Chapter 13
The next morning, looking like a windswept ragdoll, Commoner walked the two miles to the Social Services office. After sitting in the waiting room for nearly one hour, he finally saw his caseworker where he received emergency food stamps as well as referrals to several job agencies and other services centers. As there was a glut of homeless folks in town, he had to place his name on the waiting list for a bed in a subsidized hotel to open up. A stranger at the center informed him that the list was about four years long, give or take a year. Commoner thanked him and headed back towards the North Seattle area.
As he walked up 3rd Avenue, snug beneath his Russian-style fur cap with ear flaps and matching boots, a squad car pulled up beside him. The police officer riding shotgun, Jackie from the precinct, rolled his window down.
“Hey!” the cop yelled.
Commoner stopped and gazed at the officer.
“You’re James Thorsen, Commoner, right?” the cop asked.
“Yes.”
“You were in bad shape a couple of months ago down behind that restaurant in SODO. I was the one that called the ambulance that took you to Harborview.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” the officer stated, “but you look like you could use a little help.”
“I just came from Social Services,” Commoner admitted.
“Are you homeless?” the cop asked. “That’s why you’re carrying that sack?”
“I’m looking.”
“My cousin has a factory down in Renton,” the officer explained. “They make die parts. You work for him and he’ll hook you up with a roof for a while.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He owes me one.”
The officer tore off a piece of paper from his notepad, scribbled some info on it, and handed it to Commoner.
“His name’s Philippe,” the officer explained. “Tell him you know me.” “What’s your name?” the youngster asked.
“Jacques Vert,” the cop answered, “but everybody calls me Jackie.”
“Thanks,” Commoner responded. “I’ll look into this right away.”
“Hey,” Jackie warned him, “try to stay clear of the streets, huh? I’d hate to bust you ‘cause you definitely don’t belong out here with these nitwits.”
Jackie removed his wallet, took out $12, and handed it to the young man.
“That’s for a bus and some grub,” Jackie informed him. “Make it worth my while.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll see ya, then.”
Commoner watched as the squad car took off. Pocketing the money, he crossed the street and ambled down towards 2nd Ave. where he stood silently at a bus terminal waiting for his ride. Minutes later, he was on his way to Renton.
Relying on the specific directions from the bus driver, he found the Pacific Tool and Die Corp in no time. The factory-sized building with its nondescript façade stood alone down a path beset by trees all around it. Walking in, he spoke to the front desk clerk. Using the intercom, she paged Philippe who arrived after two minutes. The manager told Commoner to leave his duffle bag in the front office while he was taken on a tour of the facility.
By his count, he must’ve seen around 40 employees, all engaged in machines such as lathes, mills, drills and presses, and others busy stacking or packaging metal wheels, cogs and other parts in containers for shipping. Later, Philippe gave Commoner a key to a motel room about half a mile away and told him he can stay there without charge as long as he was in his employ. After Commoner signed some papers in the front office, he picked up his duffle and trudged the distance to the hotel.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the gate of the three-story Duke’s Inn was a handful of people standing around talking on the staircase, at the edge of the building, and the 3rd floor landing. Taking out his key, he read the room number – 224. Walking towards the staircase, he nodded to the folks chatting there then walked towards his room. He immediately opened the door, went in and threw the light and space heater on. As motel rooms go, it was a typical setting of one room with two beds, a refrigerator, an old TV, and connected bathroom. Placing his duffle bag down in a corner, he jumped into the first bed and fell asleep. With months and months of interrupted sleep beneath his belt, he slept like a baby for hours, dreaming of everything from planes to clouds to musical notes streaming through his mind.
The next morning, after a long hot shower, he changed his clothes and walked over to his job. Philippe paired him with an experienced worker who showed him the art of metal stamping using presses ranging from 10 ton to 350 ton. By and large, he found his co-workers to be moderately friendly, though a few, he noticed, eyed him almost suspiciously.
