Okinawa
Part One
September-October 1965
A Bad Decision Gets Worse
When I broke the news to Sharon about my receiving orders to go to Okinawa unaccompanied, she barely batted an eye. Like me, she was so accustomed to bad news that when it arrived she accepted it like someone would accept the return of an old and annoying, but very familiar recurring ache.
Even after I told her that after serving six months she and the boys would probably be able to join me after being assigned to military housing, her demeanor remained sullen and brooding.
“Where’s the housing going to be? On the base?” She asked, looking over my orders.
“I don’t know, but I doubt that it would be on the base. The transportation officer told me that unless you’re an officer or a senior NCO (non-commissioned-officer), housing would probably be located off-base. Somewhere in the surrounding village, or town, or whatever.”
“Oh great. What language do they speak over there, anyway?”
“You know, I don’t really know…maybe Japanese?”
“Wonderful.” She said sarcastically, handing me back my stack of orders. “You expect the boys to grow up around a bunch of foreigners who don’t even speak English?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it would be a good experience for them to get to know people from another culture.” She stared at me hatefully.
“Just like you to make things sound so cheery. Do what you want, I don’t care.” And she walked away from me to go into the kitchen.
I wasn’t in the mood to argue or to try to convince her to look at this in a positive light. Ever since our near fatal encounter our relationship had understandably reached a new low and nothing I did could change that now.
Violent arguments between us had ensued a few days following that incident, after which we had both retreated to our respective corners to lick our wounds, renew our resentments, and plan new verbal attacks on each other. Soon we both tired of exchanging the same old accusations and issuing the same old threats so we finally both just gave up.
It had been weeks since we’d effectively communicated with each other—and any affection that we’d once felt for each other was now just a wistful memory. We went through our daily rituals like zombies, each of us playing the role of victim, and whenever the occasion arose heaping loads of culpability on each other.
Shortly after the incident at the gas station I called Billy and told him what I’d seen. I issued an ultimatum—insisting that if he didn’t fire Randall I would quit. He was sympathetic, but in the end refused to fire Randall. His reasoning was that regardless of what he’d done with my wife, it was my problem; and anyway, Randall’s job performance was still satisfactory. I told him to prepare my final paycheck as I would not be returning.
Later that day I spoke to John and told him I would not be playing with the band any longer. He said that without me they would have to break up because I was his lead vocalist and there was no way he could find a replacement in time for our future booked gigs. I apologized but insisted that my decision was final and used my pending reassignment as the reason. The truth was that although we desperately needed the money I could no longer stand working at the gas station and I had suddenly lost all desire to play my guitar and sing music.
Further, I was still hugely resentful of Sharon’s behavior with Randall, and it felt as if a dagger was being driven through my heart every time my memory replayed the scene that I and my friends had witnessed that night at the gas station. What hurt the most was not what she did–I deserved that; it was that she chose to take my sons along when she did it. I felt that at least Ricky was old enough to understand what was going on.
At work at the Air Force detachment, I pretty much stopped speaking to anyone unless it was mission related. Every time I caught one of my coworkers eyeing me surreptitiously while taking a break, the shame and embarrassment rose in me, and unless I was working the radar I would wordlessly just get up and leave.
Of course, in Sharon’s eyes it was me and my bad habits, one of which was not staying home and behaving like a faithful husband, as the prime cause that had forced her to seek comfort and understanding in the arms of another man.
And, of course, she was right.
I was racked with guilt, anger, and regret, and just couldn’t figure out what I could do to right our sinking ship.
***
So if there weren’t already enough problems affecting our relationship, one bright sunlit morning, a new one arose—this one regarding the legal ownership of our Dodge Dart.
When I’d bought the car from Lou Werner he’d promised that he’d mail me the registration and a copy of the title as soon as the loan went through at the bank. He’d suggested that I transfer my Texas plates from the Chevy that we’d traded in for the Dart, and when they expired I’d have the Kansas paperwork, so all I would have to do was to register the car and get my Kansas plates.
