Parole

On August 17, 1973, Ernie S  – an 18 year old with a lengthy rap sheet – broke into a home at 5009 South Ellis in Chicago where Susan Marie H was working as a graphic artist in a small studio in the home. Susan surprised Ernie while he was rifling through two purses in the dining room.  He picked up a large knife and stabbed her five times in the chest and stomach. She screamed and Ernie ran out. Susan’s friends in the other room came in and sat her at the kitchen table. She was doubled over and bleeding heavily. Officers who arrived on the scene realized there was no time for an ambulance. They picked her up and raced her to a hospital. Susan – age 23 – was DOA.

In 1976, I was 29 and a seasoned Assistant States Attorney in the Felony Trial Division. I handled a great number of murder cases and I remember details of many. But this one stands out.  It was a 2 week jury trial which I tried with my partner Chuck H.   The jury deliberated for an hour, Ernie was convicted and sentenced to 100 to 300 years (see post of 10/28/12).   

About 7 years ago, I had a call out of the blue from the State’s Attorney’s Office. “Mister Petersen, do you remember a home invasion/murder involving Ernie S__?” I said “yes” and provided graphic details.  The State’s Attorney who called me said “wow – you really do remember.” Of course. I will never forget.  Upon his election, State’s Attorney Richard Devine began asking former State’s Attorneys to participate in parole hearings.  On the bad cases.  I just testified for the third time on Wednesday.  Asking that Ernie never be released.  It is terribly emotional.  Susan’s parents both died a few years after Susan’s death.  Eight months apart.  They were in their mid-50’s.  Two of Susan’s siblings have died.  Why?  Grief.  Susan’s sister Pat has testified “you have no idea how suffocating the grief is when something like this happens to a family.”   

Ernie?  A few years after his conviction, he escaped from a prison van taking him to a hospital.  He ran into a Joliet high school, stormed into a classroom and dragged a 14 year old girl into a stairwell.  Police were minutes behind and he was recaptured. 

Neither the death penalty nor life without parole were available in 1976 but this is one case where either would have applied.  Instead remaining family members have had to argue against his release every few years.  Reliving the pain.  

So What Do We Do??

When I read of the tragedy unfolding in Syria, the intense suffering in Central Africa, the mind-numbing poverty and starvation in Sudan, the cruelties in North Korea and the violence around the globe, I have to wonder – what do we do (collectively or individually)  When it comes to this mind-boggling conundrum, there are two choices:  do nothing or do something

In the “do something” realm, I thought about the options.  And I thought I would complile a list.  To ponder what kind of “something” might serve.  Regrettably, there are not many possibilities:

Military Intervention – Always an option but never a very good one 

Political Intervention – Getting involved in the local political process (nearly as bad as the military option unless it’s political “pressuring”)

Humanitarian – The “biggee.”  Supporting with time, talent or funds those organizations which provide food, shelter, medical assistance, education and support for the oppressed

Prayer – Always an option with no downside

Mobilizing Others – This includes just “spreading the word” about the issues.  Raising awareness.  Encouraging involvement.  Raising the prospects of meaningful contribution by our brethren (mainly in the “Humanitarian” area).  Lobbying

In Walter Lippmann’s classic work American Foreign Policy, he spoke of how in foreign policy the United States should be motivated only by “national interest” (see post of 5/3/12).  But is there a “national interest” in intervening in such situations?  Can a pressing humanitarian urgency trump national interest?   Actually, I see no inconsistency between the two except possibly in cases where national sovereignty is perceived as threatened (like North Korea).  Yet there is a clear limit on what we can  undertake – and accomplish.   I’d be interested in your “take” on what – if anything – “we” should do.  Or what more we can do.  As individuals.  Or as nations.      

Subsidiarity

When one purchases a defective product, there is usually a temptation to call the company that made it. And complain. And ask for money back or a replacement. Some folks announce that “I’m going to call the President of the company and give him [or her] a piece of my mind.”  Sometimes it works.  And the decision is justified.  But if the President says “sorry” – you’re fresh out of options. 

When I have an issue with a company (or product or organization or whatever), I try to accomplish at the lowest possible level that which I want accomplished.  If I start at the President of the company and he or she says “sorry kiddo,” there is no appellate court.  You’re fini.  S.O.L.  So when I have a problem, issue, complaint or rant — and I want something done — I start with the person who answers the phone.  It may be Debbie or John or Elmer or Bambi.  And I explain.  If they can’t help me, I say “may I speak to your supervisor please?”   And I go up the ladder.  Using this procedure, you get perhaps five bites of the apple instead of just one.  Recently an insurance question came up and it was resolved with the person who answered the phone. 

This methodology is called “subsidiarity.”  The premise is that a matter ought to be handled by the lowest authority capable of addressing the matter effectively.  It is a concept that has application in government as well.  Alexis de Tocqueville in his classic study Democracy in America spoke of subsidiarity in terms of “decentralization.”  Instead of constructing massive unwieldly federal programs, one allows local municipalities and citizens to deal with issues.  When you have a problem with your local grade school, do you go to the U.S. Department of Education or do you start with your child’s teacher? 

