Jack W. Little, Jr.

AFTER A LONG DAY

When I was 10-years-old and living in the small town of Ringoes, New Jersey, a restaurant called Weiner King opened in Flemington, the big town a few miles away. Quickly, it became the center of a young boy’s universe. “Can we go to the Weiner King, Mom? Please? Please?”

It was a shack in those days when customers walked up to an outside window to order. It seemed like the parking lot was always filled with cars and people whenever we went, too. It was a big hit and I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to work there. Of course, that was probably many boys’ fantasy then.

By the time 1968 rolled around and I was old enough, I decided it was now or never and my mother took me over to apply. By then, the tiny shack had been replaced with a larger building; one with an enclosed front counter and dining room on the side. Boldly and confidently, I swung open one of the front doors and walked up to the counter. A young woman came to wait on me.

“Hello,” I said, “could I please talk to the manager?” There. That wasn’t so hard.

It wasn’t long before an older man walked up to me. By old, I mean older than me. “What can I do for you.”

He looked me over and I asked him if he was hiring. “I’m looking for a job.” I made certain I looked presentable. Clean white shirt and slacks. I told him I’m a hard worker, too, but that was just around the house stuff.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t really need anyone right now.” Disappointment, for sure. He handed me an order slip and said, “Why don’t you put your name and phone number on the back and I’ll give you a call when I need someone.”

Absolutely, I thought, and wrote my info down. In those days, my handwriting was impressive. Today, it’s chicken scratch. “Thank you very much. I know you’re a busy man and I won’t keep you. I do hope to hear from you soon.”

And out I went.

The following Friday, less than a week later, the phone rang and it was Jack. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Come in at 10 and wear a white shirt and nice pants.”

The next morning, I walked in wearing a tie, too. He chuckled and told me I didn’t need it and then helped tie an apron around my waist. Angie Rocco was my trainer and for the next thirteen years, on-and-off, Jack helped mold me into who I am and who I’ve been for all of my adult life.

I’ve always been cool, but Jack was cooler.

I’ve always been funny, but Jack was funnier.

I’ve always been smart, but Jack was smarter.

I’ve always been quick-witted, but Jack was faster.

I’ve always been a hard worker, but Jack worked much harder.

I’ve always been great at customer service, but Jack out-serviced me.

I’ve always been honest, and so was Jack.

He told me I was the best manager he ever had.

Well, what would you expect?

Here’s an example of his workmanship and how it affected me. I wrote it in 2012 due to fighting in the comments section of my blog; comments related to the George Zimmerman case. I tried to calm the masses:

“I took great pride in [becoming a manager] due to one thing; one person. I had the utmost respect for my boss, Jack Little, and I still do. He was the best boss a person could ever have and he helped raise me, whether he knew it or not. If I was his best manager, it was because of what he taught me as an employer, a father figure, and a decent and honest human being. It was the respect he showed others that was instilled in me. And from him, I learned how to be as cool as a cucumber under fire. Don’t panic! Think fast on your feet.

“Inherent in any business, in order to be successful, is customer service. That’s the single most important factor, especially in a restaurant, where a customer wants to walk into a clean place, filled with smiling faces eager to serve you. It’s one of the cardinal rules of the service industry; service with a smile — and what you serve had better be just as good.

“I was much younger then and it was not unusual for me to put in 80-hour workweeks; nominally, 60. I was quite sharp in those days, too. There was a time — I kid you not — that a series of events (call them major breakdowns) hit me all at once and I had to render split-second decisions. In the middle of a lunch rush, of all times, a deep fryer stopped working, a toilet overflowed, a customer complained that their order wasn’t prepared right, and two of the front counter girls decided it was the proper time to pick a fight with each other. Yup, in front of hungry customers, anxious to get their food and go back to work; customers who couldn’t care less about Debbie and Sue, nor their boneheaded boyfriends and who they flirted with.

“From Jack, I learned how to work under pressure — how to deal with the daily events in the life of a restaurateur. Find ‘em and fix ‘em fast. He also taught me how to deal with people at all levels. After all, that’s what customer service really is, but it doesn’t stop there. It also includes the interaction between employees. How can a business run smoothly if there are underlying problems?

“On that particular day, I called each girl to the back room, one at a time. By taking them out of the argument, I accomplished the first thing; they couldn’t fight. I told them that if I heard another word, I would fire them on the spot and handle the lunch rush without them. I had other boys and girls working at the time and we’d just have to work harder. Most importantly, they would be out of a job and I stressed that a thousand other kids were banging at my back door begging for work. Yes, they were kids.

“‘But, but, but,’ they tried to explain in their whiny voices, ‘Debbie did this’ and ‘Sue did that’ and each boyfriend was somehow involved. I didn’t want to hear about it.

“‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘but this is not the time or place. Customers don’t want to listen to your petty fights, do they?’

“Basically, all it took was a minute to talk to each of them alone and things quickly settled down. I had learned a long time ago not to take sides, too. That was most important. NEVER TAKE SIDES because, in the end, I would be the only loser. And darned if it wasn’t the truth. After the lunch rush was over and things got cleaned up, wouldn’t you just know those two girls had already patched things up? There they were, taking their lunch break together, sitting at one of the tables and laughing up a storm. It was as if nothing ever happened. Had I taken sides, I would have been the real bonehead and worthy of the title. Just like Jack said.”

Overall, there are many aspects of my life that I can directly relate to his ethics. Now retired, I’ve never had a boss that reached his level.

Today, I pay homage to the man who had more influence in my life than any other.

Jack W. Little, Jr.

June 20, 1939 — June 6, 2020

Once Upon A Time...

Once upon a time, Pudgie the Bear was skipping through the woods when Trigga the Tree Troll stopped him.

“Why are you running in my forest?” Trigga demanded, as one of his giant tree limbs stopped Pudgie dead in his tracks.

“I… I… I have every right to be here,” Pudgie quickly responded. “Why did you stop me?”

“Because these are my trees. You are robbing my forest of flowers, leaves, grass, mushrooms, berries, roots and nuts!”

“No. Not me!!! I like honey!” Pudgie cried, but Trigga wouldn’t relent. The young bear tried to fight his way out, knocking chips of bark all over the place. “I’m going to make compost out of you!”

“No you won’t,” Trigga replied, and just like that, his powerful limb lifted up and came smashing down; knocking the stuffing out of poor Pudgie’s body, sending it flying all over the place. 

§

Attorneys Natalie Jackson, center, Benjamin Crump, center right, and Daryl Parks, far right, representing the family of Trayvon Martin sit stoically as George Zimmerman’s not guilty verdict is read in Seminole circuit court in Sanford, Fla. Saturday, July 13, 2013. Zimmerman was found not guilty in second-degree murder for the 2012 shooting death of Trayvon Martin. (Gary W. Green/Orlando Sentinel/Pool)

After the verdict came last Saturday night and my journey was over, I was tired. From the very first article I wrote; from the very first hearing I attended to the very end, I put in a lot of hours. One of my friends asked me if I would be alright. How would I handle it now that it’s over? Would I be depressed? No, I answered. This is the life of a writer of true crime and courtroom drama. A climbing crescendo, long and winding, coming to a tumultuous climax and compelling completion is what it’s all about. Cut to the end. If we can’t deal with it, we’re in the wrong business. That’s just the way it is. Death becomes a way of life.