He ate lunch in the break room with a few other employees. As they chatted among themselves, he thought about introducing himself. He nixed the idea thinking that would’ve been too formal an introduction; instead, he hurried eating and went out to the back of the building for some air.
It was a cold crisp day, but with the afternoon sun out in force, the light on his face didn’t seem so bad. He then heard fairly quiet talk emitting from around the far side of the building. Curious of its origin, he walked towards the sound then stopped when he saw one of his coworkers talking to a stranger. He watched as the stranger removed a small rolled up paper bag from his coat pocket and handed it to the employee who quickly stashed it in his own pocket. Then, as the two men turned towards Commoner’s direction, he quickly pulled back and walked hurriedly into the building.
After work, instead of going straight back to the motel, he decided to treat himself to a nice home cooked meal. Walking to a diner, he sat and enjoyed a generous helping of roast beef and cabbage. Then, after about an hour of sightseeing in this new unfamiliar town, he went back to the motel. As usual, people were standing around in the front and up on the balconies. When he walked past them towards his room, they went suddenly quiet, like their vocals cords were yanked from their throats. Entering his room, he put on the heat and TV then lay down for a little news.
Around 11pm, the light from the TV wakened him. Getting up, he turned it off and returned to bed. As he prepared to go back to sleep, he heard the front door of the adjoining room open and close. Seconds later, it was opened and shut again. Minutes later, this reoccurred. In fact, the door was opened and shut so many times that he was finding it impossible to sleep. Getting up, he opened his door quietly and peeked out. He watched as people came knocking on the door, were let in then let out a minute or two later. Closing his own door, he returned to bed and tried his best to ignore the noise from the traffic. He finally fell asleep around 2am, but by the next morning, he felt like he hadn’t slept at all.
Work went well the next day but he still couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he was being watched and scrutinized. He spent all day creating hinges and components for electronic devices. Philippe complimented him on his work, explaining that he was a fast and industrious employee and, if he kept it up, would be in line for a raise soon. He also told him that, as a favor to his cousin Jackie, he would advance him $20 from his forthcoming paycheck. Commoner thanked him for the money and, that evening, treated himself to a movie that was an unlikely box office hit for that winter of 1988, the unusual and quirky Rain Man.
On the way back to the Duke’s Inn, he bought a can of Foster’s lager, a bag of potato chips, and a few strips of beef jerky. Wending his way through those milling about the motel, he went into his room and, as usual, turned the heat and TV on. Sitting at the edge of his bed, he drank the beer. Minutes later, feeling its effect, he turned the TV off and went to sleep. Minutes later, he was awakened by incessant traffic coming from the room next door. He buried his head beneath his pillows to drown out the sound. When that didn’t work, he slid over to the 2nd bed closer to the bathroom and tried to sleep.
Several hours later, still unable to sleep, he picked up the
phone and dialed 911. About 30 minutes later, a small troop of police cars came screeching into the lot. Commoner got up and tried to get a glimpse of the activity by peeking from his window. Realizing it didn’t afford him full view of the rest of his walkway he opened his door and looked out. He watched as the officers stormed into room 222 and brought out two men in handcuffs. Apart from a handful of onlookers, there was hardly anyone else around to witness the scene – at least none that he saw anyway. Returning to his room, he jumped back into bed. Nearly one hour later, a long bang woke him up.
Leaping to his feet, he stood trembling by the side of his bed. Slowly, he walked over to the window. Pulling the blinds back, he saw a bullet hole in the glass. He then studied the blinds and found the finger-sized hole in it. Looking over to the bathroom, he squinted at the wall. When he walked over, he saw a hole in the wall facing the trajectory of the window. He went over to the front door, opened it and looked out. Seeing no one standing around anywhere, he turned to go back in his room then noticed the fresh graffiti spray painted on his door. In bold white, grammar be damned lettering, it read, “YOUR DEAD!”
Realizing it was impossible to go back to sleep, he sat with his back to the door, folding his arm from the chill snaking in through the broken window. Yanking the blanket off the first bed, he covered himself and waited till morning broke.