Well, I did get the payment book from the Empire State Bank in Kansas City in about a week, but the rest of the paperwork never arrived. I tried to contact Lou several times by phone but all my calls had gone unanswered.
Changing my tactics, I started making repeated calls to the bank, asking and leaving messages for the Auto Loan officer whose name was on the coupon book. They also went unanswered and unreturned. In time, and with my hectic lifestyle, I gave up and soon put the whole issue out of my mind. Besides, I recall thinking, my Texas plates were still valid so unless I wanted to sell the car I wouldn’t need to have proof of registration.
But now, with my impending departure from the states to a foreign destination, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t do anything with the car without the proper paperwork. Sharon had stated that she wanted to go back to Nevada to live close to her mother and sisters during my deployment, and if she took the car there my Texas plates would expire within months. That would leave her with an unregistered and non-titled car, with no legal way to get either.
In a near panic I put a renewed effort into contacting Mr. Werner and/or the bank loan officer but had no luck with either. Almost out of options, I suggested to Sharon that we’d just have to show up at the bank in person without an appointment and confront the loan officer, demanding that he produce and deliver the required paperwork.
After discussing our limited options, one of the few times we actually communicated, I told Sharon that we would just have to take a trip into Kansas City and pay a visit to the bank. So, on a Wednesday I took the day off work, and after leaving the boys with Hilda, we set out for the drive to the Empire State Bank of Kansas City. On the drive up, we were absentmindedly listening to a local station on our car radio when the music was interrupted by a news bulletin. The name, “Lou Werner” immediately caught our attention.
We listened with rapt interest as the announcer stated that a ‘Mr. Lou Werner, from Kearney, Missouri, had just been arrested by the FBI at his home and charged with multiple federal counts of interstate motor vehicle fraud and embezzlement of bank funds’. Along with Lou and other bank employees, the Executive Vice President, Ben Leimgruber, was also under suspicion for conspiracy to defraud, embezzlement, money laundering, and racketeering. Some other names were also mentioned, but by that time we were both almost in shock due to what we were hearing.
The announcer breathlessly declared that the bank was presently being raided and would be closed until further notice, pending a federal investigation. Further, he said, the FBI had suggested that anyone having any auto loan dealings with this bank should immediately retain legal counsel to determine the legality of the ownership of any vehicle purchased or financed through promissory notes through this bank. The announcer then resumed the music program, but not before assuring his listeners that any further updates would be made as soon as they were received.
Sharon and I looked at each other with genuine surprise.
“You think that means us?” she asked innocently.
“I would say that it means us for sure,” I responded, now looking for the nearest freeway exit to reverse our route.
“Shit!” Sharon spit out. “If we can’t get a title or a registration for the car, what are we going to do? We can’t drive this thing to Nevada without some type of legal ownership—that’s for sure.”
“Let me think about it. Although we don’t have the money, I’ll have to see about hiring a lawyer, I guess.”
“How’re we gonna do that? Of course, we don’t have any money, and we sure as hell don’t know any lawyers.”
Since we were already almost into the city, I suggested that we continue towards the bank just to see what was going on.
As we turned the corner where the bank was situated, we noticed no real activity outside. We found a parking space on the curb and decided to walk to the bank to see if we could still talk to the loan officer. When we approached and pulled on the large front doors, we discovered that they were locked. Peering through the glass we noticed a lot of activity inside the bank, but none of the people milling around seemed to be customers. Most of them were male, dressed in dark suits and white shirts.
Walking back to our car I happened to notice a small office at the end of the block with a sign that announced, “Law Office”. Looking at each other we shrugged and silently decided to go on in.
The office was small, wood paneled, and there was no receptionist at the empty front desk. Three of the four wooden chairs were lined up against one wall, but our interest was centered on a closed frosted glass door at the back of the office with black lettering that said “Private”.
