So, it sounds really stupid, but the whole thing was kind of my fault.
So, a really long story but here's how it happened:
A period in a really long time ago, from 1989 until 1994 to be precise, I had this really nice '89 Honda Prelude. It was the most reliable, well-built car I ever owned, which is saying a lot, because I have owned four Lexii. However, there were two problems with the car. One, it was slow. It had the biggest engine you could get in a Honda, but the automatic tranny made it a snail-mobile. Two, I couldn't take it out of my garage without someone getting mad and flipping me off. I guess it was the appearance of the car -- it was fire-engine red, with an aftermarket wing, tinted windows, custom wheels & tires, $3000 worth of stereo, and a license plate which bore my actual first name. Change lanes? Get flipped off. Merge into traffic? Get flipped off. Run a yellow light? Get flipped off. It became tiresome.
Anyway, one day in 1991, I was driving to work. I was patiently waiting for my turn to use the on-ramp when some type-A jerk in a gold Mercedes sedan decides HE'S not going to wait, he needs to cut into the line NOW, and furthermore, I'm the guy who's going to let him in line in front of me. Sorry, Charlie, no such luck. The guy behind me lets him cut in though, so now the guy is PISSED and he's behind me. Once on the freeway, I change to the left lane, and Mr. Dickhead in the Merc has already changed lanes and is RIGHT BEHIND ME and now he's really pissed because of course I pulled into the left lane right in front of him, winning our little race in a cheesy Honda although he's got Teutonic iron that I am supposed to respect and even be intimidated by.
So this moron FOLLOWS ME ALL THE WAY TO WORK. Once I park, he pops out of his Merc. The guy is big, and in his forties. He stands over top of my car as I climb out, briefcase in hand. I figure the guy is going to take a swing at me, but no! He decides to joust with me verbally. Heh. As you might expect, everything he says gets shoved right back in his face with an offensively flippant remark as I walk to the little shop where I still work to this day. Finally realizing that I am not intimidated, he heads back for his car, but before climbing in, he makes some derogatory schoolyard remark about my nose (!) that I haven't heard since the 10th grade (remember this guy is in his FORTIES). As I open the door to the shop and step inside, I say "Wah! Sore loser."
So NOW the asshole is REALLY PISSED. He walks into the shop, asks if I'm the owner. No. He wants to talk to the owner. By now, Fred (the boss) is already coming out of his office. Mr. Dickhead tries to convince Fred that I am a reckless driver, but Fred responds by telling the guy to get the **censor** out of here. The guy calls Fred a few choice names and leaves, madder than ever. Fred and I have a good laugh over it, recalling that the guy (for whatever reason) told Fred that he is "in the bail bonds business" during the course of their argument. So we look up "bail bonds" in the phone book and sure enough, the guy's name (Jim French) and picture are all over the yellow pages! Turns out he owns the biggest bail bonds business in the town I live in, and has about 3 or 4 solid pages of ads in the phone book! We laugh our asses off at this.
Then, a few months later, in the local paper:
James Robert French, 47, of 8708 N.W. Lakecrest Ave., is to appear for arraignment this morning for SEVEN and is wanted in California for another two charges. The alleged victims in both Washington and California are close relatives. French, who owns Clark County Bail Bonds, allegedly assaulted the victim over a five-year period.
I sure hope he can find some bail bonds.
The following article appeared in the Portland, Oregon Oregonian on November 17, 1995:
VANCOUVER, Wash. - A fugitive warrant has been issued for James R. French, who was convicted Tuesday in Clark County Superior Court of French, 47, had been free on bail pending sentencing, which had been scheduled for Thursday. He owns Clark County Bail Bonds and similar businesses in six other states.
Rod Frederiksen, Vancouver police chief, said sources told authorities that French was headed to Mexico or Arizona. He reportedly was traveling alone. French is described as 6 feet 6 inches, 250 pounds, with blue eyes and brown hair. He may be driving a white Land Rover, a gold Mercedes or a 1995 Mitsubishi Quest minivan.
A later report mentioned that he always carries a gun.
