James M. Redwine

United States Air Force

It’s Complicated

by Leave a Comment

Sorry! Could not find a pic of 1956 Ford Fairlane Convertible-this one is a 1955. It will help you get the idea.

Gentle Reader, should you have read last week’s column you may recall it involved issues of how our legal system processes non-violent illegal drug users. Well, I know at least one person besides Peg read it as that person sent me an email outlining his views about my views. As I was surprised that anyone had read my article and had even taken the effort to respond to it, I carefully considered his positions. It also helped that the reader has been a good friend of mine for several years and is well informed and thoughtful on issues of public interest. Sometimes we agree; sometimes we do not. However, he, and, I hope I, always respectfully hear out the entire discussion.

To recap last week’s topic, it contained my chance encounter with a convicted drug dealer who is still on probation after doing four years in prison. He shared the details of his crime and current status on his “split” sentence with me after it came out in our generally casual discussion that I, as a trial judge, had the experience of confronting a defendant in court who had stolen my car twenty years earlier. That surreal coincidence developed as set out below.

In 1965 I had just received my honorable discharge from the United States Air Force and had moved to Indianapolis, Indiana with my wife and son. I found a job selling encyclopedias for P.F. Collier Company door to door. One of my co-workers was a young man I knew as Sam whose last name was of the three-syllable type and hard to forget. Sam and his wife were as poor as we were but he fell in love with my 1956 Ford Fairlane convertible. I had paid $350 for it but planned to replace it with a more family suitable model.

Sam implored me to sell him my car for cash with the promise he’d pay me $50 per week for seven weeks as we received our Collier paychecks, assuming of course, that we sold anything. I acquiesced, and gave him the keys and never saw the car again. The next time I saw Sam was when he appeared in front of me charged with a home burglary to which he offered to plead guilty per a deal he and his attorney had worked out with the Prosecuting Attorney.

When I read the pre-sentence investigation a dim light began to glow. In open court, in the presence of Sam’s attorney and the Prosecutor the following colloquy occurred:

            Judge:  “Mr. ( ), your first name is in the pre-sentence as ( ). Have you ever been known as Sam?”

            Sam: “Yeah, that’s an old nickname.”

            Judge: “Mr. ( ), the pre-sentence lists your residence as in the state of Oregon. Did you ever live in Indianapolis?”

            Same (somewhat surprised): “Yeah, but I left there pretty quickly.”

            Judge: “Mr. ( ), when you were in Indianapolis did you ever sell encyclopedias for P.F. Collier?”

            Sam (really surprised): “Yeah, I did.”

            Judge: “Mr. ( ), you stole my car!”

Naturally, I offered to recuse and get Sam another judge and I took a recess so Sam and his attorney could discuss the situation. But, as Sam had had about as much experience with our legal system as I had between 1965 and 1985, he just advised me that he only came to Posey County, Indiana to burglarize a home. Then he told me, “Judge, I just want to get out of your county jail and get back to prison as soon as possible.” After his attorney agreed and with the Prosecutor’s blessing, Sam got his wish.

This true story of how the system handled a defendant led the probationer I told it to to describe how his sentence had afforded him an opportunity to work and support his family versus simply serving out his entire ten-year sentence. In last week’s article I wrote approvingly of a system based more on forgiving 70 x 7 than long-term incarceration. My friend who disagreed with that approach supported his views with sound reasoning, albeit not as sufficient to persuade me.

When I prosecuted drug offenses for seven years my views were similar to my friend’s but after forty years of judging such situations, I find myself doubting the efficacy of spending $20,000 per year of taxpayer funds to house non-violent offenders. However, I do understand those who think the way I used to. I am glad I serve in a legal system and live in a country where all rational views can be fairly debated and tested; that does remain true, right? And I am glad to have friends with the fairness to discuss such matters with an open mind.

If You Got ‘Em, Smoke ‘Em

by Leave a Comment

I understand the irresistible control nicotine can have. The desire to smoke even though the smoker knows tobacco is responsible for thousands of deaths every year may be incomprehensible to those who have never been cursed with it. But I was not shocked by that smoker in Berhman’s Tavern in St. Louis, Missouri who on Wednesday, August 28, 2019 chose to light up a cigarette as a would-be armed robber threatened to kill him if he did not lie down on the tavern floor. Even immediate death from a pistol was not as frightening as dying without a last cigarette. Perhaps the bar patron was envisioning all those old black and white movies where the condemned prisoner is afforded a final smoke before the firing squad does its grisly work.

