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ISBN 978-1-937650-58-2

Library of Congress Control Number 2015937348

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493 South Pleasant Street

Amherst, Massachusetts 01002

413.230.3943

smallbatchbooks.com

This book is for Jim and his quest for a better life.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Although based on a true story, in which I played a role as court-appointed attorney, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals involved in the case, and are not to be construed as real. Many of the events described herein are the product of speculation on my part.

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CHAPTER ONE

Storm Clouds

CHAPTER TWO

Good Samaritans

CHAPTER THREE

Jim

CHAPTER FOUR

Flight, Part 1

CHAPTER FIVE

The Nelsons’ Home

CHAPTER SIX

No Turning Back

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Carsons

CHAPTER EIGHT

Flight, Part 2

CHAPTER NINE

One Final Mistake

CHAPTER TEN

A Heavy Dose of Reality

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Interview

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Wake-up Call

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

First Impressions, Second Guesses

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Father and Son

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Family Baggage

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Maternal Instincts

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Case File

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extradition

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Scene of the Crime

CHAPTER TWENTY

Handoff

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The End of the Line

AFTERWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Fred Levine and the staff at Small Batch Books for their efforts in all phases of the production of this book. My thanks also go to my wife, Susan, and to all of those who had a chance to read the initial manuscript and make suggestions. Their assistance was invaluable to me in my quest to tell this story.

CHAPTER ONE

Storm Clouds

It was an unusually hot and lazy Friday afternoon in the late spring of 1978, the culmination of a strange and eventful week. I had just finished a jury trial that had dragged on for weeks after several jurors came down with the Asian flu. It hadn’t rained for several weeks, and the dry air crackled like static electricity. The weather fore-casters kept predicting thundershowers, but there was not a cloud to be seen, and the temperature just kept rising. The High Plains in the West are notorious for violent weather swings and their ever-present afternoon thunder-showers that can turn the streets and fields into raging torrents of water.

In my office, the air conditioner was losing its battle against the oppressive heat. My law practice was on the top floor of a hundred-year-old bank building with creaky floors, rickety stairs, and an elevator that only sometimes got you to your destination. But it suited my small staff and me just fine.

Being a private and independent person, after ten years of practicing law in New York, I passed on the more glamorous (and in my opinion, superficial) life of a partner in a big city law firm and opted for a small law practice in a rural town in Colorado with just enough staff to take on the kind of work that interested me. As a result, I have been involved in cases ranging from criminal matters, civil litigation, divorces, and child custody to disagreements over fences, boundaries, water allocations from irrigation ditches, stray livestock, bovine diseases, and a host of other matters that most city lawyers probably know nothing about. It took me some time to make the transition from an urban practice to one that dealt with a much wider—and more esoteric—range of subjects. But being an adventurous sort, this type of practice fit my personality and challenged my ability to keep on learning. It was always my goal to spend more time trying to help my clients than figuring out ways to make the most money at their expense.

After moving to Colorado, I received a number of partnership offers from large law firms in the Mountain West that would provide me with more staff assistance, a corner office with brand-new furniture, and a generous retirement package. In exchange for all of that, I would have to give up my independence and conform to the rules and practices of a highly structured organization, including wearing a suit and tie every day. (I never understood how a shirt and tie would make me a better lawyer.)

Instead, I got to choose my own cases and wear khaki pants and a sport shirt most days. Hanging on the back of my office door was a jacket and tie in case I was called unexpectedly for a court appearance.

Many of my trials were in other parts of the state or in other jurisdictions, which kept me away from the office for days or weeks at a time. So I tried to save Friday afternoons to catch up on cases that were put on hold due to my busy trial schedule. I also spent Fridays meeting with my staff and being briefed on the events of the week. One of the pluses of small-town life is the opportunity to hire people who are highly skilled and who are willing to put in the extra effort to achieve superior results, while at the same time being able to experience the slower pace of small-town life.

