We Always Get Our Man

WE ALWAYS GET OUR MAN

My former brother-in-law, Mike, was an FBI agent on the fugitive squad, Chicago office. Word comes in that a convicted ? murderer, William Doe, has very likely come to his hometown of Chicago to hide.  A massive search ensues, but Doe is nowhere to be found.

Mike is very smart, not easily discouraged, and never deterred.  Poring over Doe's files one day on a break from other cases, something catches the very back of his mind:  the criminal had a very unusual, very large dog.  He thinks awhile longer and remembers the breed:  the dog was a Bouvier des Flandres.  He methodically sets to work, tearing the veterinarian section in the Yellow Pages out of over 100 phone books, and has the steno pool type out all the vets' addresses.  At the public library, he finds a picture of that breed and copies it, then sends a letter and picture of the dog (and Doe?) to 65 vets.   

Three days later, a vet on the North Side calls him to say, "Yes, I did treat a dog like that."  She says a man had brought in a Bouvier just a day or two ago, but since the dog needed a specialist for mange, she referred him to a vet in Hyde Park.  Mike asks for a description of the man.  It's almost surely Doe.  Mike goes to the specialist on the south side.  Specialist vet says, "Oh yeah, I remember that guy but not his name - drives a loud-lookin' car, something flashy - and here's his address" - a place on the North Side.  

At the North Side address, Mike and his partner find the car in the parking lot behind the apartment.  They don't want to spook him by going in, so they decide to stake out the car and wait.  But they need a lookout spot.  (can we please find another word besides spook?)

There's a Catholic school right across the street with a 2nd-floor window, but they need the priest's permission.  After partially clearing the hurdle of the protective housekeeper, a tiny nun with an Irish accent who asks them to come back after lunch, they persuade her to ask Father to speak with them now.  Permission granted.  Mike's partner goes to the front, Mike goes to the alley, and the stakeout begins.

And sure enough, here comes Doe down the alley with his huge dog.  They draw down (that is what agents say when they point a gun at someone, cool!), call out whatever agents call out at such a time, and the dog starts barking.  Mike warns, "Another step and I'll blow your dog away!"  Doe calls out,   "Don't hurt my dog!  He's cool!" and puts the dog in the car.  He confesses that his mother is in the apartment, tells them they'll find drugs and guns - "but don't hurt her."  

Mike points his gun, summons his partner, cuffs Doe, hands the dog's leash with dog attached to his partner, and escorts Doe to the Bureau car.  Mike and his partner call in the squad, 7-8 squadmates.  They find $37,000 in cash, 6 guns, a big white bag of either heroin or blow, and Doe's mom. So they put Mama in one car, Doe in another, and leave the dog in the apartment.

At HQ, Doe is Miranda'd and held.(?)  They turn the guns over to the Bureau and the drugs to the DEA/US Attorney.  Then the agent seats Doe's Mama at a table and sits across from her, with the $37,000 in bills on the table between them.  He turns over the first bill and asks her, "Do you see the blood?"  She says, "I don't see no blood,"  The agent turns over the next bill and asks the same question, following with, "Your son got this money selling drugs, and it's blood money."  He repeats that statement as he turns over every single bill, making her sit there and watch.   

True story.

                END

(Note:  Turns out Doe's been in California with his girlfriend and their a young son.  (I couldn't find a good place to put this or decide if it is relevant.)

MIKE:  I think a you said the following didn't happen,but I could swear.  If it's not true, just leave it out.  But it really makes a good finale. :). Was your partner ever actually in a car with the dog?

With his partner driving, the dog riding shotgun, and Mike in back with Doe, the entourage travels to HQ (or somewhere).  Doe is Miranda'd and incarcerated.

Mike's partner said later that the only scary part was riding all the way to the office 18" away from the huge dog.  

England Without A Passport

ENGLAND WITHOUT A PASSPORT

By November 1977, Dick had been in Saudi Arabia for several months without us.  We missed each other!  His letter said I should meet him in London and fly back home with him for Christmas.   No actual travel instructions, but hey.

I was really busy managing the children, finishing my degree, sorting things for our upcoming move, and getting ready for Thanksgiving and Christmas.   Not knowing where to begin (it took 3 days to reserve a phone call to or from Dick in Saudi Arabia), I called our travel agent and booked a flight. Then  I called the British Consul in Dallas and asked if I needed a visa to go to England. They said "new," Brit for "no."  I figured visa = passport, so I think there, that's done, cool on the paperwork.  Mama said she'd come over and stay with the children, Dick had the hotel, I had the tickets, bang.