A few hours later, after packing his things in his duffle bag, he went over to his job site. Speaking to Philippe, he returned his key and told him he was quitting because he didn’t feel safe in the area. Philippe tried to talk him out of it, but the young man couldn’t be swayed. His employer then took out $200 from his wallet and handed it to him, thanking him for his two days of service. Commoner admitted the experience was worthwhile, albeit short-lived, but added that if he changed his mind, he’d return. Philippe nodded then watched as Commoner took off, duffle on his back, into the cold wintry morning.
Taking a bus back to Seattle, he settled in his old haunts surrounding Chinatown. He made his own campsite near the woods behind a group of factories at the south end of the bustling neighborhood underneath an I-5 overpass. Making friends with some of the workers at the factory he camped behind, he became the lucky recipient of coffee and donuts throughout the winter. Luckily, the weather was mild throughout the whole season compared to previous years when snowfall and torrential rains all but brought the city to a screeching halt.
As a habit, Commoner liked to wash his clothes and blankets in a runoff near the factory then hang them on a nearby fence to dry. Though tedious, it was a necessary evil. His underwear would get so funky that they could walk by themselves. On two occasions, however, his blankets got pilfered. As they were hard to come by, he started hanging them up high in a tree. He created a makeshift ladder on the opposite side of the tree that made it unseen from the path that headed deeper into the woods. Now that spring was upon him, the time had come to wash his blankets once more.
Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, an incident was underway at a bank in Chinatown. Two assailants, both in black clothes and black masks, were holding up the local Cathay Bank with pistols. The first one was watching the door while the other was standing in front of one of the teller windows telling the worker to hurry up and fill his sack. The terrified customers watched as the robber by the door yanked new customers into the bank and ordered them to lie face down on the floor out of sight of pedestrian traffic.
Roughly two minutes later, when the teller had finished filling the second robber’s bag, both criminals dashed out of the bank. As they rounded a corner, police lights came on. Turning, both robbers ran up a hill as fast as they could. Seconds later, they reached an impasse. The first robber leaped over a fence and darted into the bushes like a frightened raccoon. The second man, having a hard time negotiating the fence, opted to leap onto a dumpster, grab hold of a fire escape and start climbing, making sure not to drop his cache.
When the police car pulled up to the impasse, the cop who was driving, Officer Nick Kelso, leaped onto the dumpster and started ascending the escape as fast as he could. The second officer, Jackie Vert, quickly scaled the fence and took off through the brushes after the first bandit.
As Kelso climbed the escape, he yelled for the robber to stop which he, of course, didn’t. Discovering the 3rd floor window to the escape ajar, the robber quickly opened it and climbed through, landing on his back in the hallway. Shooting down the hall as fast as he could, he looked back and saw Kelso entering through the window. Pulling out his gun, he fired a shot at the officer but missed. Clutching his sachet of cash tightly, he zipped down all the flights of stairs, pushed open the front door of the apartment building, carefully looked left and right, then darted off down the block. As he neared the corner another police car rolled up on him. He turned to flee, but the police drove in front of him. The officers leaped out with their guns drawn and yelled for the robber to put his gun down. The out of breath criminal, sensing imminent defeat, dropped his gun. The two officers immediately pounced and put him in cuffs.
Back in the south end, Officer Vert was still in pursuit of the other robber. The foot chase brought him to the area where the factories met the woods near the overpass. Commoner, meanwhile, was up in the tree hanging out his wet blankets to dry. A chill wind caused him to jerk, making the blanket sit unevenly on the branch. He saw the robber running up the trail and reached for the slipping blanket. As the man approached, all the blankets suddenly fell from the tree, covering him almost totally. Suddenly finding himself wrapped up in the linens, he twisted and fought to get them off. The few seconds he spent tangled up in the blankets brought his downfall, however, as Vert was already upon him with his gun drawn.
“Hold it right there!” the officer shouted.