On that Friday afternoon, my staff, consisting of three young lawyers and three secretaries, had gone home for the day, and I was musing on what had been accomplished during the week when my phone startled me. It was unusual for me to be working so late on a Friday afternoon unless I was involved in a trial or dealing with a client, so I figured it was probably my wife, wondering when I would be home for dinner. To my surprise, the voice on the other end was that of Charles Bradford, a local district court judge whom I knew well and who had presided over a long personal-injury trial that had ended a few days prior. The case had consumed many months and resulted in the largest monetary judgment I had obtained to date in the jurisdiction. I didn’t think the judge was calling to congratulate me, and the clerk is usually the one to call regarding routine matters, so random thoughts began to fill my head, especially since I sensed an air of urgency in his voice. My heart began to beat more rapidly, and I was berating myself for not having left the office earlier. The last thing I needed after a hard week was to get chastised by a judge.

That conversation and the events that followed would forever alter my perspective on life. I had perhaps been jaded by the panoply of strange and unusual scenarios that I had encountered during my professional life, but this one would leave an indelible impression that would linger for the next thirty-six years. There are defining moments in each of our lives, and as this case unfolded, it opened my eyes to just how fragile life can be and how unforeseen circumstances can forever change the direction of our lives.

CHAPTER TWO

Good Samaritans

Jim Carson’s blue Ford sedan sputtered, jerked, and then stalled on the I-10 as he was approaching Stanton, Louisiana, on the eastern outskirts of New Orleans. This was the farthest Jim had ever been from his home in central Florida. It was early evening and he had been driving all day, but now his mind was filled with doubt as his car left him stranded on the side of the road like a canoer without a paddle. Am I doing the right thing? Was it fair to leave home in the middle of the night and leave my parents wondering what happened to me?

He weighed those thoughts against the way he had been abused at home. He felt comfortable with his decision. He was a handsome young man with a baby face, sandy brown hair, and piercing brown eyes. At the tender age of sixteen, Jim knew enough to understand that his home life was not what he wanted, but not yet mature enough to understand the implications of the journey he had embarked on. He had no particular destination in mind but was glad to be away from his difficult and frenetic home situation. Jim had daydreamed for quite some time about being independent and away from the tensions that abounded at home.

The night before, he had hurriedly packed some clothing and food and hidden them in his bedroom closet so his parents wouldn’t be suspicious. On impulse, he decided to take a couple of his father’s guns, which he hid under a blanket in the trunk of his mother’s car. He also took a few hundred dollars in cash from his mother’s secret stash, hidden in a jam jar above the refrigerator. During the quiet of the night, he tiptoed down the stairs, pushed his mother’s car out of the garage, hopped in, and drove down the street with the lights off so no one would see him. Once he turned the corner, he turned on the lights and set off on the journey that would forever change his life.

Now he sat dazed on the side of the road, watching the speeding cars pass him by as though he were dreaming. He had taken his parents’ car, stolen his mom’s money, and smuggled out two of his father’s guns. What if a state patrol car stopped and questioned him? He could say that he was on his way to visit a relative in New Orleans but that his car had stalled. Would they search the car? Would they call his parents?

Jim got out of the car and looked under the hood, but he knew very little about engines and didn’t see anything wrong. The gas gauge was getting close to empty, but he was sure that wasn’t the problem. He didn’t see any emergency telephones in sight, and he knew from the last mileage sign on the freeway that he was several miles from the next exit—and who knows if there would even be a gas station there. He got back in the car and sat for almost an hour, reflecting on his status as a teenage runaway. He still felt that he was doing the right thing despite his current predicament. Engine trouble was not in his plans, and he complained out loud about his bad luck.

Jim noticed a glare in the rearview mirror and looked to see the reflection of the setting sun on the windshield of an approaching car. His heart fluttered rapidly as the car pulled up behind him. The glare was so bright that he could not tell what kind of car it was or who was in it, and he began to panic. What if it was the police? This is the end of my journey, he thought. He sat frozen to the seat, not knowing what to do. After a few minutes, there was a knock on his window and he saw an elderly man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy face slowly back-ing away from the car. He was bent over at the waist and had a puzzled look on his face. Looking in his rearview mirror again at the car parked behind him, Jim could barely make out a figure in the passenger seat, but he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The man stood a few feet from the car as if to let Jim know that he was being cautious. As Jim rolled his window down, he could smell the sweet aroma of the nearby grasslands wafting by and breathed a sigh of relief that the person standing outside his car door was not a policeman. Jim’s nerves settled a little. He would be able to continue on his journey once he got his car repaired.

“Do you need some help?” the man asked.