As for me, a one-time smoker who now would need a gun to my head to make me smoke, I recalled what a death grip nicotine had on me years ago. When I joined the United States Air Force and was ordered to Basic Training at Lackland Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas in the sweltering summer heat of 1963 what my country required of me was a rude awakening; no girls, no beer and, cruelest of all, no cigarettes except when allowed by our TI’s (Training Instructors).

We had three TI’s for our flight of 85 men. Each one tried his best to make us feel like Luke in Cool Hand Luke. They left no doubt in our young minds that all of America’s problems were caused by our “Failure to communicate”, that is, to simply already know what the TI’s meant by various shouts and grunts. One such shout was that we had better not even think of smoking without permission. At the same time we were told the time might come when we would be allowed to smoke but if we did not have any cigarettes available at that time, “Too bad!”. Of course, since the TI’s inspected our pockets every day the sadistic sergeants thought we would be unable to smoke even when given the chance. However, my habit was such I stuffed a full pack of Lucky Strikes with two wooden matches down into my left sock and prayed for when relief would come. One 100 degree day it did. At a break in the fun the TI’s were having running us through some nonsense drill one TI suddenly yelled, “If you got ’em, smoke ’em!”. Well, to the TI’s chagrin, I had ’em and passed one out to each member of my 18-man squad and had each one light the next man’s from his. I was a hero to my guys. Unfortunately, my reward from the TI’s was KP for two days. It was worth it even though I almost keeled over due to the heat and the long period without nicotine from those stale, sweat-stained cancer causers.

Anyway, that was then and this is now and while I understand the St. Louis smoker’s Hobson’s choice between going smokeless or maybe getting shot, except for the occasional celebratory cigar, I’ll now voluntarily stick with what the Air Force tried to do for me in 1963.

A Trap For Fools

by 3 Comments

When I set out to trap whatever varmints were stealing our cat’s food I felt confident. After all, I was pretty sure my adversaries were not members of any “… well-regulated militia” nor graduates of any accredited educational institutions nor associated with any liberal or right-wing political groups. I, on the other hand, have had experience surviving struggles with all of these.

As to a well-regulated militia, the United States Air Force should qualify no matter what our U.S. Army soldier son thinks and Indiana University is respected if football is not considered. When it comes to the mish-mash of current political “thought”, I have managed to avoid or ignore the clanging vapidness of extremists on all sides.

Anyway, I counted myself as at least equal to raccoons, opossums, skunks and our only neighbors’ straying house pets. But as coach and television sports analyst Lee Corso might say, “Not so fast, Jim”. Apparently in the war of wits between the purloining pests I am not sufficiently armed.

A few weeks ago when I finally figured out our once feral cat was upset his morning meal kept going missing I contacted my friend Paul Axton who is a Department of Natural Resources Officer. Paul brought me out a trap and showed me how to use it; this took some patience on his part.

As instructed I baited it with giant marshmallows (who knew?) and set it beside the cat’s food tray. My first and only catch was our cat. He was not amused and still tries to claw my hand when I put his food out.

The way this trap is supposed to work one baits it and when a thief enters the trap seeking a marshmallow a metal plate is tripped by the weight of the animal and the only door falls behind it. Unfortunately, our cat is the only animal dumb enough for this to work. On the other hand, perhaps I have furnished enough marshmallows to whatever stealthy animal miscreant is gorging itself on sugar it will catch diabetes. However, it is probably more likely to die laughing at my efforts as it dines at my expense.

What this whole imbroglio brings to my mind is one of my favorite poems by Rudyard Kipling entitled If. One of the lines goes something like this (apologies to Kipling):

If you can bear to see
your plans twisted by
varmints to make a trap
for fools …

 

I guess one just has to determine what fool is being trapped.

p.s.     I know I have written about this before, but I figure no one reads these columns anyway and I am really ticked off; I need the therapy.

Ohio State 13, I.U. 14 (Half Time)

by Leave a Comment

After treating me to 8 weeks of basic training in the Texas summer heat the United States Air Force extended the misery by subjecting me to Indiana University football. In 1963 the Air Force stationed me in Bloomington to learn Hungarian. First they gave me a Top Secret Security Clearance. Silly me, I thought the reason was to keep secrets from the Soviet Union. I discovered the only secret being protected was that there are two halves to a football game; I.U. often plays only the first.