The robber, staring at the thickly wooded area in the distance, decided to simply give up. Turning around calmly, he sighed as Vert clasped handcuffs on him. Commoner then descended the tree.
“Commoner!” Vert expelled. “How come you’re around here? I thought you went to Renton, man?”
“It didn’t work out.”
“That’s too bad. Thanks for your help, though,” Vert stated, “but you know you can’t stay here, right?”
“The people in this factory said it was okay,” he claimed. “They even bring me food.”
“Sorry, man. Not my rules. No camping anywhere within city limits.”
Commoner bowed his head. He felt as if his winning lottery ticket was just flushed down the drain.
“I’m gonna look the other way just this once,” Vert sympathized with him, “but try to move out by tomorrow. Find a shelter or something.”
“Okay.”
He watched as Vert walked away with his prisoner, tugging his left arm lest he try to sneak off. Commoner, picking up his blankets, stretched them over the nearby fence, dusting the dirt, twigs and leaves off they’d just acquired on account of the robber.
With Seattle often being seen as a “Little Big City,” it didn’t take long for Cathay Bank and TV news outlets to get a whiff of Commoner’s heroics. Within an hour, his campsite near the factories was visited by the Eyewitness News team, a representative of the bank, a police spokesman and a handful of onlookers. Barely looking into the camera, he told the reporter, Carrie-Anne Linville, that he didn’t want to be interviewed. She continued speaking about him anyway. The bank’s representative then stepped forward, thanked him for his efforts, and presented him with a hero’s reward in a sealed envelope. Stashing it in his pocket, he thanked everyone for visiting then waved goodbye and walked off with his ubiquitous duffle bag across his back.
Hopping on a bus, he rode to Fremont then got off and walked down Aurora Avenue where a cluster of motels stood. After speaking to every clerk, he settled on the cheapest one – the Thunderbird Motel. Yes, shady characters of all shapes, sizes and colors loitered around out front, but at $280/month, he would at least be able to afford it if even for just a few months.
Within days, a
fter some legwork up and down the main drags in Fremont, he got a job at Arturo’s, a pizza restaurant. Unlike his other pizza job in high school, he didn’t make food at the new place. His was to mainly serve meals, bus the tables, and maintain the cleanliness in and around the eatery. The pay was low, but with tips, he was able to get by.
Despite the occasional snags such as cheap or rude patrons, work went well. He was at least able to make money for things he enjoyed like movies and books. In June of that year, Seattle celebrated the 100th anniversary of the Great Seattle Fire which began in the central business district on June 6, 1889. With a couple of hours to spare, he joined a tour group in Pioneer Square which allowed visitors a glimpse of a world lying just below the surface of the city. Personally, his spirits felt lifted as if he’d surface from a cloud of despair.
Life at the Thunderbird, however, was a completely different matter. From his room, he could hear traffic going in and out of rooms. Sometimes he’d hear bottles breaking out in the back or see people engaging in fights. Looking closer, he even saw ladies jumping in and out of cars and trucks as they plied their trade. He complained to the motel’s manager for months but nothing was ever done. Along with the drug users and dealers he also saw roaches and rats in the hallway and in the stairwells. He spent some of his pizza fortune on roach and rat traps, laying them in all four corners of his small yellow-walled room.
The whole year went by and he made no friends at the motel, not that he really wanted to anyway. A few ladies did try to engage him in conversation but he politely rebuffed them as he preferred to spend time to himself. In any case, his peculiar habit of intermittently swatting nonexistent flies away from his ears probably kept them at bay. Here was a man, they thought, attractive in presence but unusual in habit. In general, the majority of denizens surfing the area left him alone. They were all busy waiting for their ship to come in anyway. Surprisingly, around holiday season, the motel’s hedonistic appearance lessened as people started disappearing one by one. Some were being carted off to jail while others started securing their own places to areas unknown. For a brief moment, the motel looked like it had been transfigured into a refuge for the downtrodden. That peace was interrupted, however, by several police visits throughout the winter.
