brain's confines.
I see the brain as a machine of human origins and components -- a living engine of flesh, neurons, energy, links, processes, all flowing together. This incredibly sophisticated and complex engine has an ability to transport us back through time.... or project us into a future we conceive of living.
Some brains simply need tune-ups to maintain a degree or illusion of normal.
Others need meds.
Some brains are damaged and heal physically over time.
Some brains are irreperably danaged and a persons behavior is affected permanently.
Given a healthy brain to begin with with, we need a balance of additives -- nurture... nurturing... loving to be as close to whatever normal we are trying to achieve. At the very least we need food, shelter, clothing. Educations ups the ante.
To find normal, we need a healthy balance of positive with the negative. An excess of either can be self-destructive.
Too much of the postive can lead a sense of entitlement, narcissim, a self love that excludes all others.
Too much of the negative can lead to a sense of depression, hopelessness, helplessness, self-loathing.
I have always been intrigued by people who teeter totter on the edge of either extreme. But I am even more fascinated by those who have gone over the edge of normal and lived to tell about it.
My mother used to point out the homeless and hapless to me as she raised me. She was a brimming bottle of love overflowing with guidance, love and clever sayings, I call "momisms" that I carry with me... one right here, to this very day.
I remember Mom pointing out one man in particular, he had no legs and his bottom sat on a platform of wood and rollers. He propelled himself down the sidewalk with the palms of his hands.
My mother touched my shoulder as she look to the man and said,
"There but for the grace of God, go I."
I think I was five when I first heard it. She has said it me infinite times since then. And it has taken me decades to figure it out.
"There but for the grace of God go I." If it were not for God... or luck, coincidence, Allah, Buddha, whoever, whatever... that person begging for help on the streets could be me.
You get old enough and wise enough you figure it out>
No matter how hard it gets, no matter how bad you have it, or think you have hit... someone out there has it a whole lot worse.
I have passed my mom's words onto my children. And I say them in my head every time I deal with an investigation where only one thing about the case is certain... it ain't gonna' be normal.
The next case I write about is going to be one of those cases that are many degrees of separation from normal.
If the fates are with me today, I'll post about it later this evening or tomorrow. Stayed tuned. And more important, stay safe out there. Remember... The ones who are often the most dangerous... are the ones who appear the most "normal."
Perhaps I am a magnet that attracts the the unique, the different, the aberrations of what whoever "they" is call normal.
Diane Arbus is a photographer, worth googling, who insired me when I was young. She sought out the abnormal within the normal. She was the one who first made me realize our faces are simply masks you can see though... if you look hard enough.
Whoever "They" is, "They say" say... the only place you'll find normal is on your washer/drier setting dial. I say... there is no place called normal, no specific line of demarcation between normal and abnormal. Normal is not a space or place you can see or define, like the horizon line, where the ocean meets the sky.
Normal is only what we know. And what we know is what we've been taught.
Some people, either by nature, nurture or a combination of both, see love, kindness, positive attributes, basic human decency as normal.
Other people, either by nature, nurture, or a combination of both, see the hustle, the con, the hype, the game, the lies, deceptions, delusions as normal.
In my humble opinion, the ten commandment and countless versions of the bible were an attempt to establish a positive based, "normal" pattern of human behavior among the people who moved in those particular religious circles. For some it is normal to beleieve in God. For others, it is normal to believe in a different God. or many Gods. Or no God. Or Mother Earth.
Religious zealots called Native Americans "savages" or "heathens" because they weren't "normal" according to their zealot standards. The Natives Americans called their bluff and lost their ground. But not their faith.
Take all the religious people in the world... the Christians, Catholics, Episcopalians, Jesuits, Jehovah's, Jews, Palestinians, Zen, Amish, Druids, Native Americans, Mormons, etc etc etc... We are all molded by whoever raised us and whatever genes and DNA run our through our individual internal operating systems.
Some people clearly aren't normal. The ones who are easiest to deal with are the ones you see coming. They do not act, appear, or behave by any standards anyone of us would conclude is normal.
Other people appear normal, almost too normal, while underneath, they are ticking time bombs of destruction and death. These are the people who've been taught or self-taught how to act normal even though there's a monster under skin.
Sometimes, the flukes of human nature are created by nature itself. Sometimes, its solely nurture, how we are raised from day one. Sometimes, it's a combination of both.
Othertimes... or at the same time... something's wrong with the wiring in the brain, the circuits, the way thoughts flow through space and time within the brain's confines.
I see the brain as a machine of human origins and components -- a living engine of flesh, neurons, energy, links, processes, all flowing together. This incredibly sophisticated and complex engine has an ability to transport us back through time.... or project us into a future we conceive of living.
Some brains simply need tune-ups to maintain a degree or illusion of normal.
Others need meds.
Some brains are damaged and heal physically over time.
Some brains are irreperably danaged and a persons behavior is affected permanently.
Given a healthy brain to begin with with, we need a balance of additives -- nurture... nurturing... loving to be as close to whatever normal we are trying to achieve. At the very least we need food, shelter, clothing. Educations ups the ante.
To find normal, we need a healthy balance of positive with the negative. An excess of either can be self-destructive.
Too much of the postive can lead a sense of entitlement, narcissim, a self love that excludes all others.
Too much of the negative can lead to a sense of depression, hopelessness, helplessness, self-loathing.
I have always been intrigued by people who teeter totter on the edge of either extreme. But I am even more fascinated by those who have gone over the edge of normal and lived to tell about it.
My mother used to point out the homeless and hapless to me as she raised me. She was a brimming bottle of love overflowing with guidance, love and clever sayings, I call "momisms" that I carry with me... one right here, to this very day.
I remember Mom pointing out one man in particular, he had no legs and his bottom sat on a platform of wood and rollers. He propelled himself down the sidewalk with the palms of his hands.
My mother touched my shoulder as she look to the man and said,
"There but for the grace of God, go I."
I think I was five when I first heard it. She has said it me infinite times since then. And it has taken me decades to figure it out.
"There but for the grace of God go I." If it were not for God... or luck, coincidence, Allah, Buddha, whoever, whatever... that person begging for help on the streets could be me.
You get old enough and wise enough you figure it out>
No matter how hard it gets, no matter how bad you have it, or think you have hit... someone out there has it a whole lot worse.
I have passed my mom's words onto my children. And I say them in my head every time I deal with an investigation where only one thing about the case is certain... it ain't gonna' be normal.
The next case I write about is going to be one of those cases that are many degrees of separation from normal.
If the fates are with me today, I'll post about it later this evening or tomorrow. Stayed tuned. And more important, stay safe out there. Remember... The ones who are often the most dangerous... are the ones who appear the most "normal."
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Pit Bull's Death Grip
Click on the title of this post. It will take you to an article about a teen using a pit bull as a missile here in the Northwest.
Over the years I have done my fair share of dog bite and dog mauling cases. I have photographed severe injuries, puncture holes in faces and neck, ripped flesh, grim stuff. Most of the cases involved pit bulls, though plenty of other dog breeds bite, maim and mutilate.
The pit bulls have a bite referred to as a death grip.
Once they bite down, you can't break that grip unless you have the know-how and a means to force the jaws to part. There's a stick trainers use that works, it goes in their mouth vertically during a bite. A taser also helps.
One client, a 24 year old, had neither. She knew and played with her apartment manager's pit bull for years, since it was a puppy.
One day, out of the blue, he bit her arm and wrapped his jaws around her in the death grip.
When I asked what happened next, she said the dog started smelling her, realized she was a friend, let go and skulked into the back bedroom. Joe was less fortunate.