By Sunday morning, most of the civilized world that paid attention to the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman trial knew the outcome. All that was left to do was to discuss it, but not me. I needed a break. Throughout, there were multitudes of directions each and every one of us had taken — like a hundred road intersection — converging into a massive mess of a traffic jam. Which one of us had the right of way? I don’t know. I still don’t, although a jury of six women decided for us. Yield! Move on or get run over! I suppose I could write a lot about the verdict, but what’s done is done. To perpetuate the story is, to me, unbearable. I won’t let it dog me. 

The Pavlov’s Dog Affect

From the beginning of the trial — jury selection or voir dire — we were warned by the Court and deputies to turn off all cell phones or set them to vibrate. This included iPads and other tablets and devices. No noises would be tolerated in courtroom 5D. Even Siri became a serious problem. Initially, we were given two strikes — a warning, then an ejection. That changed after the second or third day when (then) Chief Judge Alan A. Dickey changed the rule. It was one of his final orders before leaving his position, which was part of routine circuit rotation. Judge Nelson wanted it to remain two strikes but, instead, it became one, you’re out, although someone in your news organization could replace you; however, if your replacement made a noise, it would be strike two and your outfit would be banished for good — to the media overflow room you go. 

Unfortunately, I heard dings, dongs, boing after beep and ring after cell phone song from the gallery. Out went a few journalists and members of the public, until the rest of us were conditioned to be scared to death. That’s a fact. For the remainder of the trial and days beyond, whenever I heard a digital noise of any kind, no matter where I was, I cringed. If I happened to be in the produce section picking out peppers when a cell phone pinged, I panicked. It was either mine or someone else’s and it meant immediate ejection from the courtroom. I called it PDSD — Post Dramatic Stress Disorder. It took some time, but I finally broke free and now feel safe when my phone barks.

Dog Eat Dog

This wasn’t my first go ‘round in criminal court. I was credentialed during the Casey Anthony trial. When journalists from all over the country and elsewhere began to come together at the courthouse for the Zimmerman trial, it was nice to see familiar faces again. We couldn’t believe it had been two years, but it was. After friendly hellos, hugs and handshakes, it was all business. Of course, there were plenty of new faces, too, from local news stations and major networks, including cable. 

It’s the nature of the business to out-scoop each other, so there’s always a competitive edge. There’s eavesdropping and lots of interruptions while talking to someone involved with the trial, as if their questions for Ben Crump seem more important than the rest. Generally, they’re not, but that’s the way it goes. Don’t get me wrong, most of the media reps are very nice, but there are a few egos that get in the way; more so from producers than from on-air personalities. Like what I discovered during the Anthony case, the more famous the personality, the nicer they seemed, and the more intrigued they were with local news people.

There was an emotional tie inside the courthouse and, most certainly, inside the courtroom. Aside from the actual trial, I mean between journalists. I could clearly sense that, after the strike rule went into effect, plenty of those people sitting on the media side would almost kill to get one more of their own in that opened up seat. They hoped and hoped a cell phone would accidentally go off, although everyone cringed when it did. We all knew it was to be expected. It’s the nature of the beast. Goody! Goody! The problem with me was that there were no replacements. I was the only blogger inside that room with credentials. Some may have resented that fact, but most didn’t. When I was asked who I was with, I proudly said, “Me!” I represented no one but myself.

Throughout jury selection and the trial, that’s the way it was. When the State rested, everyone’s attitude changed. Gone were the vibes that begged for someone’s phone to go off. There was almost a camaraderie among us. The end was near and we all sensed it. Once again, in a matter of days, we would be going our separate ways. Surely, Mark O’Mara and his defense team wouldn’t take long and we knew that, too. How did we know? Because most of us realized the State did not put on a good case. It was a letdown. Is that all there was? They sure didn’t prove anything beyond a reasonable doubt. Therefore, the defense wouldn’t need to put on much of a show. Besides, they had cross-examined the State witnesses very effectively.

With the last few days of trial at hand, what we had waited for and built up to was going to come down. A verdict was nigh and it would be over. Time to say good bye to those who cared enough. Some just packed up and left. They knew we would meet again at the next big one. Surely, there’s always a Jodi Arias out there to cover.

On the final day, last Saturday, I could feel the electricity in the entire courthouse. The building was supercharged. I asked Rene Stutzman, who covered most of the case for the Orlando Sentinel, if she could feel it, too. “Yes,” she responded. “Absolutely.”

I spoke to one of the administrators on a floor not associated with the trial in any way. She also acknowledged that her coworkers felt it, too. It really cut into their levels of concentration. Of course, some of that could have been attributed to protesters, but they didn’t come until the final three days and, even then, it wasn’t that many. No, this was a powerful trial; one that touched the entire area surrounding the courthouse.

As a final aside, I must say that Judge Nelson was one tough judge. No, I’m not going to humor your thoughts on bias, one way or the other. This has nothing to do with that. Comparing her to Judge Belvin Perry, Jr., Perry was a pussycat. He gave us an hour-and-a-half for lunch each day and there were lots of restaurants in downtown Orlando to choose from. Plenty of time to eat, in other words. Nelson, on the other hand, gave the jury an hour each day and if there happened to be any unfinished court business after they were excused, it cut into our lunch time. That meant less than an hour, generally, with NO restaurants nearby. Well, WaWa. Despite it being cold in the courtroom, I couldn’t bring perishables, so I brought MorningStar Grillers Prime or Chipotle Black Bean veggie burgers on a toasted English muffin. No butter. Plain. I heated them in the lunchroom microwave, where I ate almost every day with a handful of other journalists. Sometimes, we’d talk shop as I nibbled on fresh tomatoes and assorted fruit. Today, there are no more daily events to discuss among my peers, but I am sticking with the diet. Plus salad. Those veggie burgers grew on me, especially the Grillers Prime.

And in the end…

After nearly five years of writing about local murders, I hope nothing else like the last two cases comes along again. In the Zimmerman trial, one must understand the residents of Seminole County in order to grasp the verdict. It is a predominantly conservative Republican county made up of a mostly Caucasian population. Gun rights is an important issue. It is not a racist area, although it used to be many, many years ago, but never as much as the surrounding counties. Ultimately, the jury based its decision on the law and how it’s written; not so much on the absolute innocence of Zimmerman, as if he did nothing wrong. In the eyes of the law, Casey Anthony did not murder her daughter, did she? Or was it, more or less, because the prosecution did not prove its case?  

In the Zimmerman/Martin confrontation, it was the ambiguity of the final moments that cemented the verdict. All you need to do is to look at something else in order to figure it out. Take a DUI (DWI) traffic stop, for instance. If you refuse all tests — field sobriety and breathalyzer — and keep your mouth shut in the back seat of the patrol car, there’s hardly any evidence against you other than the arresting officer’s word. The less evidence a prosecutor has, the less chance of a conviction. That’s what happened here. There just wasn’t enough evidence. Without it, the jury could not convict George Zimmerman — not as presented by Bernie de la Rionda and his team. There wasn’t even enough for a manslaughter conviction, was there?

