RU Institute

Posts Tagged ‘tmstafford’

The money from Theodore Lawson put Jerry back on his feet. Over the next few years, the economy improved and the casinos picked up. Life for Jeremiah P. Adamson became sweet once again. His relationship with Connie even improved a little, but he never confided in her of the depth of financial trouble. Nor did she ever find out about the Mob's little visit. Still, even with what they had been through, the marriage lacked the closeness it once had.

That was one of the reasons Jerry found it easier to travel on business trips. Back in Otley he hated leaving Connie even to go into town for half a day, but now the trips gave him more of a chance to appreciate life and meet other people; especially intelligent, attractive women.

One night after returning from a business trip to Vegas, he had a nightmare that began with him and his father running out of the back door as Nazis fired shots at them. This time, however, instead of running ahead when his father was shot, he stopped and lifted him up. Then he found himself once again in the von Ludendorff s home with the penetrating eyes of the preacher staring at him. Again he kept hearing the question,

"Do you know the mystery of Christ?"

Then he glared at Jerry and said,

"Adulterers will not inherit the Kingdom of God!" Jerry tried to hide behind the person in front of him, but the preacher stepped to one side and pointed directly at him and said again,

"Adulterers God will judge."

Jerry stood to his feet and cried out,

"No…I'm sorry!"

But the preacher took no notice. Jerry began to weep and say,

"Please…I'm sorry for what I have done!"

Just then he felt someone touch his shoulder, and he heard a soothing English voice say,

"It's okay honey--you are having a nightmare."

Jerry sat up in bed, looked at Connie, and then looked around him as though he didn't believe her. Sweat was dripping from his brow and his bedclothes were soaking wet. He looked down at his hands that were shaking even though he was wide-awake. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breathing labored as if he had just run up some steep stairs.

Connie stared at the fear in his face and said,

"That must have been some nightmare. " Jerry looked straight ahead and said,

"I don't know what's happening to me. I have had horrible dreams about the war, but they have never been like this one. With this one I keep ending up at the von Ludendorff s house." He turned to face Connie, and with the expression of a small child told her about the dream, minus the verse about adultery. The next night he dreamed again that he was at the Bible study. This time the preacher said,

"Murderers will not inherit the Kingdom of God." Jerry stood to his feet and said,

"I am not a murderer. I have only killed in war."

But the preacher looked at him with a piercing gaze and said,

"God knows how many people you killed when you could have let them go. He saw how many you slaughtered merely because they were Germans. You hated them. You are no different than the Nazis!"

Again Jerry began mumbling incoherently in his sleep and was wakened, dripping with sweat. Again Connie soothed his fears and held his hand until the fear had passed. It was in those times he felt a glimmer of the love he had had for her in the early days of their marriage.

One afternoon Connie returned from the doctor looking quite pale. Earlier in the week she had discovered a lump in her left breast and went to the local hospital to have it checked out.

Suddenly Jerry was the one holding her hand as she told him the lump was malignant. As gently as the doctor could, he informed her that she had a maximum of six months to live. Jerry held her in his arms and they both wept.

From that day on, Connie began to read a Bible that someone had given her, and it wasn't long until she was regularly going to church. After a few weeks Jerry decided to go with her, just for moral support. It was an old, cold, brick Methodist church building that had a warm interior. The elderly minister and the people showed the Adamsons nothing but love and encouragement.

Despite the fact that he went to church, and despite his prayer at the fire in England, Jerry still quietly leaned towards atheism, although for Connie's sake he never mentioned it. His thought was that we create a higher power, or a God--call it what you will‑‑in times of crisis. With a cold objectivity, he remembered the circumstances in which he had prayed when his daughter had stopped breathing. The incident confirmed his belief--in his time of weakness he had called upon a greater power. This was a natural inclination for the human species. This was what was happening with Connie, and he hoped that her faith would help her through her pains. With Connie’s gentle encouragement, he was also able to curb using God’s name in vain. This wasn’t easy because it had rolled off his tongue for so many years, he didn’t even know he was doing it.

