Killer Bums will Eat You, You’ll be Buried Alive, and the Mountain will Crumble

Thomas remembers things parents say out of unfounded fears to discourage their kids from wholesome behavior.

When Tommy was ten, he, his brothers, and a couple of neighborhood brats thought that it would be an adventure to explore the tunnels that emptied water from gutters into washes. They gathered flashlights and were going to set out on their expedition, but one of the kids could not go. His parent learned about what they were intending to do and made up a story about how homeless people live in the tunnels, along with bats, and other animals and it would be too dangerous. Of course, this was a huge lie. Tommy and his group spent several hours in the five foot tall tunnels and never came across a single one of those things, instead they found discarded items that had washed down from the side of roads. That kid missed out that day, but later was talked into going another day without telling his parents first. Incidentally, that kid became very troubled in middle school and ended up in juvenile hall for setting his home on fire.

When Tommy was twelve, he and his friend Willy designed a hideout which consisted of digging a hole in Tommy’s yard, covering it with strong planks of wood, and hiding the planks under soil. A trap door would allow them entry. They figured that the hideout would be approximately the size of a room. Tommy had been intrigued by the idea from reading The Three Investigators, a mystery series about three teenage boys who solve crimes and have a crime lab hidden under piles of junk in a junkyard. Anyway, Tommy and Willy began to dig.

Over the course of several days, they dug a sizable hole but had never anticipated what to do with all of the removed dirt. Tommy’s dad started to get annoyed about their tearing up the yard. For some reason, Tommy didn’t mind doing all that work but did not want to clean the chicken coop or pick up cigarette butts—a mystery to Tommy’s father Nolan. But, it was not Tommy’s dad that put an end to the dirty fun.

Every evening Willy would return home by bicycle and he would be covered in soil or dust. When Willy’s father learned about the hole, he became concerned and started telling Willy about how the ground would cave in on the boys and Willy would be buried alive. Total nonsense, but it was enough to cause Willy to stop assisting. Tommy continued digging by himself for several days but finally had to concede that he did not know what to do with the removed dirt and finally was ordered to fill in the hole by Nolan. It was no longer any fun without his friend. Bitterly, Tommy buried a time capsule in the hole as he filled it in.

A few years later, when Tom was 15, he and a friend from around the corner wanted to climb Frenchman Mountain (often wrongly referred to as “Sunrise Mountain”). Tom was a veteran climber by this time, having climbed to the top many times, but his friend Teve had not climbed it and Teve’s father was adamant against the idea. “That mountain is full of faults. It will crumble on you. Too dangerous.” Teve eventually ignored his ignorant father and climbed the mountain, and had a blast without a single injury.

In a city where children have very little to do, parental denial of wholesome fun (using silly safety arguments) stifles and forces children to have to disobey and lie. Thomas is glad that he was denied very little of the adventure of being a kid.

Tom and the African-American Mistake

Thomas had just reconnected on MySpace with a black student he knew from high school, Jason. Jason and Tom were never friends, but they knew each other and had mutual friends for awhile. Tom never understood why they had not become pals in school. After all, they shared many of the same classes together and had known each other since Mrs. Blower’s fifth grade class. Throughout high school, Tom regarded Jason as an athlete and a scholar.

Jason was just finishing his PhD in Chemistry, and Tom was a new attorney in Las Vegas, when Tom found Jason online and instant-messaged him. Tom occasionally met students from high school, which often presented profound revelations. Tom would soon have another huge revelation with Jason.

The two chatted over a few months, talking about other students they knew. Tom was impressed that Jason had gone so far in school, and Jason was likewise impressed that Tom had finished law school and passed the Nevada bar exam.

All of a sudden, Jason stated, “You know, I was very mad at you all through high school.”

“What? Why?” Tom’s mouth fell agape as he read the words on his computer monitor.

“Something you said in fifth grade.”

“Something I said in fifth grade? What are you talking about?”

Jason hesitated, and then typed, “We were walking home from school with some friends and you said you did not like black people and that they should have separate places to live.”

Tom, usually quick to respond in contentious situations, was shocked at this declaration, and froze. He reread it a few times. Tom never walked home from school with Jason or anyone else. He rode bicycles home with his brothers and he lived in the opposite direction from school from Jason.

“I never said anything like that. I know I made ridiculous comments on occasion in school, but I could not have said something that outrageous. Even if I did harbor such beliefs, which I never have, I certainly would not have spoken them in front of someone that would have been offended by them. Could you be thinking of someone else?”

Jason did not reply for a moment. He was remembering. “Yes, it was someone else—I guess it was someone who looked like you.”

Tom then thought. After fifth grade, he and Jason had gone to two different schools before going to high school together. It was possible that Jason thought the Tom he saw in high school was the same kid that had made such a despicable remark three to four years before. They both grew up a bit between fifth grade and high school, and perhaps there were a few kids that resembled Tom.