On the night of February 26, 2012, something horrible took place. Was it poor judgement or bad timing, perhaps? Was it both? Had Martin arrived at the Retreat at Twin Lakes only five minutes earlier, Zimmerman would have gone on to Target. Had Zimmerman only left the Retreat five minutes earlier, Martin would have walked safely home to watch the NBA All-Star Game. Who started it and who ended it can and will be argued about for years to come. I formed my own opinion, but I choose to move on now. A verdict has been rendered. Let the rest of the media hound on it. They get richer and richer off the story and I never made a dime. In the end, trust me, Trayvon Martin did not die for naught.

As for me, what does my future hold? I may re-stuff Pudgie the Bear and write fiction. Yup, you know… Once upon a time, we had characters like the Lone Ranger. In those days, good guys always wore white and bad guys never got away.

George Zimmerman is congratulated by his defense team after being found not guilty, on the 25th day of Zimmerman’s trial at the Seminole County Criminal Justice Center, in Sanford, Fla., Saturday, July 13, 2013. (Joe Burbank/Orlando Sentinel/POOL)

Cross-posted on the DAILY KOS

Synchronization: Trayvon Walks - Zimmerman Talks

The following video depicts Trayvon’s walk from Frank Taaffe’s house (according to George Zimmerman) against Zimmerman’s call to the non-emergency dispatcher. This is just one account of the timeline and what MAY have transpired on the night of Feb. 26, 2012. It is strictly an interpretation and should be treated as such.

I synchronized it with the time Zimmerman told an investigator that he looked south from the T as the dispatcher asked if he was following him, ending with the advisement, “We don’t need you to do that.”

As LLMPapa so poignantly pointed out, it came exactly 10 seconds after Zimmerman slammed his SUV door shut — the same distance it took me 42 seconds to walk. 

The end of the video shows Zimmerman’s pace. What happens after he initially reaches the T (and beyond that point) is anyone’s guess.

The Prince and the Pea: Subjective or Objective Fear in the Petitioner?

In his ORDER SETTING BAIL on July 5, 2012, Judge Kenneth Lester made several stipulations clear about what attorney Mark O’Mara’s client, George Zimmerman, could and could not do. For instance, he would be able to travel anywhere he wants as long as it’s within the boundaries of Seminole County. If he finds it necessary to leave the county, all he has to do is pass it by the court for authorization. It’s a rather plain and simple directive and something a five-year-old should be able to comprehend.

However…

In his MOTION TO MODIFY CONDITIONS OF RELEASE dated August 22, 2012, Mr. Zimmerman, through his attorneys, cited two issues pertaining to matters addressed in the judge’s above order. Call them problematic. The Court, for instance, must realize by now, due to the great amount of national and international publicity, not to mention notoriety and animosity, that Zimmerman “and his entire extended family have had to live in hiding, fearing for their own safety.” Therefore, he should be able to move out of the county, too.

I disagree with Mr. O’Mara’s choice of words. He exaggerates. How? In many ways, but for now, here’s a ‘for instance.’ It’s one thing to complain about the woes that have befallen his client, but his client and only his client was responsible for the big mess he’s in — not his family. Daddy did not hold his hand the night he pulled the trigger. Therefore, why bother bringing up any issue over his family’s fears for their own safety? It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that there is nothing stopping them from moving out of the area any time they please. There are no restrictions on them whatsoever, and to suggest in that motion, albeit indirectly, that the Court was somehow responsible for this problem is, well, not showing a clear sense of responsibility. There is no way the Court can magically order the public to leave the Zimmerman family alone.

This is George’s unfavorably conducive style; his M.O. These are his edicts, sua sponte, not necessarily those of his attorneys. While his motions are filled with innuendos that tend to absorb what little substance they hold, it’s when he opens his mouth that we see him for what he is.

Full of Zimmermanure.

He not only speaks with a forked tongue, he also twists his tongue when he speaks. A good example of this came during his Hannity interview on FOX News. When asked if he would have done anything any differently, given ample opportunity to think about it now, he said he really hadn’t had the time to think about it, but after thinking about it, he wouldn’t have changed a thing. He regretted nothing and it was God’s plan. He had nothing to feel sorry about. Did that make sense? Wait. It gets worse.

Later in the broadcast, he turned and faced the camera, and in his best “My fellow Americans…” presidential-style address, he apologized to the nation, his wife, and everyone involved in the case, including Trayvon Martin’s parents. In my opinion, it was, at best, sickeningly insincere. Incidentally, a truly biased judge would have called him on the carpet for addressing Trayvon’s parents because, in his order, Judge Lester wrote:

“The Defendant shall not have any contact with the victim’s family, directly or indirectly, except as necessary to conduct pretrial discovery through his attorneys[.]”

Redundancy

My complaint, while being about the Petitioner, also includes his attorney and how he’s handling the case; his motions, in particular. In this very same Motion To Modify Conditions Of Release, O’Mara wrote:

“One of the conditions of release is that Mr. Zimmerman is not to leave Seminole County without prior authorization by this court.”

Right, Mr. Knechel, you already said that. Well, yes I did, but so did the judge and Defense, and just to clarify, this is a two-part motion. The second part addressed traveling outside the county, not moving out. The judge’s order covered it and the defendant acknowledged it, so what was the point of this final statement in Zimmerman’s latest motion?

“The restriction of Mr. Zimmerman not to leave Seminole County has had a deleterious effect on his ability to assist in the preparation of his own defense. Communications have been unnecessarily limited to telephone and occasional visits by counsel. Mr. Zimmerman must be able to travel to meet with his lawyers, and to attend to various other necessary matters to prepare this matter to move forward.”

Hmm… deleterious… injurious to health; pernicious, hurtful, destructive and noxious according to dictionary.com. My, what $5.00 words he uses that won’t impress any sitting judge let alone little old me. While I realize the motion also asked that Zimmerman be allowed to move outside of Seminole County, a request the Court denied, the rest of it is redundant. Here, verbatim, is what the judge wrote in his July 5 order:

“The Defendant shall not leave Seminole County without prior authorization by this Court[.]”

How much clearer can one get? All the defense had to do was ask. Why was it necessary to dedicate the brunt of this motion on something that was already covered a month-and-a-half earlier? And if O’Mara were really fearful of Zimmerman’s safety while residing somewhere in the entire county of Seminole, how much safer should he feel while his client is sitting in his office in downtown Orlando? Talk about deleterious! I’m serious.

Here’s the way I see George Zimmerman. When he doesn’t get what he wants, he whines and cries. He feels boxed in and claustrophobic. He gets restless and can’t sleep at night. His mattress turns lumpy. You see, George is starting to remind me of The Princess and the Pea with one major difference. He cannot get a comfortable night’s sleep until all his demands are met. The pea, in this case, is Kenneth R. Lester, Jr. who must be removed and replaced by a fairy tale friendly judge so Prince George, his friends, his family and his fellow American loyalists will be allowed to live happily ever after.

Fearing Fear Itself

In Nit-Picking Nit-Writ, I addressed the PETITION FOR WRIT OF PROHIBITION filed by the Zimmerman defense. I pointed out how O’Mara had offered evidence about the shooting on the night of February 26 and why it was not only unnecessary, it was useless. A writ of prohibition, in this case, only pertains to why the trial judge should be recused. It’s not for anything else. What O’Mara did was inflate a very weak document with superfluous fluff, like adding TVP to a package of fatty, grisly hamburger meat, and I don’t feel the appeal court is going to buy any of it. 