Today's Case - Joe Vs. Pit Bull
Today's case involves a man, let's call him Joe , who was invited by his good friend Rob, to another friends house. Rob called his friend Joe to see if it was okay to bring Joe over. The friend said okay. The friend knew Joe, and Joe had been to the house before.
The house they were going to had a secure link fence all around it. There is a backyard where the family's pit bull is usually chained. Joe knew there was a pit bull at the house, he'd never seen it though, because it was always in the back of the house or in the back yard.
The pit bull's owner had the dog six years. There is a sign on the front of the fence, warning, "Beware of Dog" or something like that.
On the the day of this bite, Joe arrived at the house with his friend Rob.
There were people in the front yard. A 17 year old digging a fence post, another guy who just arrived. The neighbors, many witnesses, were all outside in their yards. It was sunny, warm. Rob opened the gate, they entered the front yard. My client, Joe, following Rob, closed the gate behind him and they all proceeded across the walkway to the steps to enter the house.
The house's owner came out on the porch, greeted the men and said "come inside".
As Joe closed the gate behind him, he saw the pit bull running from the back of the house into the front yard. Joe yelled "watch out!"
Joe said he thinks that's what triggered something in the pit bull, because the dog turned into a laser guided heat seeking missile directed at Joe.
The pit bull went for Joe's throat. Joe has a plate in his neck from a prior work injury, so he instinctively, or deliberately, blocked his throat with his right arm, his good arm (he had surgery in the left years ago). The pit bull grabbed Joes's right arm and Joe grabbed the pit bull with his left arm, got the dog in a headlock, got the dog to the ground in a wresting hold. The whole time the dog had his teeth locked in the death grip on Joe's arm.
It took five grown men to pull the dog off Joe. In the process of pulling of the dog, the dog pulled off chunks of Joe's lower arm.
I write this now after having just left Joe in his hospital bed, recovering after his second surgery to repair the tendons, nerves and muscles ripped out of his arm. One doctor said his muscles looked like ground beef. An infection set in, turned the whole arm septic, they are worried now about mersa and flesh eating bacteria.
I arrived at the hospital just as the nurse was removing his cast and bandages. The officer from Animal Control was in the hospital room too, I saw the radio sticking out of the hospital gown we were required to wear while the wound was being dressed.
Joe said he was glad I arrived while the cast and bandages were off so I could see and photograph the actual wound. It was ugly. My camera closed in on the huge, hideous holes of jagged, deep ripped skin. The camera goes so deep, it took me through the hole inside.
I travel from one corner of the hospital room with my camera to the other to establish environment. Then I focus in close-up on the pain and suffering in Joe's face.
The officer from Animal Control said he was pissed. Though he got the pit bull in quarantine after the owner put up quite a protest, they could find no cases anywhere of reported bites by this dog.
And laws in that particular city north of Seattle says if the dog is registered as a dangerous dog.... and it is in your own yard behind a closed gate... and meets legal confinement requirements/specifications... and it bites someone once.... it is not a crime and not enough to put the dog down.
Thing is, Joe tells the officer, the dog has bitten before. Mostly family members, but also some other guy who doesn't want to be known. The officer said they could find no reports of prior dog bites, or anyone to come forward.
Joe and the Animal Control officer share their anger. I take notes.
Joe wants the dog put down because, he said, there is a 3 year old girl living in the house and Joe knows that dog will get her. The Officer said he knows. He wants the dog down too. The Officer said he is an animal lover and this dog is vicious. It took two officers to get and contain the dog.
The officer said he's very p.o'd they have no longer than Saturday, two days, to find further evidence, or the dog will be sent back to his owner. The officer went through the law for Joe and Joe's wife. He said it three times until it sunk in. I watched their faces drop.
My job begins after this post. I will see if the owner of the home has homeowners insurance, which he probably does. Joe needs money for humongous medical bills, all his lost wags and pain and suffering.
The officer tells me the guy who owns the pit bull owns several properties. If he does have insurance, which is likely the case proceeds. If not, I tell Joe, we step away.
Either way, I tell him, the law firm will pay for his civil investigation. If he has insurance,
we will notify his homeowners insurance, and demand they accept liability. If there's not some kind of pit bull exclusion clause in the insurance policy, then I suspect there will still be a major fight... A.K.A. pissing contest ... between the attorneys and the insurance company.
Meantime, a pit bull sits in quarantine until Saturday awaiting freedom or execution.
And my client Joe, sits in a hospital room for the next week waiting for the infection that has developed in his wound to clear. The bite ripped all the skin and muscle off his right forearm. He is right handed and is a construction worker. He will lose his house if he can't pay the bills.
When the morphine kicks in, Joe tells me and the Animal Control Officer there is some kind of illegal activity going on in that house... he talks about a few things... marijuana... the need for privacy... and the words is, anyone who talks gets retribution.
Before I leave, I tell Joe and the Animal Control officer I will attempt to get someone to speak of another attack through the course of the civil investigation. I said people say things in civil deposition they don't feel safe saying elsewhere. And if they want to avoid deposition all they have to do is talk to me.
The Officer told me to give all the info I find out to Joe. Joe will be the conduit because of a potential inter-agency/legal conflict if information is exchanged any other way. Before he leaves, the Animal Control Officer gives me his card and tells Joe, he thinks he's got a good civil case, but is not optimistic on the criminal one.
As for the pit bull, t minus two days and counting.
Over the years I have done my fair share of dog bite and dog mauling cases. I have photographed severe injuries, puncture holes in faces and neck, ripped flesh, grim stuff. Most of the cases involved pit bulls, though plenty of other dog breeds bite, maim and mutilate.
The pit bulls have a bite referred to as a death grip.
Once they bite down, you can't break that grip unless you have the know-how and a means to force the jaws to part. There's a stick trainers use that works, it goes in their mouth vertically during a bite. A taser also helps.
One client, a 24 year old, had neither. She knew and played with her apartment manager's pit bull for years, since it was a puppy.
One day, out of the blue, he bit her arm and wrapped his jaws around her in the death grip.
When I asked what happened next, she said the dog started smelling her, realized she was a friend, let go and skulked into the back bedroom. Joe was less fortunate.
Today's Case - Joe Vs. Pit Bull
Today's case involves a man, let's call him Joe , who was invited by his good friend Rob, to another friends house. Rob called his friend Joe to see if it was okay to bring Joe over. The friend said okay. The friend knew Joe, and Joe had been to the house before.
The house they were going to had a secure link fence all around it. There is a backyard where the family's pit bull is usually chained. Joe knew there was a pit bull at the house, he'd never seen it though, because it was always in the back of the house or in the back yard.
The pit bull's owner had the dog six years. There is a sign on the front of the fence, warning, "Beware of Dog" or something like that.
On the the day of this bite, Joe arrived at the house with his friend Rob.
There were people in the front yard. A 17 year old digging a fence post, another guy who just arrived. The neighbors, many witnesses, were all outside in their yards. It was sunny, warm. Rob opened the gate, they entered the front yard. My client, Joe, following Rob, closed the gate behind him and they all proceeded across the walkway to the steps to enter the house.
The house's owner came out on the porch, greeted the men and said "come inside".
As Joe closed the gate behind him, he saw the pit bull running from the back of the house into the front yard. Joe yelled "watch out!"
Joe said he thinks that's what triggered something in the pit bull, because the dog turned into a laser guided heat seeking missile directed at Joe.
The pit bull went for Joe's throat. Joe has a plate in his neck from a prior work injury, so he instinctively, or deliberately, blocked his throat with his right arm, his good arm (he had surgery in the left years ago). The pit bull grabbed Joes's right arm and Joe grabbed the pit bull with his left arm, got the dog in a headlock, got the dog to the ground in a wresting hold. The whole time the dog had his teeth locked in the death grip on Joe's arm.
