An unfortunate fact is that innocent people spend years in prison. Innocent people are often implicated and charged with crimes for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the summer of '97, I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and after a series of unfortunate events, I was implicated in a bank robbery. I would love to say I was without any wrong doing, but my twenty-one year-old self didn't make good decisions. My twenty-one-year-old self rarely thought past the moments in front of him. That young man learned a hard lesson in the ripple effect of life decisions.
I woke up in a hospital bed feeling very groggy. A golf ball size tumor had just been removed from the back of my neck, that scientist would later conclude was caused by bacteria left over from a gator bite. With my head in a fog and without the ability to move my neck, I was rolled through the neglected halls of Charity Hospital. Like most old hospitals, Charity used an abundance of bleach to mask the smell of decay and desperation, and it was all I could smell before I passed through the doors into the fresh air outside. Once I was in the car, my only intentions were that of spending the next couple of days in bed. But as the saying goes, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
With a stack of VHS tapes, frozen pizzas, and a bottle of painkillers, I was set once I got back home. As my pager vibrated on the glass coffee table, I knew I could just ignore it. I should ignore it, but I didn't ignore it. An hour later I was playing darts with my dart team. With the help of my painkiller-and-beer cocktail, I went undefeated. Feeling no pain, I decided the best thing to do was to celebrate, and that was bad decision number two.
Halfway through a song about peaches, a fight broke out. I was content to stay out of the way when my friend Tommy was sucker-punched and put in a head lock. Tommy of course made the error of breaking up a scuffle between his old lady and some random drunk chick. Never break up a girl fight. It will only lead to disaster. Naturally, when Tommy wedged himself in the middle of the scrum one of the girls fell on her ass. I can give you two guesses, but you will only need one to figure out which girl hit the ground. If it had been his girlfriend, this story would be over. If and frogs with wings and all that. This of course led into bad decision number three. As my heart began to race, I jumped into action like a professional wrestler, putting the dirty fighter in a choke hold. Just seconds later the other patrons started separating us the proud combatants. I released my choke hold and turned to walk back to my awaiting beer when I felt the thud of a punch to the back of my head. I fell forward, catching myself on a nearby pool table. As the warm blood ran down my neck, I could hear my wound pulsating with a faint thump-thump. The dirty punch artist was being subdued while I was taken back to Charity Hospital for the second time that day. While waiting my turn in the overcrowded and foul-smelling emergency room, I called the bar to let them know I would settle my bar tab later. It was then that I was accused for the first time of a crime I didn't commit. The bartender, a friend of mine, asked me several times how I got to the hospital. I repeated several times that my friend Eric and his girlfriend brought me. I was made aware that the man who sucker punched me told the cops that I had stolen his '95 Mustang after the fight. That fink! The bartender advised me that if I was innocent as I proclaimed, I should call the cops and clear my name. That would have slash could have been a decision that could have broken my bad-decision streak. I remained silent.
I spent the next day recovering. My head throbbed from the many beers, and my neck throbbed from the sucker punch. It was while watching the evening news that I started regretting my decisions from the day before. One of the top stories was a bank robbery in Metairie, which was of no consequence at first, until they revealed the getaway car - a stolen '95 Mustang. I was panic stricken at first, but then I told myself that the FBI would catch the bank robber and in return catch the real car thief. It would be that simple, I was sure of it.
A couple days later I went back to the bar. There was a buzz as I walked in. The bartender pulled me off to the side and asked, "What are you doing here?" I shook my head as if saying "What's the big deal?" It was at this time I learned that the FBI and the cops had been all over this place asking everybody about lil' ol' me. Looking confident and strong on the outside is easy; believing it is something else all together.
Every bar I went to for the next couple of weeks was circulating the same story: "The FBI was just here looking for you...The FBI says this isn't your first bank robbery...The FBI says you’re a leader of a car stealing ring...The FBI released a picture of the bank robber, and guess what? it looks a lot like you!" I denied all the charges emphatically, but to no avail. I began to look outside my windows constantly. If I noticed a cop car behind me, I made the next available turn. I felt like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story, a nervous wreck. It was all unfounded because I did not do these things, but now with all the rumors, I just did not know what to do. Innocent people go to prison all the time.
One of the bartenders had given me one of the business cards the FBI had left behind. It was time to attempt to clear my name. I talked to one of the agents and anxiously waited for their arrival with who else but Tommy Drumm. I looked out of the window again and again before making myself a whiskey on the rocks. I heard the first car door shut, then another, then another. Something didn't feel right. I looked out of the window and was floored to see two undercover cars and three patrol cars in my driveway. Then suddenly, three stern knocks pounded against the front door. They weren't the knocks your neighbors use when they want to borrow some milk. These were knocks of authority saying the gig is up. My knees were weak as I went to open the door, reminding myself that I was innocent.
I could tell by the disappointed look in the FBI agents' eyes that I was going to be ok. I was not the man they were looking for, but since they had me, they wanted an interview. I made another drink, a drink of relief, and I answered their questions. Why didn't I clear my name for the stolen car, was the big one. I explained that I was more concerned about being arrested for the fight, and since I knew I hadn’t stolen the car, I didn't think I had anything to worry about. They weren't too pleased with me taking my time getting in touch with them either, but other than that, they had nothing on me.
They were just about to pick up their files and pictures of the “K-Mart version of me” when my friend Tommy made his triumphant return to this story.
“Ya’ll wanna interview me?” He asked making himself a drink, “I was there that night.” The agents looked at each and with a nod that said, “Screw we are here anyway” motioned for Tommy to join them at the dinner table.
Tommy then began to razzle dazzle the FBI and Police.
“I figure you thought Ray robbed that bank” He declared
“How did you figure that?”
“Well I was taking a dump and reading the paper, that’s where I do my best thinking. And when I read about the bank robbery and the stolen Mustang, I just knew ya’ll was gonna try to pin it on Ray”
“oh really?’ a little amused.
“Yeah, you know just putting two and two together. You know, I’ve always wanted to join the FBI and as you know, I am pretty good at solving stuff, and I’m in between jobs right now.” He then reached over and grabbed a napkin and a pen and proceeded to write his number on it as if we where at a bar and not sitting at a dinning room table filled with papers. He continued, “If anything opens up at the Bureau, I would really appreciate it if you would put in a good word for me.”
“sure” one of the suits said and carefully placed the napkin in his briefcase while his associate hurriedly filled his own briefcase with notes and papers. They were ready to get out of the house and away from these two “winners”
We followed them out the door and through the yard when my mother got home from work. She made her way up to the house as the police officers walked past her without a word. Then finally, an agent looked her and said “Don’t worry ma’am, he didn’t do it”
That’s right, as far as the FBI is concerned, I’m innocent baby.