When we disembarked the plane at Heathrow, all us passengers were herded into a huge waiting room by a gentleman who told us to get in line and disappeared.   Under each of the two signs, "UK Passports" and "Other Passports," stretched a very long line.  There wasn't a sign that said "No Passport," so neither sign really fit me.  The man had disappeared and I didn't see anyone to ask, so I got in the "Other Passports" line, which seemed more like me.  About 45 minutes later, I was at last face to face with Her Majesty's customs official, Mr. Marley, a bespectacled young man in his 20s, wearing, of course, a tweed jacket and standing behind a little podium.

"Pahsspoht, please."  I smiled and explained,"I don't need a passport.  I'm an American."  He stared at me for a long time.  We each repeated our lines once more.  Then he said, "Are you trying to take the monkey out of me?"  That was a new one for me, but I got his drift.  "No, no," I said.  "I'm telling you the truth."  He stared more, still politely but seeming incredulous.

He:             All right.  Let's ask this: why are you here without a passport?
I, excitedly: I'm meeting my husband, sir!  I haven't seen him in months!
He:             And where is your husband now?
I:                He's at Claridge's, waiting for me.  I'm to call him when I get through here.
He:             And where did he travel here from?
I:                Dammam, Saudi Arabia.
He:             I see.  Is he an American too?  Does he have a passport?
I:                Of course, yes.  The Saudis are strict about letting people in.
He:             May I see some form of identification?
I:                Sure.  Here's my driver's license.
He:            OH.  You're from Texas.
I:               Yes sir, Dallas.
He:            Do you have any other identification?
I, rummaging in billfold:
                 Yes, here's my Dallas Public Library card.
He:            I'm afraid that won't help us.  Anything else?
I:               Well, here's my student ID from the University of Texas.
He:           (Semi-eye roll)  And what are you a student OF?
I:               I'm getting a degree in Classics.
He:            (More incredulous staring; jaw drops.)
He:            !!! Really?!  I'm doing Classics myself at London U.  In fact, one of my                                                            professors, Kagan,will be on BBC telly tonight.
I:               You're kidding!  You mean DONALD Kagan?  I just finished one of his textbooks!
He:           (Beaming!)  Oh, he's brilliant.  You will love the program.  Do you read Ovid, my favorite?

Suddenly we both become aware of the impatient catcalling and foot-stamping in the long line behind me.

I:             I'm afraid I'm holding up the line.  What should I do?  Can I come in?

He:          Oh yes, yes, of course.  Here (scribbling on a scrap of paper), this is the name of the program tonight.  And here, I've filled in a form you'll need when you go thru customs back home.  DON'T LOSE IT.  You won't be able to get in without it.  Next time, get a passport.  And bring it with you.

I:            OK, thanks SO MUCH!!! .  You are very kind.  I had no idea ... but I won't lose this paper                   and I will get a passport.

He:         Have a lovely visit.

Which we did.

This is totally a true story.  And the reason I wrote this is that the story got around to the point that I'd sometimes have to step in when I'd hear people telling it wrong.

Discretion forbids me to tell how my husband sometimes interrupted: "And meanwhile, I'm sitting in Claridge's with a bottle of champagne, a dozen roses, and a (H*** O*)"
             

Defacing the Taj Mahal

1980 – DEFACING THE TAJ MAJAL

I vomit easily.  I have ralphed in most of the third world.  Over the years, we had developed a system wherein Dick would just slow down to a crawl so I could open the door and throw up in a patch of gorse, rather than stop, let me out, and delay the whole drive.   This works fine if you aren’t on foot in one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

After all, as Dick reminded us, the Taj Mahal would be “the pinochle” (our family malapropism) of our trip to India.  We and the children toured Delhi, had lunch with my cousin at the embassy, and headed out for the Taj in about a 1966 Chevy with no a/c and what sounded like a loose axle.  Our driver lay on the horn almost every second of the 125 miles, a 5-hour drive since barefoot peasants, beggars, cattle, and an ox or two crowded the road.  

It was only about 95 degrees, but it was a bit muggy and a lot dusty.  The open windows were a mixed blessing.  As we neared Agra, I began to feel a little queasy from the potholed road, the swerving to miss our fellow man, and the smell of the animals who ambled along with us, often keeping pace with ease. 

Finally we arrived, bribed the driver to hang out till we were ready to go back, and entered the magnificent Taj.  There were steps and there were narrow passages, and they twisted and turned.  My husband took one look at me and raised his eyebrows at me; hand over mouth, I nodded.  He quickly waylaid a young Indian guide and explained that his wife was sick and needed a restroom.

The guide was all over it.  He asked me, “Do you vant to womit?”  I nodded.  He led me to a parapet and said, with the flourish of an impresario, “Here!  Lean over here!  Then you can just womit onto the ground.”  I peered over the edge.  “Sir,” I said, “I can’t!  See, there are people down there!”   “Oh,” he reassured me, “they von’t mind.” 

I’ll tell you later where I actually threw up.