It took five grown men to pull the dog off Joe. In the process of pulling of the dog, the dog pulled off chunks of Joe's lower arm.
I write this now after having just left Joe in his hospital bed, recovering after his second surgery to repair the tendons, nerves and muscles ripped out of his arm. One doctor said his muscles looked like ground beef. An infection set in, turned the whole arm septic, they are worried now about mersa and flesh eating bacteria.
I arrived at the hospital just as the nurse was removing his cast and bandages. The officer from Animal Control was in the hospital room too, I saw the radio sticking out of the hospital gown we were required to wear while the wound was being dressed.
Joe said he was glad I arrived while the cast and bandages were off so I could see and photograph the actual wound. It was ugly. My camera closed in on the huge, hideous holes of jagged, deep ripped skin. The camera goes so deep, it took me through the hole inside.
I travel from one corner of the hospital room with my camera to the other to establish environment. Then I focus in close-up on the pain and suffering in Joe's face.
The officer from Animal Control said he was pissed. Though he got the pit bull in quarantine after the owner put up quite a protest, they could find no cases anywhere of reported bites by this dog.
And laws in that particular city north of Seattle says if the dog is registered as a dangerous dog.... and it is in your own yard behind a closed gate... and meets legal confinement requirements/specifications... and it bites someone once.... it is not a crime and not enough to put the dog down.
Thing is, Joe tells the officer, the dog has bitten before. Mostly family members, but also some other guy who doesn't want to be known. The officer said they could find no reports of prior dog bites, or anyone to come forward.
Joe and the Animal Control officer share their anger. I take notes.
Joe wants the dog put down because, he said, there is a 3 year old girl living in the house and Joe knows that dog will get her. The Officer said he knows. He wants the dog down too. The Officer said he is an animal lover and this dog is vicious. It took two officers to get and contain the dog.
The officer said he's very p.o'd they have no longer than Saturday, two days, to find further evidence, or the dog will be sent back to his owner. The officer went through the law for Joe and Joe's wife. He said it three times until it sunk in. I watched their faces drop.
My job begins after this post. I will see if the owner of the home has homeowners insurance, which he probably does. Joe needs money for humongous medical bills, all his lost wags and pain and suffering.
The officer tells me the guy who owns the pit bull owns several properties. If he does have insurance, which is likely the case proceeds. If not, I tell Joe, we step away.
Either way, I tell him, the law firm will pay for his civil investigation. If he has insurance,
we will notify his homeowners insurance, and demand they accept liability. If there's not some kind of pit bull exclusion clause in the insurance policy, then I suspect there will still be a major fight... A.K.A. pissing contest ... between the attorneys and the insurance company.
Meantime, a pit bull sits in quarantine until Saturday awaiting freedom or execution.
And my client Joe, sits in a hospital room for the next week waiting for the infection that has developed in his wound to clear. The bite ripped all the skin and muscle off his right forearm. He is right handed and is a construction worker. He will lose his house if he can't pay the bills.
When the morphine kicks in, Joe tells me and the Animal Control Officer there is some kind of illegal activity going on in that house... he talks about a few things... marijuana... the need for privacy... and the words is, anyone who talks gets retribution.
Before I leave, I tell Joe and the Animal Control officer I will attempt to get someone to speak of another attack through the course of the civil investigation. I said people say things in civil deposition they don't feel safe saying elsewhere. And if they want to avoid deposition all they have to do is talk to me.
The Officer told me to give all the info I find out to Joe. Joe will be the conduit because of a potential inter-agency/legal conflict if information is exchanged any other way. Before he leaves, the Animal Control Officer gives me his card and tells Joe, he thinks he's got a good civil case, but is not optimistic on the criminal one.
As for the pit bull, t minus two days and counting.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Case De Jour: Pedestrian In Crosswalk
He is 59 years old. Diagnosed with colon cancer that weaved its way through his body like a poisonous snake. He had several surgeries, the last was to place and ostomy bag at his side. He was staying in a rehab place they call "cottages" to recover. It appeared to be a very nice place, in good neighborhood, the staff seemed competent and caring.
He told me how it happened. He decided to take a walk on the 4th of July. The cancer wasn't slowing him down he said. In fact he just bought a bicycle to get some exercise. He showed the bike to me because it was next to where we were sitting, outside his cottage. He was smoking a cigarette. I was listening, taking notes. He was sitting in a wheelchair now, the doctoprs told him he would not be able to walk for a year.
He said he was walking to the store across the street. He stopped at the crosswalk. There was a red car stopped at the crosswalk. The light said walk. He stepped into the crosswalk and the red car that was stopped, with a woman at the wheel, suddenly sped up, into the crosswalk.
He turned to look at her. He said she was looking in the back seat and not at him. He held his hands out, yelled for her to stop. She stepped on the gas, hit him head on. The main impact was to his knees, which knocked him backwards. And then she ran over his legs.
He ended up under the car on his back, only his head sticking out. Plenty of witnesses and good Sams were on the scene. They stopped the DEF driver from fleeing. The driver was trying to back away and when she backed up, he said he was sort of "spit out the front of the car".
He was taken by ambulance to a local hospital. Because he has no health insurance, they spent just 2 hours with him Took x-rays. Then said, "Your right leg is fractured in three places. You have one fracture on the other leg. Here's a wheelchair. Bye." No cast, no treatment.
In other words, "See ya....Wouldn't want to be ya'."
By the time I saw him I was the only one who'd seen his legs and feet since five days earlier when he was in the ER. The staff of the home he was staying in hadn't looked.
I had to consciously calm my stomach and I helped him pull off his socks and saw, then photographed the wounds. The purple, swollen legs, jutting broken bones, deep gashes, dying feet.
He told me he's dying. "I'm living on borrowed time" he said, he explained how deep the cancer was moving in and through his body. He said he thought it was bad enough to have the cancer. Then he gets hit by car. "Talk about dumb luck," he said with a laugh.
I told him I am worried about him and his case on many levels. First, he needs to get another doctor a better hospital, Harborview, where he is normally treated. They are used to trauma.
I tell him we need to get the police report and identify the defendant driver.
We need to find out whether she has insurance. Then... we find or hope for enough insurance money in the policy to cover all his medical bills, let alone a pain and suffering judgement.
I tell him the lawyers will pay for his investigation, and there are no guarantees. If there's no insurance there, we walk away.
He listened intently, and calmly. He seemed so calm and peaceful. I asked him what meds he was on. He is on percocet, nothing else, he said. He said he has come to terms with his life. And death.
All he wanted, he said, was to get a settlement for his son and daughter.
While he's waiting to die, he added, he's taking up knitting and painting. He showed me a scarf he knitted and gave me a picture he painted... two sailboats and a lighthouse against a setting sun. I am touched by the offering, accept it. And we part with a handshake.
I emailed the law firm from the parking lot. And then called his son. The son, a police officer in another city, had not seen his dad or legs since the accident. I told the son his dad is in very bad shape and he needs to get to a trauma hospital ASAP. The son and lawyers got in touch...
and I passed the ambulance arriving as I left the road leading to the man's house.
There is something very rare and gratifying about my job. I get to help. To make a difference.
And no matter how bad my troubles seem, no matter how rough my waters, I have yet to find a life I would trade for my own.
He told me how it happened. He decided to take a walk on the 4th of July. The cancer wasn't slowing him down he said. In fact he just bought a bicycle to get some exercise. He showed the bike to me because it was next to where we were sitting, outside his cottage. He was smoking a cigarette. I was listening, taking notes. He was sitting in a wheelchair now, the doctoprs told him he would not be able to walk for a year.