I do believe that Assistant Attorney General Pamela Koller offered up a much meatier argument against the Defense appeal. I will elaborate on that a bit and address the finer points of the State’s RESPONSE TO PETITION FOR WRIT OF PROHIBITION. In particular, I want to look into the two types of fear that the district court will examine — objective and subjective.

In 2005, I wrote a post about how slants change your views of the news. Titled, An unbiased look at news slants, I last updated it in February of 2010. I think it should give you a foundation on objectivity and subjectivity.

Objective information strives to remain unbiased. Dictionaries and other materials of reference, such as encyclopedias, generally provide factual information. Traffic lights are red, green and yellow. Yellow means caution, green means to go and red means to stop.

Subjective information is formed by personal opinion. Editorial sections in newspapers are subjective. While editorials and letters to the editor can be based on fact, opinions are usually based on personal interpretations of facts. Humans are responsible for global warming. Global warming is caused by natural earth cycles, such as the Ice Age. In these cases, separate and valid viewpoints can be substantiated by citing legitimate sources.

We know that George and Shellie Zimmerman lied to the Court about access to money and a second passport they claimed they didn’t have. The judge acknowledged that in his order revoking bond and Team Zimmerman then proceeded to call it biased, including the judge’s reprimand. (It’s interesting to note that the defendant still managed to post bail despite the Court setting it much higher than what was originally granted.) The fact that bail was granted at all after the second request could be considered a testament to the judge’s fairness. 

The Judge’s Order Setting Bail infuriated the Defendant and his counsel. How dare the Court look at his lies at all, let alone “judge” his actions and lack of respect for the court. To do so was nothing short of biased, they claimed, so they filed their writ of prohibition with the higher court. The bottom line now is how the Fifth District Court of Appeal will look at this motion — as an objective or subjective complaint — and rule accordingly, based on objectivity. Does Zimmerman have a leg to stand on? Is his distress based on a paranoid fear of persecution in general (subjective) or has this judge exhibited (objective) behavior in the past that truly legitimizes his concerns?

Let’s look at this objectively. In its response to the writ, the State wrote:

Petitioner complains about rulings in the past in his background section, but it is well established that “[t]he fact that the judge has made adverse rulings in the past against the defendant, or that the judge has previously heard the evidence, or ‘allegations that the trial judge had formed a fixed opinion of the defendant’s guilt, even where it is alleged that the judge discussed his opinion with others,’ are generally considered legally insufficient reasons to warrant the judge’s disqualification.” Rivera, 717 So. 2d at 481 (quoting Jackson v. State, 599 So. 2d at 107; see also Areizaga v. Spicer, 841 So. 2d 494, 496 (Fla. 2d DCA 2003) (It is well established that a trial court’s prior adverse rulings are not legally sufficient grounds upon which to base a motion to disqualify).

In other words, this is not merely a complaint about Lester’s language in the bail order, it’s also about his prior rulings in Zimmerman’s pretrial motions. This is something that should be taken up post-conviction, if necessary, not now, and it epitomizes my description of superfluous fluff; not worth the paper it’s printed on. What the defense wants to do is set a silly precedent; that every single defense motion denial is biased. This would then have to include every case that has ever come before a court. Overturn every verdict because motions were denied! All in the name of George! Clearly, this is subjective thinking. “I think,” O’Mara could opine, “every motion that was turned down was done so by judicial bias.”

Of course, it’s every defense attorney’s dream, but most are smart enough to know it’s nothing more than a whimsical flight of fancy. Cheney Mason tried the same thing during the Anthony case and got nowhere.

The State cited Rolle ex rel. Dabrio v. Birken, 984 So. 2d 534, 536 (Fla. 3d DCA 2008):

Likewise, we recently pointed out that a “mere ‘subjective fear’ of bias will not be legally sufficient, rather, the fear must be objectively reasonable.” Arbelaez v. State, 898 So. 2d 25, 41 (Fla. 2005) (quoting Fischer v. Knuck, 497 So. 2d 240, 242 (Fla. 1986)). We do not find Mansfield’s allegations of fear to be objectively reasonable. See also Asay v. State, 769 So. 2d 974 (Fla. 2000). Our cases support the trial court’s denial of the motion to disqualify, and we affirm the trial judge’s order. 

Notwithstanding, Lester had every right to keep Zimmerman behind bars because the State went on to say that:

The judge again set a bond for Petitioner, and Petitioner is currently out on bond. Thus, the grounds listed by Petitioner in his motion are facially insufficient.

… and that the Petitioner is manipulating the system. From Cf. Brown, 561 So. 2d at 257 n. 7:

(“We hasten to add that our holding should not be construed to mean that a judge is subject to disqualification…simply because of making an earlier ruling in the course of a proceeding which had the effect of rejecting the testimony of the moving party. At the very least…there must be a clear implication that the judge will not believe the complaining party’s testimony in the future.”).

While the assistant attorney general cited many examples of why this particular writ of prohibition is without merit, it is, by its very nature, nearly as subjective as the writ itself. Both sides came to their respective conclusions based on their own interpretations of case law. As the appellate court looks at this issue with complete objectivity, it should see that Judge Lester has not been prejudiced against George Zimmerman — and most assuredly, not personally. In my opinion, based on what the Defense and State both submitted, the original motion to disqualify the trial judge in this case was legally insufficient. Judge Lester made the right choice, and so will the appellate judges,  C. Alan Lawson, Jay P. Cohen and Kerry I. Evander.

Poor Prince George is not just afraid of a li’l old pea, he’s also afraid of his shadow. Oh, and don’t even get me started on (d)(1) and (d)(2). That’s a whole “nother” bedtime story.

Cross posted at the Daily Kos

Welcome to the Hood

I thought I’d show you around the neighborhood where George Zimmerman will be spending a good part of his time until — or unless — things change. He does have a bond hearing on Friday.

Orange County is run differently than Seminole. In Orange, the sheriff’s office is responsible for maintaining peace at the courthouse, just like in Seminole. In Seminole, the office also maintains the jail. Not so in Orange, which is one of the few counties in Florida that has its own force. The jail is about 5-miles away and defendants must travel to and fro when ordered to appear in court.

The Orange County Courthouse is conveniently located in downtown Orlando, where there’s lots of parking and nearby restaurants — many within walking distance. The Seminole County Courthouse is a mere 4.5 miles from me, straight up US 17-92. The jail is in its backyard, on the same property.

Unfortunately, the courthouse and jail are not within walking distance of any restaurants, and even driving to nearby spots is somewhat of a pain. My guess is that whenever the big show comes to town, meaning the trial, there will be a battery of catering trucks available. If there’s a trial. 

The Seminole County Courthouse is not nearly as large as its sister in Orange county, but it has a somewhat majestic appearance in its simple elegance. It sits alone, in scale, at least, because there are no other tall structures nearby, like in downtown Orlando. Seminole County is very small compared to Orange.

CLICK PHOTOS TO ENLARGE

To the right of the courthouse, Bush Blvd. winds around the back to the jail.

On the other side of boulevard is the Seminole County Sheriff’s Office building.