A thin‑face but clean-shaven young man stood at the opened door of his parents’ house a little north of Royse City. This time he didn't just walk in. Johnny looked at both his beloved mom who was standing by the door, and his father who was looking over a newspaper in his hands. He looked directly at his father and said,

"Dad, I would like to come home . . . if you will have me." Jerry was stunned. He put the paper down, stood to his feet, embraced him, something he hadn't done for years, and said,

"Welcome home, son."

Johnny poured his heart out to his parents. He confessed that he had stolen, taken drugs; that he had been a fool to waste his life as he did. Then he turned to his father and said,

"Dad, more than anything else, I feel bad that Granddad’s gun was stolen. You have had it since the war, and I know how much it meant to you."

Jerry smiled,

"Son, that gun means nothing to me compared to you. An old friend told me what you were doing to yourself, and I thought we had lost you. I don't care what you've done, you are still alive and that's all that matters."

The next evening Johnny's mouth dropped open as he sat in the living room. Once again, he couldn't believe what he had just seen on television. Lee Harvey Oswald, the man accused of assassinating the President, had been shot to death, and a newsman caught the incident on film. He leaned forward and glared at the slow motion replay . . . at the man with the gun and the black‑rimmed hat and hollered,

"I know that man. That's Jack Ruby! He is the owner of the nightclub where…"

Johnny stopped mid-sentence as the anchor man came back on the scene, and gave details on how the Dallas strip‑club owner had walked down a ramp with fifty reporters and had suddenly shot and killed Lee Harvey Oswald as he was being transported by police to a bullet‑proof van. Then the newscaster said,

"Ruby used a snub‑nosed gun which fired a .38 caliber bullet and pierced Oswald's left side."

When my oldest child, Sarah (now 24 years old), was a toddler she loved to push the buttons on the keyboard of my very first computer. While I was working on the computer, she would come up to me and ask: “Daddy, push one button?” I would acquiesce to her wishes and then watch as her little fingers pecked away at the keys.

I had no idea then that my daughter was actually engaging in early vocational training. Today she works as a professional court reporter-closed captioner.

read more

The happenings of that day dazed Johnny. He didn't eat, he didn't drink, and neither did he give any thought to his heroin habit. That night he walked slowly to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. The assassination had had a sobering effect on him, confronting him with the transient nature of this life. One moment a man was smiling and waving at crowds, and the next moment he was dead! It was then that he remembered what he once heard‑‑that life is just a dash between two dates on a head stone.

He stared into the mirror at his unshaven face. He was 18 years old yet he looked like an old man. His cheeks were sunken because of a lack of good nutrition, and his eyes looked like a road map, with dark lines under them.

He whispered,

"What am I doing with my life!" Deep in thought, he walked back to his room and picked up his still‑opened notebook from the bed, and began to read the poem he had written only days before. But as he read it, it was as though he could hear a sinister voice speak to him through it. The voice said:



Behold my friend! I am heroin,

Known by all as destroyer of men,

From whence I came no one knows,

A far‑off land where the poppy grows.



I came to this country without getting caught,

And since that day I've been hunted and sought,

Whole nations have gathered to plot my destruction,

They call me the breeder of crime and corruption.



More potent than whisky, more deadly than wine,

Yes I am the scourge of all mankind!

My little white grains are nothing but waste,

I'm soft and fluffy‑‑but bitter to taste.



I'm white, I'm brown, but deadly to use,

For once you're addicted, I really abuse,

I'm known in China, Iraq and Iran,

I'm welcome in Turkey and I've been to Japan.



In cellophane bags I make my way,

To men in office and children at play,

From heads of state to lowest bum,

From richest estate to lowest slum.



I take a rich man and make him poor,

Take a maiden and make her a whore,

Make a beautiful woman forget her looks,

And make the student forget his books.