He said he was walking to the store across the street. He stopped at the crosswalk. There was a red car stopped at the crosswalk. The light said walk. He stepped into the crosswalk and the red car that was stopped, with a woman at the wheel, suddenly sped up, into the crosswalk.
He turned to look at her. He said she was looking in the back seat and not at him. He held his hands out, yelled for her to stop. She stepped on the gas, hit him head on. The main impact was to his knees, which knocked him backwards. And then she ran over his legs.
He ended up under the car on his back, only his head sticking out. Plenty of witnesses and good Sams were on the scene. They stopped the DEF driver from fleeing. The driver was trying to back away and when she backed up, he said he was sort of "spit out the front of the car".
He was taken by ambulance to a local hospital. Because he has no health insurance, they spent just 2 hours with him Took x-rays. Then said, "Your right leg is fractured in three places. You have one fracture on the other leg. Here's a wheelchair. Bye." No cast, no treatment.
In other words, "See ya....Wouldn't want to be ya'."
By the time I saw him I was the only one who'd seen his legs and feet since five days earlier when he was in the ER. The staff of the home he was staying in hadn't looked.
I had to consciously calm my stomach and I helped him pull off his socks and saw, then photographed the wounds. The purple, swollen legs, jutting broken bones, deep gashes, dying feet.
He told me he's dying. "I'm living on borrowed time" he said, he explained how deep the cancer was moving in and through his body. He said he thought it was bad enough to have the cancer. Then he gets hit by car. "Talk about dumb luck," he said with a laugh.
I told him I am worried about him and his case on many levels. First, he needs to get another doctor a better hospital, Harborview, where he is normally treated. They are used to trauma.
I tell him we need to get the police report and identify the defendant driver.
We need to find out whether she has insurance. Then... we find or hope for enough insurance money in the policy to cover all his medical bills, let alone a pain and suffering judgement.
I tell him the lawyers will pay for his investigation, and there are no guarantees. If there's no insurance there, we walk away.
He listened intently, and calmly. He seemed so calm and peaceful. I asked him what meds he was on. He is on percocet, nothing else, he said. He said he has come to terms with his life. And death.
All he wanted, he said, was to get a settlement for his son and daughter.
While he's waiting to die, he added, he's taking up knitting and painting. He showed me a scarf he knitted and gave me a picture he painted... two sailboats and a lighthouse against a setting sun. I am touched by the offering, accept it. And we part with a handshake.
I emailed the law firm from the parking lot. And then called his son. The son, a police officer in another city, had not seen his dad or legs since the accident. I told the son his dad is in very bad shape and he needs to get to a trauma hospital ASAP. The son and lawyers got in touch...
and I passed the ambulance arriving as I left the road leading to the man's house.
There is something very rare and gratifying about my job. I get to help. To make a difference.
And no matter how bad my troubles seem, no matter how rough my waters, I have yet to find a life I would trade for my own.
A Confession
I confess.
I have failed miserably... twice now... at this mission I have assigned myself. A blog, updated daily. I have a lot of excuses. Some are very good. Some clever. Others credible and/or entertaining.
However, I heard this great quote once.
"Excuses are the pillars of fools."
So I will spare the excuses and not label myself a fool.
I think slacker would be a better descriptor.
What an excuse give us is permission to slack off, avoid, deny, ignore, delay, detour, deter. Excuses are an expression of fear or disrespect -- not fear or disrespect of someone outside of us, but the forces within us.
The fear or disrespect of self takes the form of barriers, walls in our head, that keep us from getting what we want done. What matters, is not that the wall is there. What matters is what you do when you get to the wall.
Some just stop at the wall. Others climb over it. Some knock it down. And there are those who turn on their heels, and walk away to another place.
When the going gets tough, some people really get going and growing. Others go down for the count.
Some people step it up, others step away.
Forced to face our demons, we either suck it up and forge forward.
Or we give up.
Survival of the fittest speaks not just to body. it speaks to mind.
That said, this post marks my renewed commitment to daily blogging.
To face my wall called the keyboard on a daily basis.
To prove to myself, if not others...
that there is always time in a single day to do what matters to you.
Even if it's hard to do.
I have failed miserably... twice now... at this mission I have assigned myself. A blog, updated daily. I have a lot of excuses. Some are very good. Some clever. Others credible and/or entertaining.
However, I heard this great quote once.
"Excuses are the pillars of fools."
So I will spare the excuses and not label myself a fool.
I think slacker would be a better descriptor.
What an excuse give us is permission to slack off, avoid, deny, ignore, delay, detour, deter. Excuses are an expression of fear or disrespect -- not fear or disrespect of someone outside of us, but the forces within us.
The fear or disrespect of self takes the form of barriers, walls in our head, that keep us from getting what we want done. What matters, is not that the wall is there. What matters is what you do when you get to the wall.
Some just stop at the wall. Others climb over it. Some knock it down. And there are those who turn on their heels, and walk away to another place.
When the going gets tough, some people really get going and growing. Others go down for the count.
Some people step it up, others step away.
Forced to face our demons, we either suck it up and forge forward.
Or we give up.
Survival of the fittest speaks not just to body. it speaks to mind.
That said, this post marks my renewed commitment to daily blogging.
To face my wall called the keyboard on a daily basis.
To prove to myself, if not others...
that there is always time in a single day to do what matters to you.
Even if it's hard to do.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Post 4th Clean-Up
Writing blog posts takes more time than I thought. So this will be quick update to keep the momentum going until I return tonight.
Three big cases came in over the 4th of July weekend. Today, heading out to see the first one. Motorcyclist rear-ended by a Dodge Caravan (youch), flew into a another Dodge Caravan (double youch.)
Biker bounced off the second van, sent air-born... motorcyclist and bike not separated. They flew together over an embankment, down a gully and into a pond, lake, I'm not sure which. All I know is the motorcycle landed on top of the guy's left side, pulling him under. Meantime, poor guy had to struggle to keep his head above water with his other arm so he could breathe until rescue. His right arm was pulled completely out of its socket (make that a triple youch.)
He's a mechanic and was told by ER docs he probably won't work for a year. Problem is, he's a single dad, has no motorcycle insurance, and has a mortgage. He said he is worried, depressed and feels hopeless. Sure hope I and the lawyers can help him.
Back at you after I meet this guy, check out the scene, the bike, the Caravan and see what we can do. I hope that Caravan has insurance, and a lot of it, because the biker doesn't doesn't.
Rain storms coming which are very good for business. Good thing the rains waited until after the biker was safely pulled out of his quagmire. With the dry spell we have had here in the Pacific Northwest, it is likely I would be investigating a death case had it happened during the rains.
Meantime, may all who read this drive defensively and safely today.
Three big cases came in over the 4th of July weekend. Today, heading out to see the first one. Motorcyclist rear-ended by a Dodge Caravan (youch), flew into a another Dodge Caravan (double youch.)
Biker bounced off the second van, sent air-born... motorcyclist and bike not separated. They flew together over an embankment, down a gully and into a pond, lake, I'm not sure which. All I know is the motorcycle landed on top of the guy's left side, pulling him under. Meantime, poor guy had to struggle to keep his head above water with his other arm so he could breathe until rescue. His right arm was pulled completely out of its socket (make that a triple youch.)
He's a mechanic and was told by ER docs he probably won't work for a year. Problem is, he's a single dad, has no motorcycle insurance, and has a mortgage. He said he is worried, depressed and feels hopeless. Sure hope I and the lawyers can help him.
Back at you after I meet this guy, check out the scene, the bike, the Caravan and see what we can do. I hope that Caravan has insurance, and a lot of it, because the biker doesn't doesn't.
Rain storms coming which are very good for business. Good thing the rains waited until after the biker was safely pulled out of his quagmire. With the dry spell we have had here in the Pacific Northwest, it is likely I would be investigating a death case had it happened during the rains.