In the spring of 1990, the owners of Arturo’s were going to close the restaurant for two weeks and go on vacation. Commoner was asked if he wanted to go with them on their sojourn to Mt. Baker National Forest. In the beginning, he’d said no, but because the trip would be close to his 23rd birthday, and given his history with camping, it seemed like an apt present to himself.
He set out with the owners and their twin six-year-old daughters to the sprawling wilderness area in early April. Some 100 miles to the northeast of Fremont, he relished the view along the way. Most of the land and forest seemed preserved as if caught in time. For miles, it appeared as if no man had ever set foot in the stately woods.
As they drove past Darrington Municipal Airport, Commoner asked to stop and view the airplanes gathered near the tarmac. While the family went into a nearby café to get something to drink, he studied the small airfield which sported only one runway. He gazed at the three single-engine aircraft on the ground and wondered what it would feel like flying in one of them. An hour later, after parking their car at a designated spot, they entered the forest. Each carrying their own backpack, they hiked approximately 1.5 miles to their campsite. The two girls bellyached and cried a lot so they had to be piggybacked at times by their father and mother while Commoner toted their knapsacks as well as his.
The first two days at the site were well spent. Camping between the trail and a small stream, they told stories to each other. The restaurant owner, Arturo Paisiello, talked about how hard it was maintaining a business. His wife, Felicidad, related the story of how her Mexican family despised the idea of her marrying a gringo. She stated however that, after the twins were born, her family had no choice but to accept her choice. Commoner admitted he remembered less and less of his past as the months and years went by. He did mention he was in a boys' home but couldn’t remember what it was called or where it was located.
On the third day, Commoner thought he’d like to do a little exploring. Arturo wanted to come along but the twins protested. Commoner told him that, should he change his mind, he’ll simply be hiking east and to just head in that direction.
The young man set off eastward stopping every so often to admire the new trees, plants and birds crossing his path. Making his way through the thickly wooded area, he walked for nearly two miles till he heard a stream in the distance. Stepping over fallen branches and moss-covered rocks, he saw a clear stream glistening from the morning sun. Kneeling by it, he scooped up some of the cold water and sipped it. As he relished the taste, he faintly heard the sound of a man’s voice screaming in the distance. Looking around he saw nothing but acres and acres of woodland. Leaving the stream, he walked curiously towards the sound. As he came closer, he could hear the man yelling again. He then heard a faint slapping sound that was followed by a child’s scream. Then, as he peered through the woods, he finally saw a small camouflaged tent in a clearing.
As he walked towards it, the front flap opened. Darting behind a tree, he saw a young boy of about five or six amble out of the tent carrying a plastic pail. Still in hiding, he watched as the boy, drying the tears from his cheek, approached the stream and dipped out a bucket of the clear refreshing water. As the boy turned to walk back, Commoner appeared before him.
The little boy became startled.
“Don’t be scared,” Commoner told him. “Was that you crying?”
The boy nodded, fixing his eyes on the detritus lining the floor of the forest.
“Are you hurt?” he asked the boy.
Again, the youngster nodded.
Commoner softened his tone a little more. “Who’s in the tent?”
“That’s my father,” the boy answered.
“What’s your name?”
“Jeremy,” the youth answered without looking up.
“Who else is with you, Jeremy?”
“Just us,” the child answered. “He took me from my home.”
“What do you mean?” Commoner asked. “He doesn’t live with you?”
“No.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“He hurt her.”
“Come on,” the stranger said. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Laying the bucket aside, the two began walking away. Just then the boy’s father, drunk from early morning rye, exited the tent.
“Jeremy!” the man shouted. “What’s keeping you so long?!”
“Shh!” Commoner whispered to the kid as they tiptoed away.
“Hey! You!” the man shouted. “Come back here!”
“Let’s hurry!” Commoner whispered to Jeremy.
Picking up their heels, they started hurrying as fast as they could. The flabbergasted man returned to the tent, emerged seconds later with a rifle and immediately pursued the two.