“My car is stuck and I’m not from around here, so I don’t know where the nearest service station is,” Jim replied. “Do you know where I can find one and get some help?”

“There are no gas stations close by, but I may be able to help you. Let me go talk to my wife first.” The man walked back to his car, and Jim saw him lean his head into the window. Jim could understand why the man might have reservations about helping him. He knew the stories about picking up strangers on the highway.

As the man walked back to Jim’s car, he seemed to be less apprehensive, but he kept his eyes fixed on Jim.

“We can give you a ride to our home, which is not too far from here,” the man said. “You can make arrangements to get help for your car and use our telephone if there is anyone you need to call.”

Jim thought about this for a moment and then agreed. He needed help to get going again, and this seemed to be his only safe option. He took the key out of the ignition, opened the door and got out, then locked the door behind him. He then walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He took a shirt out of his suitcase and wrapped it around the .357 Magnum handgun he had taken from his father’s collection. In his dazed state of mind, Jim felt a degree of comfort knowing he had a weapon with him.

As Jim got in the backseat of the couple’s station wagon, they introduced themselves as Robert and Donna Nelson. Donna had a grandmotherly appearance, with short gray hair, a wrinkled brow, and a puffy face with a double chin. She told Jim how sorry she was that his car was stuck on the freeway and said they would do whatever they could to help him. This further calmed Jim.

“I’m Joe Engels,” Jim lied, using the name of a classmate for fear of being discovered as a runaway. “I’m on my way to Baton Rouge to visit my grandmother.” Given the Nelsons’ ages, he thought it would give him more credibility if he used his grandmother as an excuse, even though none of his grandparents lived in Louisiana.

“We’ll do what we can to help you,” Robert volunteered.

“How long do you intend to stay with your grandmother, and where does she live?” Donna asked.

“I have her address in my car. I’ll just be with her for a few days and then I have to get back home to start my senior year in high school.”

Jim was uncomfortable with the questioning, but he knew he needed help, and right now this was his only option. He figured he could make up enough of a story to satisfy the Nelsons’ curiosity.

Jim noticed that Robert kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Where do you live?” Robert asked, to which Jim responded “a small town in central Florida.” Jim sensed that Robert was skeptical of his answers, and he worried now that he could be in trouble.

Donna turned around and took over the questioning. “What kind of food do you like? I can cook dinner for you when we get home.”

“Ma’am, you really don’t need to fuss. I want to get to my grandmother’s house as soon as I can so she doesn’t worry about me,” he told her with a straight face. By this time, he realized he was going to have to continue spinning lies for whatever amount of time he spent with the Nelsons.

“It’s no fuss,” Donna replied, “and you can call your grandmother from our house.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t be home right now,” Jim said, frantically trying to think of an excuse. “She always visits with her sister in the afternoon.” Jim was beginning to feel trapped. How could he explain not making a phone call to anyone?

About thirty minutes later, they arrived at the Nelsons’ modest home in Stanton, Louisiana, a small community close to the northern shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Jim was anxious to find a way to get his car repaired and be on his way. The sun had just set and the sky was clear, but the humid air clung to him like a glove. He was nervous, his heart thumping in his chest like a bass drum. He could feel the perspiration starting to bead on his forehead, and his palms were sweaty. The humidity was no worse than at home, but his apprehension made the air around him that much heavier and confining, and soon his shirt was wet with perspiration. He was trying to remain calm so as not to raise suspicion, but he had never faced a situation like this before and was having difficulty focusing on what he had to do to get his journey back on track. He had done a lot of planning for this trip, but there was no way he could have predicted his present circumstances. He reminded himself over and over to remain calm and that everything would turn out the way he planned. He laughed to himself as he pictured his parents’ reactions when they discovered his disappearance and began to blame each other for it. His mother would say, “Call the police,” while his father, with his type A personality, would say, “I’ll handle this,” and then proceed to organize a posse to look for his son. If nothing else, his parents were predictable. His musings were interrupted when the Nelsons’ car pulled into their gravel driveway and stopped.

Upon seeing the Nelsons’ home, Jim had a feeling of serenity and security. He was sure they would help him get back on the road within a few hours. As they entered the house, Jim started to discreetly put the revolver in his waistband but worried it would be noticeable, so he wrapped it back up in his shirt, tied the sleeves together, and put the bundle on a table near the front door.