Meantime, may all who read this drive defensively and safely today.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Murder On the 4th of July
It was a July 4th many moons ago when an attorney, who is still in practice, murdered his girlfriend, my friend's sister and got away with it.
Jim (a pseudonym) never got convicted for the crime, never got indicted, never spent a night in jail... despite the fact that everyone close to the case, the family, the police, the prosecutor, friends, neighbors, witnesses, they all know he did. I know he did it. But there wasn't enough evidence for two grand juries to take it any further. So Jim the attorney still lives.... practicing law in a city north of Seattle... while my friend's sister Mary (also a pseudonym) is dead, literally dust in the wind.
Every 4th of July since I first took on that case more than 10 years ago, fireworks sound to me like gunshots, because that's how he did it to her. He waited until the fireworks were going off when he put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. He knew no one could distinguish between a single gunshot and a thousand firecrackers.
He had the whole thing well planned. That's because he's an attorney, and a very smart one at that. So he knew what to do, what not to do. And between the doing and not doings, he got away with murder. Literally.
After he shot her, he put the gun where he thought a suicide victim would drop it. He washed his hands, exited the house, then raced down the road so fast he almost knocked over a group of kids walking along the dirt road towards him. One kid comment on his fixed gaze, his red face, the high rate of speed.
Mary's next door neighbors were expecting her for dinner that night. They received a call from Mary saying she'd be over in a little later, because Jim called and said he was going to stop by to get something. Mary was upset because she knew Jim was going to be with his new girlfriend that July 4th. The girlfriend later admitted, at Jim's urging, she called Mary just to taunt her and tell her so.
Mary told the neighbors she thought Jim was trying to drive her crazy. Ever since they decided to split up, he was meaner than ever. Mary said Jim wanted the beach house they lived in. However, the lease for the beach house, on Indian Tribal land, was in Mary's name and Mary wasn't going to give it up. She told Jim he had to leave.
She had the beach house before Jim moved in with him, she intended to be there when he finally left. Besides, she told her neighbors, her hair dresser, brother and others she trusted... Jim was the one who initially broke it off; he was the one who cheated and lied repeatedly; he was the one who got high, drunk and abusive. The beach house, Mary said, was her sanctuary.
So Jim killed her. Most likely, to get the beach house.
The neighbors, an older couple and 32 years old daughter Jenny who was both Mary's age and close friend, watched from the window, saw Jim come. As soon as his car left their area, Jenny ran to Mary's house, opened the unlocked kitchen door, checked the rooms on her way upstairs to the bedroom. That's when she found Mary, knees bent under her, leaning against her bed in what was described as a prayer position.
Jenny didn't realize Mary was dead until she touched her shoulder, lifted her head, saw the broken teeth, the blood, then it registered. She'd been shot, she was dead. She ran screaming from the house for her parents to call 911. She said to tell the police she was certain Jim killed Mary.
You'd think from there it would be a no brainer. Case closed even before the investigation starts. It was obvious to everyone who knew the story of Mary and Jim, that Jim was a monster in a very handsome shell.... and beautiful, bright, blond-haired, Mary was finally happy Jim was leaving. She was determined not to give him the beach house and was definitely not suicidal as Jim ultimately insisted.
But Jim's story was this: Mary begged Jim to stay and said if he left, she'd shoot herself. And she did.
Jim's behavior after the shooting, was not that of an innocent man. Yet despite all the evidence, witness interviews, a thorough police investigation and the ultimate questioning of Jim... including gun shot residue tests and tests of blood on his pants, which turned out to be animals blood... he got away with it. It went as far as the grand juries and then the criminal investigation came to a complete stop.
I came in on the civil side. When the police didn't file homicide charges, the insurance company decided to call Mary's death a suicide, so they wouldn't have to pay out the life insurance policy she recently took out and left to her nephews and nieces. She had no children of her own.
Her brother hired me in the hopes the civil investigation would prove Mary's death was a homicide and the insurance company would release the insurance benefits to the children. He also figured if the civil investigation proved it was not a suicide, maybe the evidence we got would be enough to re-open the homicide case.
Long story short. Evidence, interviews, forensics, all done on a private basis.
The insurance company is sued, the suicide verdict thrown out and the insurance fund released to Mary's nieces and nephews in a trust.
However, despite our best efforts, countless hours and time, conversations with the lead homicide detective on the case and every other investigating officer, witnesses, 911 tapes, back stories, you name it... we still could take the criminal case no further for reasons that are better suited to a book than a blog.
So on this very day July 4th, when I hear that first firecracker of the night.... and later in bed, while they still go off.... I think about gunshots, Mary and the fact that Jim is still practicing law north of Seattle. He lives in the beach house now, with a woman who looks very much like Mary. And every now and then, I drive by his office, his law practice, watch him coming and going. The case is an obsession of mine, and her brother's.
Every now and then her brother calls. He wants to reopen the investigation, they don't have the funds. Someone wants to do a TV show, news article or movie on the case.
The idea surfaces, then people dig deeper and realize how dangerous such a project would be because Jim is a psychopath. A brilliant one, a dangerous one, who knows how to work the law and play it perfectly.
For every case closed you hear about, there are countless more still open...
simmering, steaming cauldrons of poetic injustice. This would be one of those cases.
The 4th is never a happy day for Mary's brother and her family. It is a bittersweet one for me. I still have Mary's case file in my office. Her brother asked me to hold onto all her personal things, from her wallet and datebook, to her letters and contents of her purse. Her brother says we... he and I... are Mary's voice and it will rise again when the time is right.
This post would be Mary's voice, rising once again, on the the 4th, before the fireworks start.
And right now, I am grateful there is no statute of limitations on murder.
Jim (a pseudonym) never got convicted for the crime, never got indicted, never spent a night in jail... despite the fact that everyone close to the case, the family, the police, the prosecutor, friends, neighbors, witnesses, they all know he did. I know he did it. But there wasn't enough evidence for two grand juries to take it any further. So Jim the attorney still lives.... practicing law in a city north of Seattle... while my friend's sister Mary (also a pseudonym) is dead, literally dust in the wind.
Every 4th of July since I first took on that case more than 10 years ago, fireworks sound to me like gunshots, because that's how he did it to her. He waited until the fireworks were going off when he put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. He knew no one could distinguish between a single gunshot and a thousand firecrackers.
He had the whole thing well planned. That's because he's an attorney, and a very smart one at that. So he knew what to do, what not to do. And between the doing and not doings, he got away with murder. Literally.
After he shot her, he put the gun where he thought a suicide victim would drop it. He washed his hands, exited the house, then raced down the road so fast he almost knocked over a group of kids walking along the dirt road towards him. One kid comment on his fixed gaze, his red face, the high rate of speed.
Mary's next door neighbors were expecting her for dinner that night. They received a call from Mary saying she'd be over in a little later, because Jim called and said he was going to stop by to get something. Mary was upset because she knew Jim was going to be with his new girlfriend that July 4th. The girlfriend later admitted, at Jim's urging, she called Mary just to taunt her and tell her so.
Mary told the neighbors she thought Jim was trying to drive her crazy. Ever since they decided to split up, he was meaner than ever. Mary said Jim wanted the beach house they lived in. However, the lease for the beach house, on Indian Tribal land, was in Mary's name and Mary wasn't going to give it up. She told Jim he had to leave.
She had the beach house before Jim moved in with him, she intended to be there when he finally left. Besides, she told her neighbors, her hair dresser, brother and others she trusted... Jim was the one who initially broke it off; he was the one who cheated and lied repeatedly; he was the one who got high, drunk and abusive. The beach house, Mary said, was her sanctuary.