As there wasn’t a permanent trail in sight, Commoner couldn’t remember his way back to the camp. He wasn’t even sure if he was headed west. The only thing he was sure of was to keep his and the little boy’s legs in motion as much as possible. As they wound down through a gaggle of pines, a shot rang out some 100 yards or so behind them.
“We’d better not stop!” Commoner warned the boy as they continued on.
Crossing another stream, this one several feet wider than the first, they climbed over a fallen moss-laden tree in their path. Jeremy, too short to traverse it by himself, had to be assisted over by Commoner. A shot rang out again. Looking up, Commoner saw Jeremy’s father. Staggering slightly, he was nevertheless able to shorten the distance between them.
“Hurry!” Commoner told the kid as they darted through the evergreen area.
Finally seeing an unpaved trail, they started racing down it as quickly as possible. The boy lost his footing and fell. As he cri
ed, Commoner picked him up and carried him piggyback down the trail. Seconds later, the rifled man also appeared on the trail.
“Come back with my son!” he yelled.
Commoner, now nearly just 100 feet or so away, jogged down the trail as fast as he could. As the man closed the gap from behind, a park ranger appeared in front of Commoner.
“Hey!” the ranger yelled sticking out his hand.
Commoner immediately stopped running.
“We’re being chased!” he told the lawman.
“By whom?” the ranger asked.
“This boy’s father,” he answered.
As Commoner stooped to let the boy off his aching back, another shot rang out from the rear. The bullet, just missing him, careened off a nearby tree. The ranger whipped out his gun and ran towards the rifleman.
“Put down your weapon!” he yelled, pointing his service pistol at him.
The rifleman tried to fire off another shot, but when he found he was out of bullets, threw his gun to the ground and pulled a serrated knife out of his thigh holster.
“Come and get me!” he yelled at the ranger.
“I’m giving you till the count of three to drop your weapon!” the ranger yelled.
Jeremy’s father, far from interested in a counting lesson, darted down the hill towards the ranger. The ranger fired but his gun jammed. The charging man, seeing an opportunity, quickened his step; unfortunately, he lost his balance and slipped headfirst into the gravel. Rolling head over heels, he slid into a ditch. The ranger ran over to him, brought his hands behind his back, slapped a pair of handcuffs on and stood him up.
“Well, well,” the ranger nodded looking at him, “Justin Mallory. Boy, we’ve been combing the wrong forest for days.”
“You got lucky,” the rifleman boasted.
“Come on,” the ranger commanded him tugging his arm. “Let’s go.”
Later in the local ranger station, Commoner, Jeremy, Arturo and his family were met by Jeremy’s mother, other rangers, the local police and members of the media. Jeremy’s mother hugged Commoner for saving her son from his kidnapping father. All of the activity was carried by the evening news where, once again, Commoner was interviewed against his wishes. He was admonished by the park rangers for risking his life when he should have simply notified them, but Commoner believed the boy was in danger and to delay would’ve been a disaster.
Days later, he received a police reward of $2000 for the location and apprehension of the felon. With the money in tow, he spoke to a few apartment managers in the Fremont/Wallingford area. The cheapest units, he found, cost around $550/month, and these were for studios no larger than a walk-in closet. The managers suggested he move down to the South Seattle area where a one bedroom would only set him back about $400/month. Shunning the idea, he remained in the Thunderbird. Even though they had raised the rent at the beginning of the year, $350/month was still within his range of availability.
At the beginning of summer, Arturo’s closed its doors after their rent was raised too high due to new building codes and regulations. The owners decided to move out of state leaving their employees to search for work elsewhere. Almost immediately, Commoner started hitting the bricks in his part of town. When nothing proved fruitful, he began looking in places further away like Northgate, Shoreline and Capitol Hill. He spent all of fall and winter jobless, paying for his rent at the motel with his meager savings. By spring of the following year, he was back out on the street with nothing but the clothes on his back and his ubiquitous duffle bag.