To the jail…

You can see the back of the courthouse:

This is the visitation center:

The Intake facility. You don’t want to go through those doors…

The back end of the jail:

Hopefully, my 50 cent tour gives you a halfway decent idea of what we will most likely get used to seeing for the time being. I don’t think this case will take three years to run its course like Casey’s arrest and trial, but most importantly, I don’t believe that George Zimmerman will be sitting in jail the whole time like she did, either. Why? The fact remains, he did turn himself in to authorities voluntarily, and he did so before the charges were formally laid out. That should give him a decent chance at bonding out by the end of this week. Since his arrest, the furor has died down and I no longer feel his life is in grave danger. Well, for the most part, anyway, but I guess it will mostly hinge on whether the New Black Panther Party (NBPP) still has a $10,000 bounty on his head. A lot of people could use the extra money these days, and it stretches well beyond the barriers of ethnicity. I sure would hate to see him turn into a martyr.

The National Rally for Justice on behalf of Trayvon Martin

I attended the rally for Trayvon Martin last Thursday, March 22, in Sanford. I chose to go because I truly believe Trayvon Martin was murdered. I don’t believe George Zimmerman ever set out to kill anyone that day or any other time, but a teenager is dead and he alone is responsible. 

The Stand Your Ground law does not give citizens the right to kill on a whim. You cannot be the aggressor and use the law as an excuse. In truth George Zimmerman stalked a child.

Jeffrey Toobin is an attorney, author and legal analyst. On the slate.com Website, Toobin states, “Trayvon saw someone following him, felt threatened, retreated, was still followed, and then was approached by an armed man who had 100 lbs on him. … Because Zimmerman was acting as an aggressor, Trayvon had the right to defend himself by punching, kicking, tackling, etc. Because Zimmerman was acting as the aggressor, his actions cannot be considered self-defense: you can’t initiate and then claim self-defense. The evidence for initiation is there on the 911 tape. … Why is it that a black man cannot be afraid of a white man who follows and approaches him on a street at night?”

A lot of trashtalk is coming out on Trayvon now. Some of it may be true, but it still means nothing to me. Zimmerman may not be guilty of a hate crime, but that doesn’t mean he’s innocent in the 17-year-old’s death.

I will be posting more articles in the coming days, but first, the following is a video I put together of 50 of the 141 photographs that I took at the National Rally for Justice on behalf of Trayvon Martin. Please watch it and if you feel like it, let me know what you think. Right now, I’ve got 50 pictures to post on my blog, but not on my front page. I’ll post a link to it when it’s up.

CLICK HERE TO SEE ALL PHOTOGRAPHS

My Trip to Gainesville, Part 1

This is a story about my trip to Gainesville on February 4. It’s going to have to be split into 2-parts because it is not just about the Gator basketball game I attended, it also encompasses the tragic crash 0n I-75 at the end of January. That’s in this part. The next one will be about Old Florida - Cross Creek and Micanopy. While this will touch briefly on Cross Creek, it won’t say anything about Micanopy, which is the oldest inland settlement in the state. This post will be heavy with photos. Most can be enlarged.

HISTORY AND THE OLD SOUTH

Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve had a keen interest in history. Growing up in New Jersey, it was impossible to miss because the area is rich with stories of days gone by. Much of the Revolutionary War was fought in my own back yard, for instance, and before that was the French & Indian War of the 1750s.

While libraries are teeming with books on history, my affection for it lays somewhere else, deep within my mind. I seek the presence of history. I like to sense it all around me. Although not an obsession, I often wonder, as I walk about, who took the same steps one hundred years before me; a thousand and more years earlier, and I yearn to learn, because I can only guess as far back as our history books tell us. I know there’s more than that.

Growing up, it was easy to explore our heritage. Where I lived was just northwest of Princeton, and that made it somewhat simple to visit historical sites and museums from Philadelphia to New York City and everywhere in between. Every so often, I’d hear news about the skeletal remains of a Redcoat and his musket being discovered in the rafters of an old house while it was being renovated. I lived in several homes that dated back to a generation or two before the Revolutionary War. The church where my late grandfather preached was established in 1733.

Some of you may find me morbid for this, but I’ve always liked to walk through old cemeteries. I’d look at the names and dates on the tombstones and wonder who they were in life. What did they do? Were they friendly? Who did they leave behind? In my own hometown of Flemington, there is a small tract of land up the street from where I lived known as the Case Family Burial Ground. Several members of the Case family are resting there, along with a Delaware Indian chief named Tuccamirgan, who died in 1750. The grave was dug deep enough for him to be placed in a sitting position, facing east.

While I am quite intrigued by my humble beginnings, I am just as fascinated with the American Civil War. Of course, being a Yankee and all, I never could get a firm grasp on the Confederacy until I moved to Florida. We were never taught to hate southerners, but we were aware that many southerners were raised to hate northerners — so we thought. It wasn’t all that many years ago when the ‘colored folk’ used separate water fountains and bathrooms in the south. When I moved to the Orlando area in ‘81, I didn’t know what to expect. To me, the Civil War ended over a century ago, so there was nothing more to it than history. Every so often, I’ll hear about how the war has never ended and that the south will one day rise again, but for what reason? To what end? Instead, I like to focus on the rich culture of the south, and that’s something I was never taught in school. It’s not anything that could be taught in school. You must live it in order to feel it.

I’ve been in central Florida for 31 years now, longer than I lived up north and I’ve got to say, I like it here. No, that doesn’t mean I’d ever give up on my home town or state, and Orlando’s not known as a bastion of Old Florida, but there’s definitely something romantic about pockets of the south. I guess you could say the bug caught me during a screening of Gone With The Wind during my freshman year of high school in, of all places, New Jersey.

There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the “Old South.” Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. Here was the last ever to be seen of Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind…

- From the opening of the film Gone with the Wind (1939)

While I don’t sense anything genuinely historical about Orlando, I have found the ‘Deep South’ — through north Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi — to be both mythical and mystical. There’s no way to explain it in a sentence or two. It’s something that has to grow on you. The bug next caught me when I flew to New Orleans on a private jet back in the early 90s. I felt something tragic about the city but I could never pin it on anything. As festive as the place was, an innate sense of sadness always seemed to be right around the corner, on the other side of the wrought iron gate.

I’ve since been back to New Orleans, but I’ve also traveled to and visited other towns from here to Houston. One of my favorite stops was Natchez, Mississippi, rife with tales of the Civil War. This story, however, is not about the war between the states, this is about one state, and it’s called Old Florida, home of majestic magnolias, stately live oaks and cypress trees jutting up from the water. However, there are two issues to cover first. 

Many of you are familiar with Nika1. She is a frequent contributor on my blog and a good friend. About a month ago, she asked me if I’d be interested in going to a live Gator (University of Florida) basketball game with her. Yes! Of course I would! I’ve been to several football games, but never basketball, something I’ve always wanted to do. I first went to see Nika1 in late September of 2010, when she invited me up for a football game. While there, she took me around the neighborhood. That included the rural area where she lives, and where her family has lived for many generations. Once again, I sensed the old south, but in this case, it was Old Florida, and its roots were deep in history.

Three weeks ago, on February 4, I drove up to the house she shares with Ali Rose, her beautiful Australian Shepherd. She had plans for me, too. After the basketball game, we were going to go to Cross Creek, made famous by The Yearling, the 1938 novel written by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. She won the Pulitzer Prize for it in 1939. Fascinating, I thought. Very much so.