So Jim killed her. Most likely, to get the beach house.
The neighbors, an older couple and 32 years old daughter Jenny who was both Mary's age and close friend, watched from the window, saw Jim come. As soon as his car left their area, Jenny ran to Mary's house, opened the unlocked kitchen door, checked the rooms on her way upstairs to the bedroom. That's when she found Mary, knees bent under her, leaning against her bed in what was described as a prayer position.
Jenny didn't realize Mary was dead until she touched her shoulder, lifted her head, saw the broken teeth, the blood, then it registered. She'd been shot, she was dead. She ran screaming from the house for her parents to call 911. She said to tell the police she was certain Jim killed Mary.
You'd think from there it would be a no brainer. Case closed even before the investigation starts. It was obvious to everyone who knew the story of Mary and Jim, that Jim was a monster in a very handsome shell.... and beautiful, bright, blond-haired, Mary was finally happy Jim was leaving. She was determined not to give him the beach house and was definitely not suicidal as Jim ultimately insisted.
But Jim's story was this: Mary begged Jim to stay and said if he left, she'd shoot herself. And she did.
Jim's behavior after the shooting, was not that of an innocent man. Yet despite all the evidence, witness interviews, a thorough police investigation and the ultimate questioning of Jim... including gun shot residue tests and tests of blood on his pants, which turned out to be animals blood... he got away with it. It went as far as the grand juries and then the criminal investigation came to a complete stop.
I came in on the civil side. When the police didn't file homicide charges, the insurance company decided to call Mary's death a suicide, so they wouldn't have to pay out the life insurance policy she recently took out and left to her nephews and nieces. She had no children of her own.
Her brother hired me in the hopes the civil investigation would prove Mary's death was a homicide and the insurance company would release the insurance benefits to the children. He also figured if the civil investigation proved it was not a suicide, maybe the evidence we got would be enough to re-open the homicide case.
Long story short. Evidence, interviews, forensics, all done on a private basis.
The insurance company is sued, the suicide verdict thrown out and the insurance fund released to Mary's nieces and nephews in a trust.
However, despite our best efforts, countless hours and time, conversations with the lead homicide detective on the case and every other investigating officer, witnesses, 911 tapes, back stories, you name it... we still could take the criminal case no further for reasons that are better suited to a book than a blog.
So on this very day July 4th, when I hear that first firecracker of the night.... and later in bed, while they still go off.... I think about gunshots, Mary and the fact that Jim is still practicing law north of Seattle. He lives in the beach house now, with a woman who looks very much like Mary. And every now and then, I drive by his office, his law practice, watch him coming and going. The case is an obsession of mine, and her brother's.
Every now and then her brother calls. He wants to reopen the investigation, they don't have the funds. Someone wants to do a TV show, news article or movie on the case.
The idea surfaces, then people dig deeper and realize how dangerous such a project would be because Jim is a psychopath. A brilliant one, a dangerous one, who knows how to work the law and play it perfectly.
For every case closed you hear about, there are countless more still open...
simmering, steaming cauldrons of poetic injustice. This would be one of those cases.
The 4th is never a happy day for Mary's brother and her family. It is a bittersweet one for me. I still have Mary's case file in my office. Her brother asked me to hold onto all her personal things, from her wallet and datebook, to her letters and contents of her purse. Her brother says we... he and I... are Mary's voice and it will rise again when the time is right.
This post would be Mary's voice, rising once again, on the the 4th, before the fireworks start.
And right now, I am grateful there is no statute of limitations on murder.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
To Ping Or Not To Ping- A True Story
Some people don't want to be found. Others.... the lost, abducted, injured, disoriented... are desperate to be found. The title of this post links you to great article on pinging. It linked me to the memory of one client, a minor, who was lost and may have been helped sooner if she had a cell phone to ping.
M. was a 17 year old girl who used a fake ID to go drinking with her 21 year old boyfriend. Her boyfriend's mom was the bartender at the place where they were partying, which was handy for the boyfriend and the mom. M. looked older than 17, bartender mom felt it was okay, because she could keep an eye on the kids, she told police.
The boyfriend and his mom rented one of the cabins behind the bar, so there was probably more alcohol than blood flowing through the family veins.
My client, illegally served both because she was a minor, and because she was evidently intoxicated, was told by her boyfriend and mom to exit the back door of the bar and walk to the cabins and go to bed. So M. exited the bar by herself. No one accompanied her.
She was in a blackout at that point, she couldn't tell me what happened next, so we sat in silence during my interview, while I studied, then photographed, the huge metal halo attached to her tiny, tattered skull by screws. All she remembered were the first two drinks... then waking up in intensive care.
What I figured happened is this.
She took either her boyfriend's car keys from the bar or the cabin. The, she got in the car, started it, and began a long drive through a very rural area we will call for these purposes Bumfruck , Egypt.
She left the bar about midnight. She was found just after 8 the next morning by a trucker who stopped by the side of the road to take a leak and saw a glint of metal, then what he thought was a big rag doll, dangling upside down from a tree. When he got closer he said, it registered. Human being, girl, just about his daughter's age.
That was the first time I heard the expression, "I almost sucked a valve". The trucker said he thought she was dead.
It was a wonder she survived, he said. Though I wouldn't exactly call that survival a blessing. Because this young lady's life is now, physically, emotionally, financially, mentally, socially in ruins.
By the time I got to and through the case and the attorney did his thing, the bartender was fired, the bar was shut down, sued, and they declared bankruptcy. There was no auto insurance on the car, so nothing for anyone.The boyfriend and mom split town, whereabouts unknown.
Now, maybe 7 years later, I still picture that little girl with the Frankenstein halo on her head, telling me her story for the first time. And I feel it as strongly now as I did then.
If someone had just said NO to her that night or all the nights before that ... NO hanging with that boy... NO drinking... NO walking back to the cabin or anywhere alone.... NO access to cars keys... NO way Jose or Miss Jose. Maybe just one NO would have prevented a lifetime of hurt.
Pinging her phone would have brought paramedics sooner. And it would have made a difference I believe, to her body physically. She just spent too many hours alone in those woods, upside down in that tree.
And if it weren't for the trucker taking the whizz, she might still be dangling, dead for certain.
Now... though alive... she is a bitter, broke, lonely young adult with a crooked neck and a cold heart that does little more than beat. Last I heard, she lives on the streets with other shattered kids.
And she re-surfaces every now and then, in my head, when I hear the word," Ping."
M. was a 17 year old girl who used a fake ID to go drinking with her 21 year old boyfriend. Her boyfriend's mom was the bartender at the place where they were partying, which was handy for the boyfriend and the mom. M. looked older than 17, bartender mom felt it was okay, because she could keep an eye on the kids, she told police.
The boyfriend and his mom rented one of the cabins behind the bar, so there was probably more alcohol than blood flowing through the family veins.
My client, illegally served both because she was a minor, and because she was evidently intoxicated, was told by her boyfriend and mom to exit the back door of the bar and walk to the cabins and go to bed. So M. exited the bar by herself. No one accompanied her.
She was in a blackout at that point, she couldn't tell me what happened next, so we sat in silence during my interview, while I studied, then photographed, the huge metal halo attached to her tiny, tattered skull by screws. All she remembered were the first two drinks... then waking up in intensive care.
What I figured happened is this.
She took either her boyfriend's car keys from the bar or the cabin. The, she got in the car, started it, and began a long drive through a very rural area we will call for these purposes Bumfruck , Egypt.
She left the bar about midnight. She was found just after 8 the next morning by a trucker who stopped by the side of the road to take a leak and saw a glint of metal, then what he thought was a big rag doll, dangling upside down from a tree. When he got closer he said, it registered. Human being, girl, just about his daughter's age.