One morning he was at a local food pantry trying to pick up a few donuts and other expired supermarket donations. Behind him in line was another gentleman about his age.
“Excuse me,” the stranger asked him, “you were in the army, right?” Commoner looked back at him.
“No,” he answered meekly.
The stranger pointed to the duffle bag.
“That’s military issue,” he stated.
He turned around and showed Commoner the camouflaged knapsack attached to his own back.
“I should know,” he added. “Are you from this area?”
“Yes.”
The stranger took a deep breath and bobbed his head as if listening to inaudible music.
“They call me Filter,” the stranger informed him, “because when I smoke cigarettes I always remove them.”
He illustrated by breaking an imaginary filter off an imaginary cigarette. Waiting for some kind of response from Commoner, he tapped his thighs to the inaudible music.
“What’s your name, quiet stranger?” he asked.
“Commoner.”
“Commoner?”
Filter laughed but the ex-airman’s face showed he failed to see what was so funny.
“Sorry,” Filter apologized. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that you don’t hear that name every day.”
Commoner nodded then walked forward as the line progressed. Minutes later, after picking out cereals, pastries, fruit and other foodstuffs, he exited the facility and started walking down the street. Eating an apple, he glanced at the suburban homes around him. Sighing, he shook his head and continued walking.
“Hold up!” someone called from behind.
Turning around, he saw Filter stepping quickly up the block. Seconds later, the two were face to face.
“Hey Commoner,” Filter began, “I know where you can get lots of food and maybe even some cash to tide you over.”
Commoner made a sudden “swat the flies by his ears” motion which startled Filter.
“Are you alright?” the curious stranger asked.
“Yes,” Commoner replied. “What food and cash are you talking about?”
“You ever heard of Hat Island?” Commoner shook his head.
“It’s a tiny island up near Everett. I’ve been there a few times. There’s a rich guy up there with a house I use to stay at. He said he was a judge but he was really a drug dealer.”
“What did you do up there?” Commoner asked.
“Well,” Filter answered, “that’s not important, but it’s prime real estate, and real secluded, too. We could be in and out in thirty minutes, tops.”
“Rob the judge?”
“He’s not a judge!” Filter corrected him. “Okay, you want the truth? He’s sitting on a goldmine and he’s corrupt to the bone. People like him can’t go to the police because he’s scared of what they’ll find. Real easy pickings.”
“I don’t know,” Commoner stated. “Sounds risky.”
“I’d do it myself but you need two to watch each other’s backs from the house to the marina.”
“How do you get to the island?”
“We launch from a marina in Everett. I know the owner of this 17-foot bow rider. He lets me use it all the time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Listen, Commoner,” Filter explained, toning down his voice a few notches, “I may not have achieved much, but I’m a good judge of character. You look like the adventurous type. Am I right?”
Commoner nodded.
“See?” Filter added. “I knew it. And judging from the size of your duffle bag you’re homeless, right?”
Again, Commoner nodded.
“Then look at this like your ship just came in. It’ll be real easy. In and out. No questions asked.”
“How do we get to Everett?”
“I have a car,” Filter answered. “It’s not in the best of shape, but it’ll do.”
“What about the house?” Commoner asked. “You have a key?”
“On Hat Island?” Filter chuckled. “It’s not like they see crime every day. He keeps the back patio-door open.”
“Suppose he’s home? Suppose people see us?”
“Boy,” Filter stated, “you worry more than a hypochondriac granny.”
He tapped Commoner’s arm. “Come on,” he added. “Let’s get started.”
“Today?”
&n
bsp; “We’ll prepare now and leave when it gets dark. I have some drinks at my spot. Want some?”
Commoner nodded.
“You won’t be sorry,” Filter promised as they commenced walking down the street.