“You mean that, for all of these years, since ninth grade, you have disliked me based on mistaken identity?” Thomas wrote.

“I think so. Come to think of it, I think I know who I mistook you for.”

“My gosh, I’m glad this got straightened out now. Better late than never. It is too bad I never approached you in high school and got to know you better. We could have cleared the air of this mistake long ago.”

Jason then said, “Yes, maybe I should have talked to you about it sooner too, but I thought you were the same guy and didn’t want to start anything.”

Thomas later thought about this revelation. Sometimes it is not wise to let something fester. Certainly, mistakes can be made and horrible judgments can result that could prevent two people from being fast friends. Thomas made the mistake of not being more sociable in high school and engaging students that seemed aloof around him. Jason made the mistake of not confronting someone that he believed insulted him to his face.

Since that conversation, Thomas and Jason have maintained sporadic but friendly contact. They live in separate States, but Thomas is very happy that yet another student from his high school days is doing well in life. This story confirmed one of the main ideas attorneys must bear in mind when examining eyewitnesses, “Eyewitness testimony is unreliable. Memory is fallible.”

However, too many innocent people were, and are, convicted on little more than such testimony. This story from Thomas’s childhood will someday work its way into a closing argument to help save someone from wrongful conviction.

Tom and the After School Spit in the Eye

Ms. James was a beautiful “Careers” teacher, perhaps in her mid-twenties when Tom took the class as a requirement for eleventh grade. This was one of the few classes where Tom had to spend time with average and below-average students because all of his other classes were designated “Honors” or “Distinguished Scholar” for students that had college in mind. Tom never liked the required classes that contained students with mixed motivations about school because he felt bored, unchallenged, and frustrated with the clowns that caused problems. These classes included Driver’s Ed, PE, Careers, and Health. One reason Tom took Naval Junior ROTC in high school was to avoid the morons in PE.

At the desk next to Tom sat Woran, a stocky teen with a scar on his forehead. Tom and Woran had gone to the same schools for many years but rarely had classes together, so Tom knew almost nothing of Woran. As Ms. James spoke about résumés, Woran started talking loud enough for his neighbors to hear:

“I’m going to f*ck that hot b*tch after class.”

Tom glanced over at Woran, but held his breath.

“She gonna get it long and hard.”

Woran was bobbing his head with a smirk and was obviously referencing Ms. James. As he was about to speak again, Tom leaned across the aisle and said, “Be quiet!”

“Boy you gonna get it!” Woran threatened.

Ms. James then called across the classroom, “Something you two need to say?”

Tom and Woran said nothing.

Tom went the rest of the day without thinking about the incident. After school, he strapped his violin to the back of his bicycle, adjusted his backpack over his shoulders, and headed for home.

At about the mile mark, a car of teenagers veered up next to him, and drove to keep pace alongside Tom’s bicycle. He heard someone from the backseat shout, that’s him. Tom saw that it was Woran. The teen in the passenger seat shouted, “Faggot!” and hurled spit which landed in Tom’s eye.

Tom quickly considered his options. There were five boys in the car, two in the front, three in the back. The only one he recognized was Woran. The street was vacant except for them. Should he drop his bike and run? Should he stop and throw his bike at the car and fight? This looked like a gang, and so they very likely had weapons. Was it worth losing his teeth or his life? Was it worth killing one of them?

Tom swiveled his bike around and up onto the side walk. He sped around a corner onto a street in a residential neighborhood. The car flipped and followed him. At 15 miles per hour, the car drove two feet behind him, threatening to run him over if he stopped or fell. Tom headed for a house, drove up the driveway, dropped his bike, ran up to the front door, and knocked and rang the bell furiously. A woman answered, without opening.

“Please, call the police. I’m being attacked by a gang. This is Tom.”

The car of boys left while Tom waited an hour for the police to arrive and escort him home. Tom was so upset that he stormed down the hallway to his room, ripped off his jacket while yelling at his parents that he needed a car, and swung the jacket with the intent of it landing in his bedroom. Instead, the jacket snagged the overhead light fixture in the hallway and shattered it. That night, as he took out his violin to practice, he found that it was completely out of tune from the violent bike ride. He was lucky. The violin was a family heirloom passed down from his Grandmother in Switzerland. It could easily have been destroyed had he not exercised the better part of discretion and ran for safety.

The next day Tom went to the Principal’s office to make a statement about the attack. As he walked in, he noticed the kid who spat on him sitting in a chair. Upon seeing Tom, the kid went down on his knees. He was crying.

“Dude, I’m so sorry about yesterday. Please don’t report on me. I don’t wanna go to juvie again.”

Tom looked at him for a second, “Why should I care? You spat on me.”