I can make you steal, borrow and beg,

Then search for a vein in your arm or your leg,

I'm known to the selfish and those filled with greed,

All faceless regardless of religion or creed.



My gift is illusion, my blessing is fake,

Death and destruction follow in my wake,

I'm the kiss of death to all who I touch,

I start as a gift and remain as a crutch.



My friends are many but I'm loyal to none,

I come to destroy and my work must be done,

Some think of me as merely a toy,

But wise men know I maim and destroy.



Run from me if you wish‑‑I will never give chase,

For sooner or later you'll return for your taste,

Once in your bloodstream you'll think me not mean,

You'll praise me as master, then nod in a dream.



You've heard my warning but will take no heed,

Put your foot in the stirrup‑‑mount this great steed,

Get right in the saddle and hold on real well,

For the white horse 'heroin' will take you to Hell.

In the drawer he read a scribbled note. All it said was, "You owe me!" The next day Johnny woke up wishing he hadn't. Not only did he feel nauseated, but he also felt a little and frustrated. Darlene was going to have an abortion and there was nothing he could do about it. He pulled the covers back, sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the calendar on the wall. It was November 22, 1963. He had written on it that today was the day he had to collect $200 from one of his dealers and give half of it to Lips. But he could hardly gather the enthusiasm to do anything, even though he had slept in his clothes and didn't need to dress. He rolled back into bed and went back to sleep. Around eleven he woke up and fumbled with a packet of cigarettes that he had left beside the bed. His nicotine-stained fingers trembled as he struck a match, and then took a deep breath of smoke. He sighed loudly as he exhaled, and at the same time picked up a notebook he kept by his bed. In it were a few addresses and about a dozen depressing poems he had written about life. One was penned a few days earlier after a deal fell through and he began to withdraw. It was called "Heroin." The poem seemed to flow from his pen as he wrote. Just after noon he got out of bed, walked into his living room and turned on a huge old television that was obviously too heavy for Darlene to steal. Then he slowly walked into the kitchen to make some strong black coffee. He never finished making that drink. From the kitchen he heard words that sent shivers down his spine: "President Kennedy has been shot! I repeat, the President of the United States has been shot . . . " Johnny rushed into the room hoping it was some sort of sick joke, and sat on an old couch in front of the TV. A man stood with a microphone, directly in front of Parkland Hospital and said, "Just after noon shots were fired at the President's motorcade as it drove through the streets of Dallas." The reporter stopped speaking for a moment and looked slightly to one side. He began again, "I have just been . . ." His voice cracked with emotion. He composed himself and said again, " . . . I have just been informed that President John F. Kennedy has been pronounced dead. He was killed today, just after noon by an assassin's bullet. It happened as he was being driven through Dallas to the sound of cheering crowds. Suddenly, shots rang out and stunned the masses as the 46‑year‑old president crumpled in the seat of an open limousine. We have also been informed that Governor John B. Connally Jr. of Texas, who was riding in the same car as the Kennedys, was severely wounded in the chest, ribs and arm." Johnny sat glued to the television for the rest of the day as the media kept the public informed about the assassination. Some time later, they reported that police had arrested Lee Harvey Oswald and charged him with the murder.

The next day, Johnny sold his near new car for about a quarter of what it was worth. When that money was gone, he stole a car from a parking lot three blocks from his apartment and sold it the same night to someone at the club.

When Lips found out that he had hot‑wired an auto, he advised him on ways to raise some cash without so much risk. He told him that it was far easier and less perilous to unload electrical goods through the nightclub, rather than a stolen car. He said that one of the best times he found to lift goods was on Sunday mornings. He smiled as he said,

"Almost every houth ith empty becauth people are at church!" When Lips needed cash for his habit, he would carry a bunch of fake circulars in his hand and go door to door. It was easy to check if anyone was home. He said that many religious people didn't even bother to lock their doors, so he would just go right on in and take cash and things that were small enough to hide under his jacket.