Around 7pm, after spending a few hours drinking and watching TV at Filter’s studio apartment, they drove up to Everett. Commoner slept along the way. By the time they arrived at the Marina, it was nearly dark. Unmooring their white 17-footer, they quietly set sail west toward Hat Island. Pulling up the southwestern edge of the sparsely populated isle where there was no marina, they moored the boat on the beach next to a heavily wooded area.
“It’s dark out here,” Commoner noticed as they stood on the beach. “I can’t see a thing.”
Filter reached into a compartment on the boat, brought out two flashlights and handed one to his new friend.
“These should work,” he reckoned.
After turning them on, Filter motioned for Commoner to follow him. Walking a few feet northward, Filter shined his light at a house up on a hill about 50 feet away.
“There it is,” he stated. “The manor.”
Commoner, still feeling a bit nervous, hesitated. The house, he noticed, had no lights on and there was nary a car in the driveway.
“Don’t be scared,” Filter whispered. “Nobody’s home.”
Sneaking up to the house, they tried opening the front door. When they discovered it was locked, they tiptoed around to the back. As predicted, the glass door to the patio was unlocked. Quietly, they slid it open and entered.
Filter threw on the light to the judge’s modest two-story home. Everything inside looked new, from the sparkling marble counter tops in the kitchen, to the rustic-flavored furnishings in the living room. Commoner marveled at the monstrous size of the fireplace.
“You can park a car in there!” he whispered.
“I told you this guy was loaded,” Filter beamed. “I gotta go upstairs.”
“What’s there?” Commoner asked.
“He keeps everything in a safe in his bedroom,” he answered. “I know the combination. You stay down here and keep an eye out for lights.”
Filter went upstairs while Commoner remained in the living room. Looking out the front door, he saw nothing. Then, eyeing the rows of books stacked on shelves in the living room, he walked over to peruse a few. The judge, he noticed, had a keen taste for nature as he kept several tomes on the subject. He skimmed through the Audubon Society’s Field Guide to Southeastern States followed by a jaunt through a National Geographic Animal Encyclopedia. As he flipped past page after page of beautiful full-color photographs, he started reminiscing about his early years in the boys’ home. It was a memory he didn’t have in ages, rare now that those times would return as if triggered by the books.
“Let’s go,” Filter told him as he started descending the stairs.
Commoner quickly returned the book to the shelf and turned to see his new partner carrying a shoebox in both hands. Filter was grinning from ear to ear.
“The whole kit and caboodle!” he alleged.
As Commoner walked towards him, two officers from the City of Everett’s Marine Unit came charging in from the kitchen area right into the living room with their guns drawn.
“Fuck!” Filter yelled sensing imminent defeat.
The two home intruders were remanded to King County Jail. Commoner, learning a month later from his public defender that he was being released because of a plea deal, asked if Filter was also being let go. He learned that his friend wasn’t because of his priors and also because the boat they used was never loaned but stolen. As it turned out, because of their burglary, they helped expose Judge A. J. Witherspoon who was responsible for flooding parts of Everett with high quality marijuana. Commoner’s sentence for criminal trespass was shortened and he was not charged for stealing the boat. Witherspoon, on the advice of his lawyers, declined to press charges. In lieu of a prison term, he made sizable donations to the Boys & Girls Club and other charitable institutions, immediately retired from the bench and accepted a five-year probationary period. As a result, he promised to spend the rest of his life away from public service. Upon Commoner’s release from KCJ, he obtained a referral to a shelter in downtown Seattle.
He spent several months at the community facility, but continual confrontation by some of the more thuggish residents caused him to pack his duffle bag and leave. Even though winter was well underway, he chose to stay outside just to avoid any undue hardship from the drug abusing denizens who were, in a sense, running the place.
Accustomed to the various greenbelts in the area, he first stayed in a makeshift camp in Queen Anne then relocated weeks later to North Seattle after the Queen Anne camp was disbanded by the police. Returning to a spot close to his old haunt off Aurora, he hunkered down as best as he could. The traffic still roared in the distance. The nettles were just as sharp as they’ve ever been and the foliage was as thick and concealing as before.