That was the first time I heard the expression, "I almost sucked a valve". The trucker said he thought she was dead.
It was a wonder she survived, he said. Though I wouldn't exactly call that survival a blessing. Because this young lady's life is now, physically, emotionally, financially, mentally, socially in ruins.
By the time I got to and through the case and the attorney did his thing, the bartender was fired, the bar was shut down, sued, and they declared bankruptcy. There was no auto insurance on the car, so nothing for anyone.The boyfriend and mom split town, whereabouts unknown.
Now, maybe 7 years later, I still picture that little girl with the Frankenstein halo on her head, telling me her story for the first time. And I feel it as strongly now as I did then.
If someone had just said NO to her that night or all the nights before that ... NO hanging with that boy... NO drinking... NO walking back to the cabin or anywhere alone.... NO access to cars keys... NO way Jose or Miss Jose. Maybe just one NO would have prevented a lifetime of hurt.
Pinging her phone would have brought paramedics sooner. And it would have made a difference I believe, to her body physically. She just spent too many hours alone in those woods, upside down in that tree.
And if it weren't for the trucker taking the whizz, she might still be dangling, dead for certain.
Now... though alive... she is a bitter, broke, lonely young adult with a crooked neck and a cold heart that does little more than beat. Last I heard, she lives on the streets with other shattered kids.
And she re-surfaces every now and then, in my head, when I hear the word," Ping."
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Crotch Rocket Vs. VW
A confession to the obvious.
I missed the second day of posting and therefore surrender my Resolute Detective status. However, a relapse is no cause for giving up.
Relapse is part of every recovery process include Blog Recovery.
And so I begin blogging again because the sheer premise -- and the true promise -- of a blog is updates. And the concept of a Private Eye Diary would infer a daily one. Because a blog is not static. It's moving and flowing, with ebbs and tides. Never still or silent.
The challenge comes at the end of the day when you are weary and the case notes await, as do the daily requirements of life. The sun is setting, the weather is chilling and chilling seems to be the order of the evening.
So tonight I write of that. How to chill. How to cool off when things heat up. How to stand your ground when you feel its being pulled out from under you. Why attitude is everything.
I write from two perspectives:
Today's case is a 42 year old man who was riding a motorcycle to work two days ago. He married, has four children ranging from age 15 down to age 4. He is a construction worker, alternates between flagging and truck driving. He has a CDL (Commercial Drivers License). He's been riding motorcycles since he was kid. Never had an accident. And with the Seattle weather in rare sunny form, he chose to ride his bike to work just after sunrise two days ago.
I ask him if he was riding a Crotch Rocket. He said yes and asked how I knew. I said he didn't seem the Harley type.
He had right of way. The DEF, A VW 4-door, new model, had the stop sign. The biker (our client) saw the VW at the stop sign. The biker slowed from the speed limit, 35 to 25. The biker said he recalled thinking the car which was stopped would stay stopped.
Not so. Instead, the VW pulled out from the stop sign at full speed. It was what we accident investigators call a T-Bone, the front of the bike hit the front driver's side quarter panel of the car. The biker slammed his right knee, then the bike on the car when it pulled out in front of him.
The biker flew off the bike, hit his helmet on the hood, did a couple of somersaults before slamming to the ground on his right shoulder, which ripped his rotator cuff. He was unconscious briefly, he said, then awoke to someone saying don't move him, his neck could be broken.
According to a witness, while the biker was flying over the hood of the DEF's car, so was the motorcycle, which did a vertical flip before landing on it's side about 50 feet from the unconscious biker. The witness was sure the biker was dead.
The DEF driver of the car that hit the motorcycle was at fault. We know this not just because of what the witness saw and said. But because of what the DEF driver said to the police officer:
This is why some people call personal injury attorneys, who call their investigators, for help.
In Washington State, bikers don't have to have motorcycle insurance. Some do, though most don't. When I asked one biker why he had none, he laughed and said, if I have a hit I figure I'm dead anyway.
He wasn't so far from the truth.
Some of my biker clients are dead. Many more are not the same people they were before their hits. And since the economy tanked, instead of getting one of these cases a week I get several.
Because of increasing gas prices, more and more people are riding motorcycles to work. From Crotch Rockets to Harley Classics; Scooters to Gold Wings... many of these riders have a lifetime of experience. Others are just learning. Either way, pro or novice, you have no control when a vehicle has decided to run into or over you.
It is for this reason I will never ride on a motorcycle, front or back, ever again.
It is because in every motorcycle case I investigate, my biker clients are not fault. There is nothing they could have done to avoid a hit.
It happened because another driver did not see him; or chose to out-run him; or deliberately wanted to hit him.
In the latter case, deliberation would make the accident a crime. The auto insurance could then deny the claim.
In my experience, the passengers on the back, usually the girls, get it the worst of it. Unless of course, there's no passenger and just the driver.
Then there's no contest.
I have family members and friends who ride motorcycles as both drivers and passengers. And I have never said any of this to them directly. Part of me thinks people ride because they can and they feel the rewards outweigh the risks. I get that... because I feel the rewards of my job far outweigh the risks.
Yet each time I think of someone I love hopping on the back of a bike, arms around someone they trust, I have no trust that they won't return from their road trip as road kill.
I have taken pictures of bikers with the front part of their skull bone removed from their heads and stuck in their bellies until ready to be replaced. Their brains have swelled so big, there's no room for that skull piece until the swelling goes down.
I've photographed broken necks and captured broken spirits in intensive care rooms and rehabs.
I've seen heads split by telephone poles and bikes twisted, turned, flattened, unrecognizable.
I've photographed the toughest leather jackets, chaps, gloves, boots, studded leather belts, shredded by a single impact.
I've watched grown men cry and lose everything they have all because someone didn't see them coming. And it is a proven fact that some drivers simply do not see the bikes even when they are right there. To some people, motorcycles are invisible.
Attitude is everything
So I return to my aforementioned client. Father of four, busted knee cap, torn shoulder, multiple other injuries, currently not working, no health insurance.
I tell him the lawyers will represent him because the person who hit him has insurance, we just don't know how much insurance is there it and if it will be enough to cover everything he needs. He listens, though I realize he doesn't get it it. All he can tell me is he has to be back at work next week because he needs to feed his family, pay the rent.
I tell him I think it will be long time before he returns to work. His employer has demanded a doctors release and his knee cap is busted. I tell him the road ahead will be very rough, yet the miracle of it all is... he is still here. I tell him about my Harley client, still in a coma after 6 months from the same kind of accident.
He then tells me when he saw his bike move to the car then hit it, he said all the stories about facing death are true. The last thought he had was, "I 'm dead and I didn't get to say goodbye to my wife and kids."
He tells me more about that moment, that fine thread between life and death. About being unconscious and then waking up to excruciating pain in his knee and realizing he was still alive. He said the pain was comforting in that it reassured him he still exists.
I tell him he is a miracle.That maybe he has angels guarding him; or maybe some greater purpose here on the planet...because for all intents and purposes, he should be dead. I tell him how many of our biker clients don't make it. I study his calm demeanor, his attitude.
I ask him, when everyone is out of the room, how he really is, how he is coping.
He said he is scared to death. He is sole provider for his family. The economy is horrible. He has a great job and now he may lose it. He talks about how he can't fish or camp or play with his kids.
Then he said what I was told many moons ago, when I felt all was lost.
"Attitude is everything. Guess I gotta' just keep my attitude in check."
I took lots of pictures today. Of him, his bike, his kids, his ripped leathers, his scraped helmet.
I wrote up his case at Starbucks, printed his photos at Rite Aid, and delivered the cases to the attorneys in Seattle, who have already contacted the insurance company of the VW driver.