But Lips had a better suggestion for Johnny. He could work for him, selling smack. He said that it was real easy and the money was good enough to support his habit and give him a very comfortable life. What's more, he would trust him with credit with the first shipment, and give him his own risk-free territory. Johnny could take over the college district, where there were no worries about undercover narcotic agents. He said that it was an easy market. All he had to do was befriend some prospective buyers by showing them a little porn, gain their trust, then give them their first hit free…and they will be back for more. He laughed and said,

"It's sthoooo good to be able to have that thort of confidenth in your product!"

Two weeks later, Darlene walked up to Johnny as he sat at the club. She would normally have crept up behind him and rubbed his shoulders or stroked his hair, but this night she simply called him to a corner table. He sat down opposite her and said,

"What's wrong? I haven't seen you for three weeks!"

She frowned and said,

"I need $600 quickly. I'm pregnant. If I don't get rid of this, Jack will fire me."

Johnny was stunned. It was the last thing he expected to hear. Also, he didn't like her "If I don't get rid of this" attitude. As far as he was concerned this was a potential child she was speaking about, and there was no way he was going to pay for an abortion. He reached out, put his hand on hers and gently said,

"Darlene, I care about you. I also care about our kid."

Darlene winced as though he had just slapped her face. At the same time she pulled her hand from under his. Her voice became a little louder,

"Don't be stupid. I told you that Jack won't like this!"

She then rose from the table and walked away.

Later that night when Johnny returned to his apartment, the door was unlocked. Darlene was the only other person with a key, so he hoped that she had changed her mind about the abortion and was waiting for him inside. When he opened his door and walked through the small apartment, he found that she wasn't there. Neither was the new stereo he had lined up for sale the following day. He rushed to his room and opened the drawer where she knew he kept his cash. The $400 he had left there was gone. So was his .38.

A month had passed since Johnny put the first shot of heroin into his arm. In one month he had been fired from his job, and secured another one. This one was selling heroin. After his first hit, he found his friend Lips, and spent every penny he had on some more heroin, then raised money for the next week's supply by making another visit to his dad. He borrowed $500 by lying about wanting to fix his car. When that ran out he became involved in something he never thought he would stoop to--theft.

He picked up his grandfather’s short‑barrelled .38 and drove to a suburb of Dallas.

It was late at night. No one was around as he peered into a liquor store. Johnny sat in the parking lot for over an hour watching an Oriental man undo boxes, and then stack cigarettes and other things onto the shelves. At one stage, there were no customers for more than 40 minutes.

Johnny decided that he would wait until midnight, then rob the store. His hands were shaking as he checked the gun to make sure it was loaded. He removed the safety catch, opened the car door, got out and cased the area. Not a soul in sight. He tucked the gun into his belt and partly zipped up his black leather jacket. Even though he felt terrified at what he was about to do, there was a sense of excitement, both in the robbery itself and in the fact that by morning he would have enough smack in his hands to last him a month.

As he quietly pushed open the door, the man behind the counter greeted him, then carried on stacking his shelves. Johnny nodded and walked to the back of the store as though he was looking for something special.

Minutes later he burst towards the terrified man. Holding the .38 in both hands he yelled,

"I don't want to hurt you! I need money now! Give me everything you have in the cash register and I promise you won't be harmed!" The frightened man moved quickly and gave him everything in the cash register, then, without being told to, put his trembling hands in the air. Johnny then said,

"If you move from here, I will have to come back and shoot you!" As Johnny quickly moved towards the door, he stopped, turned towards the paralyzed man and said,

"I'm sorry . . . "

He felt physically sick as he drove home, partly because he was beginning to withdraw from the heroin, and partly because he couldn't get the image of the man's terrified eyes out of his mind.

When he arrived at his apartment, he pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and counted them. His heart sank as he totaled the cash and found that they were all one-dollar bills with an occasional five, two tens and a twenty. Everything he had gone through that night yielded a mere $86.


