Tuesday, Aug. 17, 6:30 p.m. Bailey Library in Winthrop, Maine. Come on by. The agenda? A good chat.
Anyway, it’s Sunday night, a day of working on the barn, out in the boat, one eagle (immature), a stiff southeast wind, and a good chop. Weeds out the wimps.
And I’m thinking of this story I read in the Boston Globe a few days back. It’s about my current favorite subject—arson. If I told you why, I’d have to kill you. Just kidding.
But this story has been hanging with me for a few days. This guy in Roslindale, Jose Baez (no relation to Joan that I know of) gets picked up for torching places. Houses. A hair salon. An auto body shop. Cops say he had a beef with you, he came back later, lit you up. Or at least your business. Or your house. Cops say they suspected Mr. Baez of earlier arsons because anytime he had a disagreement, later that person’s property went up in flames. No fatalities, just property, but at least one guy had to jump out a second-story window.
So the cops put a GPS on his car, and picked him up after he was at the scene of the latest of several fires, a house in Roslindale, Mass. I quote: “Officials said they found several one-gallon Poland Spring bottles filled with gasoline in his car. He reeked of gasoline, they said. And he had a box of wooden matches in his pocket.”
Guilty? Plea bargain? Not yet. Now, I know we are all entitled to due process, and a defense lawyer has a responsibility to do everything in his or her power to get the client off, make sure you walk. But Poland Spring bottles filled with gasoline? A box of wooden matches? What was he doing out there? Helping backyard barbecuers during a rainstorm?
Enter Baez’ lawyer, William Fick, earning his keep, no doubt, and good for him. He says, and I quote the Globe, “the evidence against him in the fire on Monday is circumstantial.”
Well, I guess to hell is is. As in, nobody light a match!
Oh, it’s a great country, isn’t it? Many years ago, I wrote a newspaper column about a most amazing defendant. I don’t recall the crime but this guy is in court (I was there, too) and he is asked what he pleads and he says, “Guilty.” The judge says, “Are you sure you want to plead guilty?” and this guy says, “Yes, your honor. I did it.”
Well, heavens to Betsy, I almost fell off my bench. Guilty because you are guilty? Have this man’s sanity checked pronto and continue this case.
An exception to the rule that says nobody’s guilty of nothing until the jury comes back in.
Come to Winthrop, Maine, Tuesday night. We can talk about arson. And guilt. And I’ll talk about DAMAGED GOODS, in which one character is self-sentenced. Then we can talk about whatever you like.
In PORT CITY SHAKEDOWN, the first Brandon Blake novel, Brandon gets a full dose of bad guys. A brawl in a funeral home introduces him to Joel Fuller, a sociopathic hustler. Fuller is fresh out of jail and determined to take Brandon out—after Fuller and his sidekick Kelvin shake him down.
Rocky isn’t a tough guy. He’s a skinny little kid with crooked glasses, and he shouldn’t be homeless in Portland, Maine. When McMorrow and Roxanne pluck him from under the stomping feet of a gang of street kids, Rocky latches onto McMorrow–and drags him into a world of murder, both old and new. Why is McMorrow protecting Rocky? The cops want to know. Why is Rocky on the run? McMorrow wants to know. Why does death follow in Rocky’s wake? Jack and Roxanne need to find out before they’re added to the list. 
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