Now he can get a settlement for his bike... and more important, medical care on a lien against the case.
So when someone makes a lawyer joke, I must admit, i get p.o.'ed.
I am of the opinion that the good ones, the good lawyers/attorneys, are the true warriors in an unjust world. When they wield their swords, they stand up for the weak and fight for their rights. The key, of course, of course is to find the good attorney, the right one, the just one.
As for bikers, I suggest insurance of some kind. If you are in a hit that is not your fault... whether you survive or not, it will come in handy for you.... or your survivors. Without insurance for your bike, you are at the mercy of the insurance company for the DEF. And that insurance company won't play fair.
I missed the second day of posting and therefore surrender my Resolute Detective status. However, a relapse is no cause for giving up.
Relapse is part of every recovery process include Blog Recovery.
And so I begin blogging again because the sheer premise -- and the true promise -- of a blog is updates. And the concept of a Private Eye Diary would infer a daily one. Because a blog is not static. It's moving and flowing, with ebbs and tides. Never still or silent.
The challenge comes at the end of the day when you are weary and the case notes await, as do the daily requirements of life. The sun is setting, the weather is chilling and chilling seems to be the order of the evening.
So tonight I write of that. How to chill. How to cool off when things heat up. How to stand your ground when you feel its being pulled out from under you. Why attitude is everything.
I write from two perspectives:
- Perspective One: having been there, done that.
- Perspective Two: having helped others who have been there, are there doing that.
Today's case is a 42 year old man who was riding a motorcycle to work two days ago. He married, has four children ranging from age 15 down to age 4. He is a construction worker, alternates between flagging and truck driving. He has a CDL (Commercial Drivers License). He's been riding motorcycles since he was kid. Never had an accident. And with the Seattle weather in rare sunny form, he chose to ride his bike to work just after sunrise two days ago.
I ask him if he was riding a Crotch Rocket. He said yes and asked how I knew. I said he didn't seem the Harley type.
He had right of way. The DEF, A VW 4-door, new model, had the stop sign. The biker (our client) saw the VW at the stop sign. The biker slowed from the speed limit, 35 to 25. The biker said he recalled thinking the car which was stopped would stay stopped.
Not so. Instead, the VW pulled out from the stop sign at full speed. It was what we accident investigators call a T-Bone, the front of the bike hit the front driver's side quarter panel of the car. The biker slammed his right knee, then the bike on the car when it pulled out in front of him.
The biker flew off the bike, hit his helmet on the hood, did a couple of somersaults before slamming to the ground on his right shoulder, which ripped his rotator cuff. He was unconscious briefly, he said, then awoke to someone saying don't move him, his neck could be broken.
According to a witness, while the biker was flying over the hood of the DEF's car, so was the motorcycle, which did a vertical flip before landing on it's side about 50 feet from the unconscious biker. The witness was sure the biker was dead.
The DEF driver of the car that hit the motorcycle was at fault. We know this not just because of what the witness saw and said. But because of what the DEF driver said to the police officer:
- his windows were foggy
- he hadn't had his coffee yet
- and he didn't know there was motorcycle coming.
This is why some people call personal injury attorneys, who call their investigators, for help.
In Washington State, bikers don't have to have motorcycle insurance. Some do, though most don't. When I asked one biker why he had none, he laughed and said, if I have a hit I figure I'm dead anyway.
He wasn't so far from the truth.
Some of my biker clients are dead. Many more are not the same people they were before their hits. And since the economy tanked, instead of getting one of these cases a week I get several.
Because of increasing gas prices, more and more people are riding motorcycles to work. From Crotch Rockets to Harley Classics; Scooters to Gold Wings... many of these riders have a lifetime of experience. Others are just learning. Either way, pro or novice, you have no control when a vehicle has decided to run into or over you.
It is for this reason I will never ride on a motorcycle, front or back, ever again.
It is because in every motorcycle case I investigate, my biker clients are not fault. There is nothing they could have done to avoid a hit.
It happened because another driver did not see him; or chose to out-run him; or deliberately wanted to hit him.
In the latter case, deliberation would make the accident a crime. The auto insurance could then deny the claim.
In my experience, the passengers on the back, usually the girls, get it the worst of it. Unless of course, there's no passenger and just the driver.
Then there's no contest.
I have family members and friends who ride motorcycles as both drivers and passengers. And I have never said any of this to them directly. Part of me thinks people ride because they can and they feel the rewards outweigh the risks. I get that... because I feel the rewards of my job far outweigh the risks.
Yet each time I think of someone I love hopping on the back of a bike, arms around someone they trust, I have no trust that they won't return from their road trip as road kill.
I have taken pictures of bikers with the front part of their skull bone removed from their heads and stuck in their bellies until ready to be replaced. Their brains have swelled so big, there's no room for that skull piece until the swelling goes down.
I've photographed broken necks and captured broken spirits in intensive care rooms and rehabs.
I've seen heads split by telephone poles and bikes twisted, turned, flattened, unrecognizable.
I've photographed the toughest leather jackets, chaps, gloves, boots, studded leather belts, shredded by a single impact.
I've watched grown men cry and lose everything they have all because someone didn't see them coming. And it is a proven fact that some drivers simply do not see the bikes even when they are right there. To some people, motorcycles are invisible.
Attitude is everything
So I return to my aforementioned client. Father of four, busted knee cap, torn shoulder, multiple other injuries, currently not working, no health insurance.
I tell him the lawyers will represent him because the person who hit him has insurance, we just don't know how much insurance is there it and if it will be enough to cover everything he needs. He listens, though I realize he doesn't get it it. All he can tell me is he has to be back at work next week because he needs to feed his family, pay the rent.
I tell him I think it will be long time before he returns to work. His employer has demanded a doctors release and his knee cap is busted. I tell him the road ahead will be very rough, yet the miracle of it all is... he is still here. I tell him about my Harley client, still in a coma after 6 months from the same kind of accident.
He then tells me when he saw his bike move to the car then hit it, he said all the stories about facing death are true. The last thought he had was, "I 'm dead and I didn't get to say goodbye to my wife and kids."
He tells me more about that moment, that fine thread between life and death. About being unconscious and then waking up to excruciating pain in his knee and realizing he was still alive. He said the pain was comforting in that it reassured him he still exists.
I tell him he is a miracle.That maybe he has angels guarding him; or maybe some greater purpose here on the planet...because for all intents and purposes, he should be dead. I tell him how many of our biker clients don't make it. I study his calm demeanor, his attitude.
I ask him, when everyone is out of the room, how he really is, how he is coping.
He said he is scared to death. He is sole provider for his family. The economy is horrible. He has a great job and now he may lose it. He talks about how he can't fish or camp or play with his kids.
Then he said what I was told many moons ago, when I felt all was lost.
"Attitude is everything. Guess I gotta' just keep my attitude in check."
I took lots of pictures today. Of him, his bike, his kids, his ripped leathers, his scraped helmet.
I wrote up his case at Starbucks, printed his photos at Rite Aid, and delivered the cases to the attorneys in Seattle, who have already contacted the insurance company of the VW driver.
Now he can get a settlement for his bike... and more important, medical care on a lien against the case.
So when someone makes a lawyer joke, I must admit, i get p.o.'ed.
I am of the opinion that the good ones, the good lawyers/attorneys, are the true warriors in an unjust world. When they wield their swords, they stand up for the weak and fight for their rights. The key, of course, of course is to find the good attorney, the right one, the just one.
As for bikers, I suggest insurance of some kind. If you are in a hit that is not your fault... whether you survive or not, it will come in handy for you.... or your survivors. Without insurance for your bike, you are at the mercy of the insurance company for the DEF. And that insurance company won't play fair.
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