ANATOMY OF A TRAGEDY

Almost a week before my drive, a terrible accident happened on I-75, in the middle of Paynes Prairie. 11 people died. To help you understand Paynes Prairie, it is generally a swampy area, but the weather has been exceedingly dry in Florida, and in this state, droughts breed brush fires, and lots of them. Many burn out of control.

Burned Brush in Background

On the way up to the game on US-441, Nika1 told me what happened. 441 is east of 75 and they run parallel to each other. The fire started east of 441. The first series of accidents began just before midnight, on January 28. Smoke and fog wafted west across the highways and the first 911 call came in at 11:53:14 from I-75 to report the heavy smoke and fog. Moments later, another 911 caller reported hearing accidents. Then, another one came in saying they saw the accidents. Moments later, all traffic was stopped.

Those accidents were not fatal, but it prompted the Florida Highway Patrol to shut down the interstate by 12:45 am. At 3:21 am, the decision was made to reopen it, and the rest is history. By 4:00 am, you couldn’t see past your nose. Heading southbound, a semi had stopped in the right lane and a Dodge pickup truck plowed into it, followed by a Ford Expedition. The two Ford occupants were able to escape through the back just before it burst into flames.  The occupants in the pickup truck were on their way to a funeral, but sadly, all three family members perished.

By now, frantic calls were coming into the Alachua County Communications Center. Of course, when troopers, sheriff’s deputies and emergency vehicles arrived, they couldn’t see, either.

In the northbound lanes, two church vans were heading to Georgia. One van crashed into the rear corner of a semi stopped in the middle lane and it sliced through the van, killing five family members. One 15-year-old girl survived. The occupants of the other van survived. In front of the semi was a Toyota Matrix sandwiched between that one and one in front of it. The young couple in the Matrix died.

Meanwhile, another semi had stopped in the middle southbound lane. It was hit by a Dodge pickup and the driver was able to escape with minor injuries. Then, a Pontiac Grand Prix smashed into the back of that pickup and the driver died.

Had the drivers of those semis pulled off of the road instead of stopping in the lanes, would lives have been saved? You bet, but it will be a long time before the investigation into this tragedy is sorted out. That includes why FHP decided to reopen the interstate after it was closed.

What surprised me was that the fire burned east of 441. Nika1 told me another person died on that highway, but it didn’t make headlines like the big one.

The above photo represents what Paynes Prairie would look like during normal weather conditions.

GO GATORS!

As much of a horror as the accident was, there was a basketball game to attend, and the Gators intended to win it. This was, after all, why I took the trip to begin with, not including my visit with Nika1. The team was playing Vanderbilt. We had gotten there in plenty of time to nestle into our seats, where brand new t-shirts were nicely folded for spectators. Yes, FREE! Blue in color, the back had the Texaco logo and some type, and the front said “ROWDY yet refined REPTILE” with the Gator green and orange logo. It was a great game to watch and it was made better by the Gator’s victory. The final score was 73-65. The pictures can do the talking…

The first photo is the University of Florida Century Tower in Gainesville. Begun in 1953, it is 157 feet (48 m) tall.

Part 2 will come next week and it will take you through Old Florida and a Michael J. Fox movie. Mostly, it will be a selection of photographs I took.

My Job as a Professional Newspaper Reader

This is not about Casey Anthony. I am trying to distance myself from her. I am working on other criminal cases and I will continue to do so, but until I get a firm grasp on them, I will present new human interest stories interspersed with some of my old. Of course, it means the old ones will get a fresh look because I’d like to think I’m a better writer today than I was on April 14, 2005, when this first appeared. Originally, it was simply titled “Beefy King” and I was trying to hone my skills as a writer.

Years ago, I was a hardline artist for an ad agency in Orlando. Everything we created was for the Belk department store chain, based out of North Carolina. Hardline included shoes, furniture, electronics, and other items unrelated to fashion. I would never consider myself a fashion artist - then or now, but I worked there for 11-years.  I also designed and built ads that ran in a good number of newspapers throughout the state. Previous to that job I was mostly in the restaurant business. Soon after I started working at Stonebrook Advertising, I saw a fast food restaurant up the street called Beefy King. Since I had come from a background in that industry, I thought it would be a nice place to eat and meet new people. It didn’t take long for the owners, Roland & Sandee Smith, and I to become good friends.

One of the interesting, if not quirky, aspects of my job was our daily morning ritual. My boss insisted that we come to work at 8:30 am, but he (almost forcefully) encouraged us to take a break from 9 to 10. Go out for an hour! Enjoy yourself! Strange, but that was Mr. Stone’s way of doing business. Because of his edict, on most mornings, I would drive up the street to Beefy King, make myself a sandwich and pour a cup of coffee. Black. No sugar. Sometimes, I’d help slice meats or whatever, but most of the time I’d just stand at the front counter reading the newspaper. I guess it depended on whether they needed a little help that particular day. Mind you, I was always glad to pitch in. Since they didn’t open until 10, I never interfered with any customers.

On one particular morning, there was a man working on an ice machine that had broken down. I’d say he was, what you might call, pleasantly plump and he had a personality to match. In other words, he was a very nice fellow. The next morning, he was still tinkering on the ice machine. Good thing the restaurant had a spare. On the morning of the third day, he finished his work and quietly talked to Roland about the bill and something else that caught his attention. As they stood in the hallway between the dining area and the back room, he whispered, “Hey, that guy up there. He’s been here every morning, just standing there reading the newspaper. Doesn’t he have a job? I mean, what’s he do for a living?”

The acoustics were just right and our jovial buddy had no idea I heard every word. “Why, he’s a professional newspaper reader,” Roland replied.

The guy said, “No way. There’s no such thing.”

Roland said, “Go ask him.”

There I stood, deeply ensconced in my work, oblivious to anything else, and completely unaware that he was sauntering my way to ask about my profession.

“Excuse me,” he politely said, as if not wanting to take up too much of my very important time.

I took my eyes away from my work, looked up and in a face that showed great concentration, I said, “Yes?”

I tried not to snicker.

“Well, I’ve been here three days now and I see you reading the newspaper. I was just wondering what kind of job you have. What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Why of course not. I’m a professional newspaper reader.”

“Get outta here. I’ve never heard of such a job.”

“Yes. That is what I do.”

“You’re kidding! You get paid to read newspapers?”

“Yes. It’s a rather lucrative job, I might add. There aren’t that many of us in the state.”

“Well, I’m from Florida - born and raised, and I know the state like the back of my hand. What’s the name of the newspaper in Leesburg?”

“Which one? The Commercial or the Gazette? Also, the Orlando Sentinel has a zoned edition.”

“No kidding! Alright. What about St. Augustine?”

“The St. Augustine Record.”

In rapid succession, he asked me about another half-dozen or so cities and towns throughout Florida and no matter what he came up with, I had the correct answer. He had no idea that Belk advertised in all of those newspapers. Actually, we did. Back then, newspapers weren’t as consistent as they are today, so ads were designed to fit each publication.

“Okay… fine… I believe you… a… professional… newspaper… reader. ” It took a little time for this revelation to sink in. “I gotta tell my wife when I get home tonight. She’s not going to believe it.”

As the guy drove out of the parking lot, Roland and I got the biggest chuckle. To this day, I’ll bet that guy still tells people about the job to stump all jobs. A professional newspaper reader.