From my first IU football game in 1963 through 7 years on campus up to last night, August 31, 2017, I have repeatedly had my hopes raised in the first half only to see them crushed on the shoals of reality. At least IU has often been inventive and original in finding ways to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

My most painful memory is the game we lost after it was over. Yes, over! What happened was Indiana went ahead with less than thirty seconds left to play and was so excited, and surprised, to be ahead the team started celebrating during the kickoff and the other team ran the kickoff back for a go-ahead touchdown as time ran out. That was the first IU game I saw. It was an omen, a harbinger, a curse.

On the other hand I have watched numerous football games where we led at half time. What is it about IU football and the second half? We often play well and smart and tough the first half then have to invent a way to lose in the second. Perhaps our approach has been misguided.

Indiana University is a fine academic institution with a beautiful campus and generous support from Hoosier taxpayers. We have smart students and even smarter professors and we require our football players to go to class. Maybe we should demand a rule change based upon the empirical evidence. I suggest we simply walk off the field at half time and not come back. Then such debacles as 13 (Ohio State) to 14 (IU) at the half will no longer turn into 49 to 21 at the end.

How To Carve An Elephant:

by Leave a Comment

Take a block of marble and chip away everything that isn’t an elephant. The same principle applies with chili made by Yankees.

When the United States Air Force stationed me at Indiana University to study Hungarian I arrived with a solid foundation in chili. My previous life had been pretty much confined to Oklahoma and Texas where chili was to cuisine as basketball was to Hoosiers. There was none of this nonsense that chili is to be eaten only in wintertime.

In the southwest we ate chili year round and all day long. Chili on eggs at breakfast. Chili poured in a bag of Fritos for snacks. Chili at wedding receptions. Chili at church potluck dinners. Bricks of frozen chili at scout camp.

Chili was a health food. It was served to colicky children and constipated seniors. If the ancient gods of the Greeks and Romans had discovered chili they would have looked askance at ambrosia. The true Land of Milk and Honey can be found in the chili parlors along the banks of the canal through downtown San Antonio.

So, Gentle Reader, you might grasp my befuddlement when I ate my first meal at Indiana University and saw a sign on the chow line announcing that chili and grilled cheese sandwiches were being served, but when the nice lady behind the counter handed me my bowl of “chili” it had large red and white things floating among the greasy gunk.

“Ma’am, I don’t know if you noticed but there’s some strange stuff in my bowl.”

“That’s chili.”

“Uh, it has red and white globs swimming in it.”

“Those are red kidney beans and macaroni.”

Then I met Peg who not only was from east of the Mississippi she was also a Yankee from above the Mason-Dixon Line. Fortunately for me, we got married before she ever cooked for me the first bowl of what she called “chili”. She added celery to the kidney beans and macaroni. At our home, a pot of chili calls for two pots now: one for the chili I make and one for whatever you call what Peg makes.

Over the years I have spent in this Hoosier heaven for everything but chili I have had friends serve me chili with tofu, eggs, potatoes, kidney beans, white beans, chicken, sugar, macaroni, spaghetti, and a lack of cayenne pepper. Enough! Chili is shredded beef or hamburger, browned then drained. Sautéed onions, water, salt, black pepper, chili powder, garlic, cumin, cayenne pepper, tomato sauce and, for some, chili beans are slowly added to the sizzling meat and then masa flour added at the very end to thicken the mixture. It is simmered for a minimum of two hours then served with Fritos or corn tortillas with hot sauce, preferably Tabasco, chopped raw onions and shredded cheese on the side. THAT IS ALL! That is chili!

(Folks, this is Peg. I’m the lucky person who gets to type and edit these Gavel Gamut articles. I just can’t let you get the wrong idea this time. I had never heard of chili with macaroni or spaghetti either until I moved to Hoosierdom! In Yankeeland we made our chili with browned and drained hamburger, kidney beans not chili beans, tomato sauce or tomato soup, a little bit of ketchup, chopped celery and onions, salt and pepper and maybe a dash of chili pepper if we felt daring. Chili is served with Saltine crackers, not Fritos. That’s the difference between Yankee chili and my Dear JJ’s southwestern chili!)