I think there is a lesson here. . . .    

So this guy. . . . .

Two guys are in an airplane flying at 35,000 feet. Suddenly there’s a loud “BANG.” The pilot comes on the intercom “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just lost one of our four engines. We have three other engines and it is no problem to fly.  But we’ll be about one hour late getting to our destination.”

A little while later – another loud “BANG.” Captain comes on “Folks, we have lost a second of our four engines. But this plane can fly on two. But we’re going to be about two hours late getting to our destination.”

A few minutes later, there is another huge “BANG.” The captain comes on the intercom and says “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve never had this happen but we’ve lost a third of our four engines. This plane is designed to fly on one engine so we’re fine.  But we’re going to be about three hours late getting to our destination.”

So the one guy turns to the other and says “Man – if we lose that fourth engine, we’re going to be up here all day!”

   

Winter’s Full Court Press

I was talking to a friend about the weather.  I opined “I hate this winter.”  He responded cheerily “Oh but it’s winter.  It’s what we expect.”  I was a little more sharp than usual in my retort “but it has been intense, colder than normal with more snow than usual.”  He laughed.  “Oh that’s winter.”  Ho ho ho. . . .  

My countenance darkened.  My eyes narrowed.  Smoke began to waft from my ears . . . . . but I smiled through my teeth and remembered the admonition of my grandmother “if you can’t say something nice – don’t say anything.”  I growled inwardly.  Said “yep.”  And walked away.

I just came back from 10 days in the Caribbean.  On the night we returned, Chicago had just gotten 9 inches of new snow and it was freezing.  We got home, crawled under layers of blankets, shivered and turned out the lights.  Next morning, my eyes blinked open and it hit me – this isn’t St. Barth’s Toto.  An hour later, I’m trudging through the ice and snow in 5 degree weather bundled up like Admiral Byrd heading to the train station. 

I can tolerate cold weather but this winter has been positively awful.  I wanna be warm.  I wanna play golf.  I wanna go to the beach.  I wanna grill my food outside.  I wanna open the windows and sleep with a sheet – not 15 pounds of blankets.  I wanna walk in 80 degree sunshine to and from the train.  I wanna use my fly swatter.  Let’s put it this way.  If you have liked this winter, keep it to yourself.               

Trips versus Vacations

I like vacations. I just returned home from 10 days in the Caribbean (St. Barth’s to be precise). Every morning, I slept until 8:00. Or later. Got up. Sat on a recliner overlooking the ocean. Sipping coffee and lingering over my cereal and fruit.  Some work on my laptop.  Then, more coffee. A book. More coffee. A little exercise. Yawn. Stretch. And think about lunch. Lunch was around 1:30 to 2:00 pm. Usually a salad or something light.  Bread and olive oil.  Oh – and a large bowl of pommes frites.  Looking out on the emerald waters and golden sands.  Then back to the home we rented.  To rest. Read. Some bridge. A little wine. And then we’d start thinking about dinner. Yawn.

That vacation was pretty special. It was not a “trip.” I’ve been on trips.  And let me tell you.  They are different.  Where you have to get up at 6:00 a.m. Wolf down some breakfast and be at the bus at 7:30 a.m. Sharp. And then you drive on a bus with no bathroom for two hours to a place where you hike what seems like 20 miles to see a historical site. Then hike 20 miles back to the bus. Drive another hour where it’s time for lunch. “We have to finish lunch in half hour.  We’re running late!”   Lunch is lettuce, olives, grey meat and bread.  We’re like Navy Seals in the “Crucible” in Coronado — devouring food on the fly and racing back to the boats.  “Go go go go!!”  More bus.  Late dinner.  Collapse.  Alarm goes off at six a.m.  Groundhog Day. . . . .   

I like “trips.”  There is a time and a place.  And I’ve enjoyed most of the “trips” I’ve been on.  But let me tell you something.  “Vacations” are special.  I’m always ready for another.  Maybe next time with my Calloway X-20’s. . . . . 

“Your best yet”

I made dinner on Sunday. And I scored a perfect “10” . . . . and got the gold medal. 

You know that I enjoy cooking — and experimenting. Last Sunday’s dinner was up in the air.  So I volunteered.  And Donna quickly agreed. I went to Fresh Market and got the fixings for a Mexican fiesta — la cena.  I marinated and baked two chicken breasts.  I chopped and sautéed a large yellow onion and some shiitake mushrooms in olive oil over low heat  in a covered pan for about 45 minutes [shiitakes are healthier and have less toxicity than other mushroom varieties].   Then there were the Garden of Eatin organic blue taco shells (heat 5 minutes at 350).  I sliced the chicken and placed strips within each shell.  Then a slice of garlic cheddar cheese.  On top, I spooned some of the shiitake and onion combo (after I had drained the olive oil and browned slightly).  And I warmed the shells in the oven for another 5 minutes.