All kidding aside, there’s one thing I must tell you about Beefy King. I went there almost every weekday morning for about 10 years and I can tell you that it is, by far, one of the cleanest restaurants I’ve ever set foot in. Not only could you practically eat off the floor, the food is very good, to boot. It’s been in the same family since 1968, with the third generation running the show now. There’s not a restaurant critic in town that wouldn’t give Beefy King a glowing review, and for good reason. The place is legendary. If you are ever in Orlando and have some spare time on your hands, try to stop by for lunch. It’s on Bumby. You can tell them a professional newspaper reader sent you. 

Well worth losing sleep over

FRIDAY

Last Friday evening, it rained. Of course, living in Florida, it can storm at a moment’s notice, bringing with it the wrath of rumbling thunder and lightning. Anyone who reads my blog understands that I take an Internet time out from 7:00 pm to 7:30 pm Monday through Friday to watch Jeopardy. Last Friday was no different until, suddenly, in the middle of the Double Jeopardy round and without warning, an intensely brilliant white light burst through the living room window, accompanied by an immediate explosion of sound, louder than anything I’d heard before. CRACK! In that split second, it was gone, and so was our electricity. Within minutes, power returned, but no cable. After the box rebooted, the living room TV cranked back up, but my show was over. Darn, I missed Final Jeopardy.

As sudden as the surge was, I quickly jumped to my feet to peer out the front window because I smelled electricity in the air. Sure enough, a wire was down in the front yard and it was hissing and spitting and reeling like a lithe snake in the dead of night, emitting an eerie orange glow that pierced the night air and glistened on the drops of rain that continued to fall. I walked to the phone to call 911, but there was no dial tone. We had switched to all cable only months earlier, so the phone and Internet were out-of-order. How funny, I thought, because the living room TV was working fine. I took out my cell phone and called to report the incident. Then, I called the cable company and the tech said the modem box that controls the phone and Internet was sending him no signal. Modem fried. The soonest anyone could come would be next Tuesday. To someone with a blog, that’s like… forever! Oh well, back to the matter at hand. I knew I would have the Internet the next day - for a few hours, at least.

Within minutes, the fire company arrived. There was no way I was going to set foot out there and risk a deathly jolt from the wet ground that lay ahead. As the fire/emergency crew assessed the situation, the power went off and off it stayed. The hissing line was dead in the water. Situation under control.

One of the things we know from living in the lightning capital of the world is to be ready, so a battery operated camping light alloted enough brightness for us to move around inside the house. Without power, the air conditioning wasn’t working, either, and it didn’t take long to warm up. After about 45 minutes, I decided to take a walk outside and scope the place out. I walked over to the power company truck and asked the driver when he expected it to come back on. Of course, he could only guess. He was awaiting another truck bringing someone to do the work. His job was to take a look and report. That’s after 27 years with the utility, he said. No more fixing lines. The younger ones do that now. One neighborhood child came by and asked the same question, but by that time we had already moved on to other topics. There was nothing any of us could do but wait. The driver and I talked for about an hour, until it was time for me to take my nightly insulin shot. He told me about some of his experiences with the company and how cutbacks have really streamlined things, but hadn’t made things better. It was more work, in other words, but with that came more hours and more pay. Not so bad, then. Not bad at all for a man in his fifties. I told him I write about the Anthony case. Interestingly, he was quite fascinated by it and he began asking questions like if she did it. He said his best friend’s son went to high school with her.

Someone drove by and stopped to ask what happened. He said he was heading up to the bar on the corner, G’s Lounge. The utility guy said, good luck, the power’s out there, too. He said that under normal conditions, it takes three surges to the substation to shut power off. In this particular case, after the third time, power remained on and he had to manually turn it off. I guess it fused something together. This took out a good part of the neighborhood. I asked him how many volts were in that downed wire.

“7200,” he responded.

Wow, that’s a lot of juice. We turned back to the Anthony case. I said that had I been many years younger and met her in a bar, I’d find her quite attractive, which is what your friend’s son must have thought. Of course, this would mean PRIOR to any murder. He agreed, but then he told me he asked the son if he had ever hit on her. Did he ever do anything with her? No, the son said. “She was passed around too much in high school. Everyone had her.”

That was an interesting observation and one that I wouldn’t ordinarily expect, but there are many surprises when it comes to this case. Of course, in a court of law, that would be hearsay and therefore, inadmissible, so take it the way you want, but it was a statement just the same.  Had it not been for the strike that burned a hole in the ground, I wouldn’t have known.

After a good conversation about other things, it was time to go inside. I wished him well and said good night. I went into the house and tried to sleep, but only lightly dozed until, just after midnight, the power returned and the cool, dry blast of the air conditioner fanned across my hot skin. Relief! Good, because I had a football game to go to and I wanted to be as refreshed as possible. Despite the lack of sleep, I woke up feeling fine. There was a big day ahead!

SATURDAY

Weeks earlier, I had published a 2-part series that began with Gainesville serial killer Danny Rolling, When karma strikes twice, and finished with John Huggins, Slowly, the wiles of justice churn. In the Huggins case, Jeff Ashton was one of the prosecutors and Chief Judge Belvin Perry presided. Of course, people like to comment and that’s where a lot of thought goes on. It brings my blog to life! During those ensuing comments, a dear reader and contributor, Nika1, offered to take me to a football game, the one against Kentucky, to be precise, and I took her up on that offer. She lives in Gainesville and told me about the wall in memory of those slain by Rolling in 1990.

In back-and-forth e-mails to-and-from my now defunct account, we set the trip up and finished it with a phone call. I didn’t want to drive my car that distance. She suggested taking the Red Coach. The Red Coach? I had never heard of it, but I took a good look. How could I not? It’s first-class all the way, with wide leather seats that fold down almost into a bed. There’s a movie, and wi-fi, to boot. The best part? It’s only $15 each way. Heck, it would probably cost me $20 in gas anyway. All I had to do was drive down to the airport and park. For free.

While waiting to board, riders were dropped off from Miami. I spoke to one gentleman from Ocala who knows the Brantley family, football players all. John Brantley IV is the Gator quarterback. It was nice to learn a little more background before the game.

Off we went! I brought my computer along to catch up on e-mails and comments, but alas, the wi-fi was not working. I tried to sleep a little, but Nancy Drew was blaring from the speaker above me. Our movie du jour.

When the bus arrived in Gainesville, Nika1 was waiting. I knew, as soon as I saw her, that she was my blogging friend and not there for anyone else. I got out and we lightly embraced. Aaaah, such a warm and friendly greeting! We walked over to her vehicle and stowed my belongings. I must tell you that sitting on the front passenger seat were a Gator t-shirt and hat, both brand new. Without hesitation, I took my shirt off in the parking lot to the delight of no one, but I was in Gator country, by golly, and I’m a Gator.

Off we went!

People were everywhere, all dressed in orange and blue, the university’s colors. Young, old, and everything in between, wore nothing else. We parked and took a walk to one of the book stores. The aromas of tailgating barbecues wafted in the air. The book store was a sort of mall with two food courts. We were hungry and it was time to eat. The bus left at 12:30 and arrived just before 3:00. The game wasn’t set to begin until 7:00, so there was plenty of time to kill. I’ll tell you, by the time the day was over, we must have walked 10 miles, but it did me a lot of good. As we milled around the campus, which is vast, she pointed out things of importance.