This asshole was finally caught after eight years in Mexico. Note the following paragraph that appeared in the Vancouver, WA Columbian on October 15, 2003:
"Clark County Sheriff's Sgt. Dave Trimble said acquaintances of French's in Mexico grew suspicious of French -- Trimble didn't know why -- and started checking into his background. They traced French back to Clark County and alerted both the sheriff's office and the Vancouver office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
A couple of months ago, a reader wrote me to ask if Unspeakably Stupid The Angry Bail Bondsman, was really true. She had tried to find out more about Jim French by looking up his name (James R. French) on the search engines, and came up with nothing. I tried it myself, and sure enough, the case was so old that there was virtually nothing about him anywhere on the Web -- except this page right here, which has always included the attractive mug shot above.
I am wondering if this website helped his acquaintances in Mexico trace him back to Clark County and the fact that he was on the lam.
THAT would be sweet.
Think of me when your new roommate is making sweet love to your hiney, Jim! And let's take it easy on the road rage next time, assuming you can still get a license when you're 80 years old.
French faced as long as 23 years in prison, and his sentencing was set for three days later.
Judge Roger A. Bennett allowed French out on $75,000 bail to complete personal business, believing his ties to the community would ensure his appearance for sentencing. French, who had a 15-year-old son, surrendered his passport and promised to deliver a property bond for his Lakeshore Hills home.
When he failed to show up for sentencing, Bennett issued an arrest warrant.
"I've never had anybody with the local ties and assets that he has split," Bennett said at the time.
French apparently was closing a deal to sell his company during the trial. He sold his interest in Pioneer Bail Bonds Inc., the holding corporation for Clark County Bail Bonds and other bail-bonding operations he started in California, Arizona, Idaho, Utah, Michigan and Ohio.
The business made French wealthy. A November 1992 financial statement showed he had a net worth of more than $1.4 million. His former wife testified that he kept $350,000 to $500,000 in an easily accessible bail fund.
French, however, likely will not be fined in connection with his 1995 conviction. State law provides for a fine of as much as $50,000 for each count, but in an October letter to the U.S. Department of Justice, Bennett said he won't impose a fine.
"For purposes of accomplishing this extradition, I will commit to imposing no fine against Mr. French in this case," Bennett wrote.
Bennett has since removed himself from the case and it has been reassigned to Judge Edwin L. Poyfair.
French's attorney, Sheryl McCloud of Seattle, asked for a more lenient sentence, saying it could be the difference between punishment and a death sentence for her ailing client.
"I ask this court to consider . . . a man who at age 57 is in deteriorating health physically and mentally, who has a complete background, not just a criminal background."
She did not elaborate on his condition.
McCloud also pointed to letters of support from friends and family, and referred to two of French's adult children in the courtroom who still "stand by him," she said.
Shackled at the ankles with five custody officers watching him, French, who consistently has maintained his innocence, stood and apologized.
"I am sorry," he said, in a quiet, shaky voice. "I am sorry."
Poyfair, however, was not lenient. Given the option of between 149 and 198 months, he gave French 192, with credit for his nearly two years served in Mexico and the United States.
"You have taken away a lot from this child, now a young lady," Poyfair said. "You have caused great scarring . . . for your whole family. This court cannot give the least bit of tolerance."
The sentence options could have been longer, but Mexico, as part of its agreement to extradite French to the United States, said he could not be punished for bail jumping.
Back in the early '80s (remember those?), I used to work for a chain of print shops in Oregon & Washington called "PrintRight", now known as LaserQuick. PrintRight had about 29 shops back then, and a skilled "Offset Operator" like myself could work in just about any location he chose. (Getting paid decent money, now that's another story.)
After a particularly bad experience working for an incredibly incompetent manager at a PrintRight at a mall, something possessed me to transfer to one of their many locations in downtown Portland. Actually, what happened at the mall was I had this irresponsible idiot chick manager and I ended up running the shop myself. One day, after I had just chewed her out again, she walked into the back of the shop and just fainted dead away. Had to go to the hospital and everything. She lost the shop about two days later, two execs walked in and took it away from her. Practically another Unspeakably Stupid Story on its own. Anyway...
Downtown Portland could be a little scary, there were lots of homeless panhandlers and people talking to themselves walking around. Also, Portland is well-known for its near-total lack of competent law enforcement. I had to park five **censor** blocks away, so I got panhandled on a daily basis as well as the occasional confrontation with the shopping-cart and bag ladies.