I made my usual guacamole recipe (smooshed avocado, cilantro and lime juice – that’s it) and I prepared some fresh quinoa on which I spooned some organic black beans (I confess – from a can).  I provided green tomatillo sauce for the tacos.  We had a great Joel Gott cabernet and some San Pellegrino to wash things down.  Lauren and Trent joined us for the experience.  The sauteed shiitake and onion combo was a 10 point triple Lutz.  The unique combination of quinoa and black beans – with fresh guac on the side – was a graceful double Axel that landed perfectly.  The wine was a magical double toe loop.  The entire meal was a flawless triple Salchow nailed by The Renaissance Hombre.      

Donna and Lauren both looked up from their plates and said seriously “This is your best yet.”  Awww shucks. . . . .  

American Sign Language

I was sitting on the train a few weeks ago — waiting to pull out of the station. Three young girls (probably high school) came in and sat in the 4 seater ahead of me. They began conversing animatedly. Laughing. Giggling. And I watched. Fascinated.  What caught my attention was — they didn’t make a sound. One of the girls was deaf. And the three were mouthing words to each other and using sign language. “Signing.”  They were fast.  And fluent. 

American Sign Language (“ASL”) originated in the early 19th century at the American School for the Deaf in Hartford, CT.   Today, it is used by nearly a million people.  I have two friends who are conversant in ASL:  my partner Dave D. and my former priest, Fr. Bob M. (both Eagle Scouts by the way).  Watching these three young women “talking” was something of a wake up for me.  Since then, when I have lunch at my desk (which is often), I will sometimes log onto an ASL site just to stretch my small brain.  The site is http://lifeprint.com.  I can say “I am a grandfather” and a few other things in ASL.  It is pretty cool to creak open this door.  I even looked into the cost of a class at a Loop college a few blocks away. 

If you want to stretch your brain, this would be a great way to do it.  I guess I have a special reason to look into ASL.  You see my father was clinically deaf from World War II.  And he never learned ASL.  And neither did I. . . . .  

Loeb and Leopold

The “Crime of the Century” occurred in 1924. Two 19 year old law students coming from two wealthy families in Chicago murdered a 14 year old boy – Bobby Franks. The reason?  They wanted to have the experience of killing someone.  And they wanted to commit the perfect crime.   The two were caught thanks to a pair of glasses found near the body and a unique eyeglass hinge which had been ordered by only three people in the country – an old lady, a lawyer who was traveling in Europe and Nathan Leopold — a law student at the University of Chicago and a student of ornithology. 

Leopold and his partner in crime – Richard Loeb  – were arrested and grilled by police.  After the typewritten ransom note was found to match Leopold’s school papers, they confessed.  Their lawyer Clarence Darrow pleaded them guilty to murder and kidnapping and threw them on the mercy of the court — Judge John L. Caverly.  Following a month-long hearing on aggravation and mitigation, States Attorney Robert Crowe argued for five hours demanding that the two be sent to the gallows.  Clarence Darrow argued for eleven hours.  Pleading for mercy.  Pleading for life.  When Darrow finished his closing argument, there was not a dry eye in the courtroom — except for the dour States Attorney.  Two weeks later, Judge Caverly read the verdict.  His decision?   “Life” in the penitentiary.

For the last nine years, I have been performing in a one act play – “Pleading for the Future.”  It is a continuing legal education program and a real life account of the murder and the closing arguments.  Famed reporter and author Ben Hecht (played by lawyer and former Army Stars & Stripes reporter Bill Hannay) provides the introduction and prologue.  I (as a former States Attorney) play the part of Bob Crowe and Todd Parkhurst (an actor and lawyer) has the role of Clarence Darrow.  When the play ran in a West Diversey Street theater (for – count ’em 4 nights), we had two young men playing the parts of Loeb and Leopold plus a bailiff played by Jim McKechnie.  The play has taken on a life of its own.  Now if only we could get Steven Spielberg, Disney or Warner Bros. to pick it up — keeping the original cast of course . . . .       

Blind Date

When I was in law school, a great friend of mine from Augustana College – Diane – was living nearby while going to grad school. One day, Diane said to me “Scott – I have this girl that I think you should meet.” In my own inimitable way, I probably said something like “Duhhhh-okayy. . . .”

A few weeks later, at the appointed hour, I knocked on the door of my date. This cute thing opened the door, smiled and I fumbled for words “duhhhhhh nice pad ya got here. . . ” [those were among my first words].  She probably wondered what sort of bozo Diane had fixed her up with.  “Yes. . . . uhmm. . . thank you.”  I remember sweating a lot and making a lot of “duhhhhh” sounds but for some inexplicable reason she must have found these qualities endearing.   So we went out.  Double-dated actually.  To the racetrack of all places.  And then dinner. 

A few months later, the most uncanny of coincidences occurred (see post of August 2, 2013) which probably sealed the deal.   A couple years later, we were married and we’re still at it. 

You may ask me – why in the world did she stay with you?  Answer – “Duhhhh I dunno. . . .”