To be continued.

Johnny did need the gun. Not only was his apartment in an area of town that often erupted in violence, but he regularly frequented a nightclub that had a few rough visitors. He didn't want any of them to make unwanted visits, and the gun gave him a sense of security. The nightclub was actually a strip‑joint, but Johnny maintained that he went there more to meet people. "Good conversation," he said.

Furthermore, the apartment was convenient in that it was only two miles from the newspaper where he worked. It also meant that he and his girlfriend Darlene could be alone. Darlene worked at the club and she wasn't the sort of girl one would want to take home to meet mom and dad. She also introduced him to a whole new world--the world of drugs. At first Johnny refused to have anything to do with the scene, but one day she convinced him into trying a new "psychedelic" drug called "LSD." A week earlier he watched her for three hours on a "trip," and listened to her rave about its mind‑opening qualities. When she showed him a newspaper cutting of a number of respected doctors actually recommending it for therapy, he succumbed.

She had also introduced him to Jack, the owner of the Ruby’s nightclub. Mr. Ruby was a quiet man, about 5'6" tall. He was originally a "hustler" from Chicago who liked to wear his black‑banded hat everywhere he went.

It wasn't long before Johnny found himself taking more and more LSD, and during that time there was a subtle change in his personality. It was truly a "mind‑altering" drug. It turned a bright outward personality inward. He also found himself in direct contact with drug dealers who sold more than "acid." They were forever encouraging him to try "smack," the ultimate "rush." Johnny vowed that he had too much self-respect to put a needle into his body, but as time passed LSD changed him even more. He found that without it, life was dull; so dull it became depressing. It didn't occur to him that the drug was causing his depression. Rather, he saw it as the cure.

It was during one of his times of despondency that he decided to go down to the club during the day, rather than to go to work.

The door was partly open, so he walked in to find a man he knew who talked with a lisp. It was because of his lisp that his friends called him "Lips." Lips was a pusher, who, by the way he dressed was obviously successful in his profession. When he saw Johnny open the door he stood to his feet and said,

"Hey Johnny, good to sthee you. What are you doing here at thith time of the day?"

Johnny managed a smile and said,

"I got sick of work. It is boring. Besides, my cash is a little low and I can't afford any acid."

Lips smiled warmly and said,

"Hey man, what are you doing on that junk anyway! I told you, you gotta give sthmack a chanth. It'th the ultimate buzth, I'm not lying to ya."

Johnny didn't say a thing. He just sat there and listened to the salesman do his thing.

"I'll tell you what. I will give you sthome at no costht. " He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small folded piece of white paper and an outfit wrapped in plastic, put it on the table and walked off.

The sight was momentous. More than 200,000 people--peaceful people, filled Washington to demand the passage of civil rights legislation. It was an evening in August 1963, and Jerry watched his television as the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King spoke to a great throng that stood before him. His voice resonated with inspiring conviction.

After the news that night the only words that remained in Jerry's mind were, "I have a dream." His mind flashed back to Otley the night of the fire so long ago, to the dream that he had had that was so vivid. He had often thought about it, and the consequences had he not been awakened by the sound of Faithful, his barking dog.

Suddenly, his thoughts were broken a car pulling up the driveway. A few minutes later, the key turned in the door and Johnny entered the living room. He was warm and friendly, somewhat different from the last time the two exchanged words.

As Johnny reached his teenage years, the relationship between him and his father changed. It was as though the dad he always looked up to had suddenly become "uncool." Then his mother became concerned about the type of company he was keeping, and asked Jerry if he could somehow mention it to the boy. Much to his sorrow, the conversation escalated into a full‑blown argument, at the height of which Johnny contested,

"What about you and your friends during the war? Some of them weren't the 'best of company,' and while we are on the subject, I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about 'back then."'