Not surprisingly, some of this human effluvia, and those prone to its influence, entered our shop regularly. We had a couple of very interesting customers who came in regularly to make copies. One was a large, filthy woman who wore a huge, heavy coat in all weather. Fine with me, except... THE COAT SMELLED JUST LIKE CAT URINE. Ours was a very small shop, and the place would fill with the odor of cat piss seconds after her arrival. Eventually, my boss, Mike, got around to asking her why she was making so many copies. She told him she was trying to win the Nobel Prize for Medicine.
But nothing tops the bad-customer story of a strange little man we will call El Hombre. El Hombre stood about 5' 6", appeared to be of Central or South American descent, had greasy black hair parted on the side, appeared to be about 40, and always wore these thick leather gloves, which he would sometimes gesture with, while putting them on, after he was finished making copies.
El Hombre could NOT be taught how to use the copiers no matter HOW many times my boss, Mike, would show him. He also tore up copy after copy after copy, sometimes standing there and shredding 90 out of 100 copies he'd made, and dumping them in the trash. But El Hombre's most annoying quirk was snapping at the other copier users. We only had two copiers, and sometimes someone who needed just one copy would ask to cut in on a person who had a whole stack. Well, El Hombre always had a stack. When any one would ask to cut in, he'd snarl loudly, "NO! And stop trying to read my copies!"
Well, the first time Mike and I heard that, you can bet we were running for the trash can the second El Hombre was out the door. We got out the old Scotch tape and put together some very interesting nonsense, including a letter addressed to then-Presidential candidate John Anderson, in which El Hombre expressed being so concerned with the state of the country that he was going to go off in the woods of Montana and blow his own head off with a shotgun. There were also incomprehensible ramblings about drugs and Central America (El Salvador was a big issue at the time).
Another El Hombre letter of his we taped back together told a story about him getting questioned by a couple of cops while just walking down the street one night, and giving them so much unnecessary shit they wound up arresting him and taking him to jail.
Anyway, this nut was just agitated all the time. He came in about a dozen times, until Mike finally came down on him about being rude to the other customers. El Hombre blew up and started yelling and we nearly had to physically throw him out the door. He vowed never to return, and we were thankful.
Then, about two weeks later, he shows up again. Looking very calm. He apologizes to Mike, and explains that he was now back on his medication and everything would be fine from now on. And would Mike please, just one last time, show El Hombre how to use the copier? Mike showed him, and El Hombre thanked him politely. A female customer came in, and El Hombre, spotting the single document in the woman's hand, offered to let her cut in to make her copy! She did this as Mike and I looked at each other in utter amazement. He tore up nothing, politely paid, thanked us and left!
Another week passes, and El Hombre shows up again. This time, he is not quite so polite as he asks Mike to show him how to run the copier, but after Mike shows him, El Hombre thanks him as his copies begin to come out. "Oh, and by the way," he asks Mike, "could you call me an ambulance? I've been stabbed". Mike walks back to where I'm printing. "This guy wants me to call him an ambulance, he says he's been stabbed." I roll my eyes, visions of finally having to physically throw him out onto the street filling my head. Mike walks back up front, where El Hombre eventually convinces him to call an ambulance. Mike dials 911, and of course the dispatcher wants to know if there's an assailant still around, did he see anything, etc. El Hombre rips the phone from Mike's hand and yells "He doesn't have to answer that! You just send the **censor** ambulance, god damn it!"
So then El Hombre steps outside, and begins pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the shop, waiting for the ambulance. The first thing to arrive is a news crew from the local ABC affiliate. They go to work trying to interview him. Then two cop cars show up. Then two ambulances and three more cop cars. A crowd forms.
Finally, one of the ambulance guys takes off El Hombre's shirt, revealing a four-inch stab wound in his abdomen! By now, the news crew is interviewing Mike and I'm still inside the shop watching it all. In the middle of this, nobody notices El Hombre slip away. He comes back into the shop, shreds his copies, leaves and gets in the ambulance!
We never saw him again.
Oh, and Michens slipped on a banana peel and feel into a pit of angry snakes, that's really all there was to it...
Topic: How did the person above you die? (Read 257232 times)