The kid begged, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure no one messes with you anymore. You won’t have to worry. Please don’t report.” His voice stammered and choked as a new volley of tears fell forth.

“I don’t need you looking out for me. I didn’t have a problem until you ruined my day yesterday. Am I going to have to get a rabies shot? You don’t have rabies or AIDS, do you?” Tom had zero respect for this punk begging for mercy. “If I don’t report you and you kill me, no one will think it was you who did it. If I end up killing you, no one will understand why if I don’t report you. Next time, think before you act!”

Tom went on to write his report. He mentioned Woran and described the other gang members. While there, he noticed another student in his class also writing a report. He learned this other student had been attacked by the same gang moments before they targeted Tom. They held him up at knife point and stole his jacket.

The remainder of that year and the following year, Tom did not see any of the gang again.

Eleven years later, at Tom’s ten year high school reunion, a tall slender man walked over to him. This man looked like the movie star Will Smith and carried himself in a respectable manner. Tom glanced up, then glanced up again. It was a taller, leaner version of Woran. They shook hands and Woran stated that he was now a high-ranking official in the United States Navy. Tom, on the other hand, was a Las Vegas criminal defense attorney.

Tom shared his memory of the attack all those years back and that he did not hold a grudge. Woran said that he was in a different mind-set back then. Tom thanked Woran for his service in the military, especially during a time of war, and they parted as friends who would keep in touch.

Tom wonders what happened to the kid that spat in his face all those years ago, but he had long since forgotten the kid’s name.

Bikes Stolen from Indifferent Public High School

Tom rode his bicycle two miles each way to high screwel, until he bought his first beat-up car in his senior year. Tom wanted other students to think he was oblivious to, or unaffected by, their opinions about his appearance. He carried his viola in a bucket attached to the seat of his bike, wore an ROTC uniform on certain days of the week, and carried a thirty-pound backpack full of books every screwel day.

He took elective classes and maintained perfect grades, which bespoke obedience to authority, yet inwardly he was a rebel against both the other students and the faculty as well. He hated the routine of screwel: the metal detectors, the obnoxious classmates who egged him from their cars, and the faculty that only seemed to know the names of the troubled kids but not the honor roll students. He put up with it, because it was only a four-year sentence. He knew that the harder he worked, the easier life would be later.

During his second year of high screwel, Tom’s bikes kept disappearing from the bike racks during school hours. The bike rack was a small yard enclosed by an eight-foot chain link fence with no roof. It was easy for thieves with bolt cutters to jump the fence, cut the lock, throw the bike over, and make off with it. Tom purchased fixer-upper replacement bikes so he would have transportation. Each time, he fastened buckets to the seats for his viola.

After his third bike disappeared, and the less than interested staff ignored his third complaint, Tom decided to make a point. He rode his latest clunker of a bike to screwel, walked it into the principal’s office, and set about chaining it to one of the desks. Immediately, a screwel bureaucrap told him to take the bike outside.

“But I have to get to class. I don’t have time to take it outside now.”

“You have to put it in the bike rack.”

“I cannot afford to have another bike stolen because you don’t care about security.”

“Look, you take that bike out of here right now or I’ll call campus police!”

“You mean the same police that are supposed to be guarding the bike rack? What do you expect they will do?”

“You’ll be expelled for insubordination. We’ll notify your ROTC Commander!”

“My ROTC Commander will laugh at you. He knows all about your failed security.”

“That’s it, what’s your name? We’re going to call your parents.”

“Great, they’ll laugh at you too. My father is tired of buying new bikes.”

Tom ignored the bureaucrap, finished locking his bike to the secretary’s desk, and headed, viola in hand, for his first class.

“What’s your name?”

“Check the honor roll, I’m near the top. Ask my ROTC Commander which of his cadets has complained about campus security. Heck, just look at the last three reports I filed.”

Campus security yanked Tom out of orchestra class and called his very busy, hardworking, tax paying parents.

“Your son was very rude today. He used curse words and refused to remove his bicycle from the office. I’m afraid we’re going to have to suspend him.”

Several teachers, the ROTC commander, a threat to go to the media, and a threat to contact an attorney finally convinced the screwel bureaucraps to acquiesce. Tom missed two classes that morning. The screwel would not spend two hundred dollars to secure the bike rack by roofing it with chain link, and yes, Tom’s fourth bike was stolen during screwel hours a couple of months later.

His were not the only bikes stolen, either. The thieves had stolen thousands of dollars’ worth of bikes, while the screwel bureaucraps sat on their hands. Maybe Tom should have called a lawyer, but his parents could not afford one.

Tom suggested to his ROTC commander that the cadets could look out for their own by patrolling the area during the day, perhaps while marching. Tom did not have to purchase a sixth bike.