By now he was yelling at his father. As he walked toward the door he turned and spat out,

"The days of glory are gone dad! All you have from them are some faded medals. I'm getting out of here before I end up an old man with nothing but faded memories!"

With that, he walked out and slammed the door. Jerry knew he was right about the medals. There was a strange irony about the war. He contended that he hated it, but at the same time missed the glory of living for what he believed was a just cause. The medals given to him by the French government were faded, and the "days of glory" had, over the years, become a pale memory.

Two days later, Johnny called and told his Mom that he had an apartment in Dallas. Now, more than three months after the blow up he had shown up at home as though everything was just fine.

"Did you see the news tonight; the protest at Washington? Incredible huh?" Jerry put the vivid memories of the last time they exchanged words out of his mind, rubbed his forehead, then his eyes, yawned and thoughtfully said,

"Something big is stirring in the nation. That man King is a born leader. He reminds me of a man I knew in the, ah. . . " He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.

Johnny walked into the kitchen, helped himself to a bottle of coke, took the cap off and called back,

"Yeah. Dad, I need to ask you a favor."

Jerry smiled and as Johnny entered the room he said,

"How much do you want?" He shook his head and said,

"I don't want money. I've been concerned lately about the violence in Dallas. I think I need a gun."

Jerry was suddenly no longer tired. He tried not to betray his surprise and calmly said,

"What do you want a gun for?" The subject was material begging for another blowup. It seemed odd that his son entered the room talking about a peaceful protest in Washington, and in the next breath he said he wanted a gun.

As the young man sat in front of him sipping his coke, Jerry said,

"Are you in trouble?" Johnny looked directly at him and said,

"Dad, I don't want to clash with you on this. I need a gun for protection. I'm not in trouble, and I'm not going to do anything illegal, but I feel defenseless when I'm in Dallas at night. You know what it's been like recently with the increase in violence. You have the shotgun, how about letting me borrow Granddad’s .38? I promise I will take care of it."

He had grown up with guns and he knew how to handle them, so without another word, Jerry went to his room and came back with his father's .38 and a box of bullets, handed them to his son and said,

"I know you will look after this." He took it from his father, placed it on the table in front of him and said,

"Thanks…I knew you would understand."

To be continued.

As Jerry entered the lavish room, he felt overwhelmingly wretched. The last time they had looked at each other had been when Jerry cursed him to his face. Theodore sat at a large oak desk. His clear eyes seemed to look right into Jerry's heart, but it wasn't a look of condescension. It was one of warm welcome. All Jerry could think of was the way he had insulted and ridiculed this truly good man. Theodore had always done business with the utmost integrity, something Jerry had scorned. As he sat down in front of the desk he could hardly lift his head. He took a deep breath and said,

"I have come for your help . . . "

When he confessed what he had done and that he was greatly in debt, Theodore asked for the exact amount of liability he had incurred, including the loan from the Mafia. The total was in excess of twenty million dollars, but if Theodore could lend him even half of that, it would give him some respite. Without hesitation, Theodore called for Grace, gave her a key and quietly spoke into her ear.

A few moments later, she appeared holding a check. Jerry noticed that her hand was trembling as she gave it to him. He whispered,

"Thank you," then glanced at the amount. He couldn't believe what he saw. The check was for the entire amount of the debt. He didn't expect them to lend him anything, let alone the full amount. He had an idea what these people were worth and knew that this check represented their entire fortune. This display of kindness was utterly undeserved. He felt humbled, and at the same time unspeakably grateful. This payment represented his very life. The loan would mean that he wouldn't be publicly humiliated and thrown into prison. It would mean that the Mafia would leave him alone, and that he could stand up once again and look his friends in the eye. The loan meant that suicide was no longer an option.

He looked into the eyes of the man he once despised and thought of as his enemy and said,

"You had every right not to lend me this money and throw me off your property." Theodore smiled and said,

"Oh, Jeremiah. It's not a loan. It's a gift."