Tim Tebow is one classy act. That’s all I need to say about him. He’s above the rest, but he’d never admit it. Inside this building sits the NCAA Championship trophy. I saw it through a window. Game day, it’s locked up tight. Too many people.

There were plenty of sites to see and Nika1 was thrilled to show me everything. I had been to a number of games in the past, but not for years, and it was only to go up, see the game, and return home. This was a much more personal look, and I was eager to see as much as I could.

Soon, it would be time for the Gator Walk, where the football players, coaches and trainers walk down the street and into the massive stadium. It’s almost like a parade.

Cheerleaders chanted, to the excitement of the awaiting crowd…

One more…

Oh, heck… just one more…

It was at this time I turned to Nika1 and told her I will now admit I’m getting old. You see, each one of those girls looked, to me, to be no more than high school age. I couldn’t look at them as anything more than children. Time to move on…

The Gator Walk was about to begin!

We stood alongside a Gainesville police officer. He was one of the friendliest guys you’d ever want to meet. He said the motorcycle cop seen here, front and left, was hit by a car last year at a game and broke his left arm. I remember reading about it in the Sentinel or online. Nika1 had told me about how security was so beefed up for the game two weeks earlier against USF. The crazy preacher was going to burn Qurans and the stadium was an easy terrorist target. Fortunately, the threat abated and nothing happened, but 400 extra FBI and other federal/state officers were on hand. Good thing, too, because she said it was so brutally hot, people were dropping like flies. The extra security came to the rescue. She asked our friendly officer how he survived the heat. He said he prepares himself the night before by drinking lots of pickle juice. Pickle juice?!Yes, he learned it years ago as a boy growing up on a Gainesville area farm. Fascinating!

Along came the entourage…

Here they come! Nika1 told me head coach Urban Meyer makes his players wear a clean shirt and tie to the game. It instills discipline and shows respect.

If you look to your right in the above picture, you’ll spot Urban, also sporting a tie.

We still had over an hour to go before the doors opened, but we made the best of our time. There was plenty to do, believe me. A lot of vendors are set up all around the stadium. One is the insurance company, Nationwide, handing out small towels to dip in a trough filled with ice and water. You dab your hot face and neck to help stay cool. Fortunately, this was a night game and it wasn’t as hot as a day game.

Finally, we were let in. When I arrived at the bus station and we drove away, I noticed her drawl, but wasn’t completely sure where she was from. Why, right here in Gainesville, born and raised. Aha! At the game, she said she has been a season ticket holder for 36 years. That’s a dedicated Gator! She knew the people who sat around us, obviously, and before the game began, her niece and nephew arrived with their young daughter. They were just as welcoming.

Here’s the view from where we sat. Trust me, there’s no such thing as a bad seat and these were just perfect.

The game was going to begin soon and I came to watch. There’s a lot of history in The Swamp.

I took no pictures of the game. I wanted to see everything with my eyes, not through a camera lens.

It was a thrilling game. The Gators scored first and went on to win 48-14. The announced crowd was over 90,000 people. I had a wonderful and memorable trip, but there was one sad note. When the third quarter ends, it’s tradition to stand and sing together, We are the Boys from Old Florida. It’s sort of like the seventh-inning stretch, only college football. Then, the final quarter began. Within a minute after the song ended and play began, someone collapsed about 4 or 5 rows above and to the left of us. All I could see was someone frantically performing CPR on a person laid out on the bench. I never did see the gentleman. Police officers situated in close proximity jumped into action. Within minutes, a uniformed paramedic arrived and he was taken out. Everyone kept turning to look at the game and what was going on with him. When one officer passed by me, I asked how things had gone. Not so well, he answered. I asked him how old the guy was. He said very old. The officer was probably in his late 30s. When it was quite obvious the Gators had a lock on the game, Nika1 said we should probably leave before the crowd. I agreed, but on the way out, I stopped and asked another officer. I was concerned about the poor man. This officer was about my age. How old was the guy, I asked him. Oh, in his late 50s, early 60s. I guess age is relative depending on who you ask. He said it didn’t look good. The man was not breathing and his heart had stopped.

I want to take a moment to remember Jerry Lee McGriff, of Starke. A true-blue Gator fan, he died watching his beloved team. My sympathies go out to his family and friends. You can read more here.

SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

When Nika1 and I were enjoying our pre-game lunch together - a lunch, I might add, she refused to let me buy - I mentioned that she must be a very trusting soul. Here I was, a virtual stranger, and she was ready and ever so willing to open her arms in friendship. She even offered me a place to sleep for a few hours until the bus returned at 3:30 am to take me home. She admitted that she is a very trusting person and always has been, but she also said she pretty much knew what sort of character I was from my writing. That’s a nice thing to know, that people trust me. I am harmless, after all, but it goes deeper than that. While Gainesville is a University city with a college, small-town feel, Nika1 exuded friendship and I was welcomed from the moment I stepped off that bus until I left to return to Orlando.

She lives in a very rural town south of Gainesville, and not far from Cross Creek, home of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. No? The name doesn’t ring a bell? Yes, it does. She was an author who won a Pulitzer for writing a book, The Yearling. Perhaps, you’ve heard of it.

There’s something inherently romantic about the deep south. That’s why my best friend Stewart and I like to take road trips. Over the many years of living in Florida, I’ve grown to love and admire the pockets of land still left that are truly remnants of Old Florida. Where Nika1 lives is just such a place. It’s something you can’t really explain. Although her house was built in the late 1800s, it’s more of a feeling and you know it when you’re there. It is a step back into a time when post cards and billboards didn’t exist. No roadside attractions. Citrus groves and cattle ranches abounded and you kicked your feet up on the front porch of your homestead at the end of a long day. Along with that is the southern hospitality we’ve all heard about. Nika1 is the embodiment of that, pure and simple. Not only did I have a bed to put my weary feet and head on, she had two books for me to take home, BEYOND THE BODY FARM and DEATH’S ACRE, both written by Dr. Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson. Tucked into one of those books were two tickets to the Gator’s homecoming game against Mississippi State, a game she can’t attend.

When I awoke after a couple of hours sleep, freshly brewed coffee awaited me, along with two breakfast sausage crescents, a banana, an orange juice and a bottle of water for the ride back.

While sitting at the bus stop in the dead of morning, we talked once more about the Rolling murders. She has a real sense of history. She said that the poor girl whose head was separated and posed on a bookshelf was an intern with the Gainesville police department. It was so sickening, seven officers left their jobs after they saw her. You may find it to be an odd thing to discuss, but at just after 3:00 am sitting in a parking lot, you keep your doors locked. So does the whole town because of people like him.

Yup, life is a lot simpler in the land where Nika1 lives. It’s too bad, but even there, she’s got to lock her doors at night.

I rolled into town about a quarter to six. I had practically missed a whole night of sleep, but it was well, well worth it. What better way to lose sleep than over a Gator game spent with a lovely person, surrounded by a cast of thousands? Nika1? I may have just met you, but I feel like we’ve known each other for years.

Tonight, the Gators face #1 ranked Alabama. Good thing it’s a home game, but still, this one scares me. Thank you, Nika1, for everything. Something tells me I know exactly where you are right now, and your TV is already warmed up and ready to go.