Before we had a chance to decide whether one of us should venture forth and knock on the door, it opened, and a small mustachioed man wearing a brown vest and tie came walking out.
“Hi!” He said cheerfully. “How can I help you?”
“Well…” I stuttered, “I don’t know if you can, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’ll be OK.”
He eyed us as he approached and I noticed that he was walking with a very perceptible limp. It seemed that his right leg was significantly shorter than his left.
“Well, that depends on the question, doesn’t it?”
“Yes sir, I guess it does.”
“OK, ask away.”
“Well,” I started out, and pulled the bank’s coupon book from my back pocket. “We bought this car…”
“Oh God!” he said, suddenly reaching out and snatching the book out of my hands. “Don’t tell me—you got a loan from that bank.” He pointed in the direction of the Empire State Bank, “On a car, right?”
“Yes sir, we did.”
He took the coupon book from me and leafed through it. “Is this all you got?”
“Yes sir.”
“No other paperwork, forms, things like that?”
“No sir. I did sign some forms but I didn’t get copies because we were told they’d be mailed to us. They never were.”
“Figures. OK, come on in and tell me the whole story.” He turned and limped back to the office from where he’d emerged. “Tim Fogerty’s the name! Attorney at law!” He stopped just as he crossed the door’s threshold. “And you are…” He squinted at the coupon book. “Frank DeLeón! Right?”
“Yes sir.” Sharon, following close behind, almost ran into me as I came to a sudden halt. Fogarty stretched his hand out and shook mine enthusiastically.
“Come on in and entertain me!” He turned and limped back behind a large wooden desk, strewn with papers all over its surface. “You and that pretty lady pull up a couple of chairs.”
We sat down and waited patiently as he leafed through the coupon book, squinting through a pair of rimless spectacles that he’d had resting on his head.
“It doesn’t say here anything about a car. It just says you owe the bank sixty-dollars a month for twenty months. Is that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“So, no other paperwork, right?”
“No sir. Like I said before, I signed some papers when I bought the car but never got copies.”
“Hmm. Typical. OK, before we go any further I will require a retainer of one-hundred dollars if you want me to represent you! You got that much?”
“Well…no sir. Not on me. But I can write you a check. That is…if you don’t cash it until next Monday. That’s when I get paid.”
He looked up from the book and pushed his glasses down to the end of his nose. Looking over the lenses, he said, “You don’t have the money now?”
“No sir, sorry.”
“OK, tell you what. It’ll take me about that long to figure out what’s going on here, so I’ll trust you. Start writing the check. I got a pen here somewhere.” He pushed papers back and forth on his messy desk until he found a fat black fountain pen. “Ah, here it is.”
While I was writing out the check, he got up and pulled a large volume from an oak bookshelf on the back wall. Leafing through the onion-skin-like pages he pushed the glasses back up his nose. Finding what he was looking for, he slipped a paper marker on the page, closed the book and wrinkled his brow.
“What kind of car is it?” He mumbled.
“Uh, it’s a 1962 Dodge Dart.”
“Blue? Big engine? Fat tires?”
“Yes sir.”
“Humph, same old gig. Son, he sold you an old police car. That’s what he did.” He peered up over his glasses. “Didn’t he?”
“Yes sir, he did. We found that out later.”
“Yup. Who was it? A guy named Eddie? Eddie Robbins?”
“No sir, Lou. Lou Werner, out of Kearney, Missouri.”
“Ha! That’s what he told you his name was! Dollar to a donut it was Eddie Robbins.”
“Oh.”
“Well, never you mind for now. Let me look at this and do a little investigating, and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, and for now, I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork that’ll assign me as your attorney. And I’ll be sure to give you copies before you leave.”
After filling out several forms he stood up and ushered us out of the small office. “It shouldn’t take me too long to see what you’ve gotten yourself into, and how I can get you out of it. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Thank you very much, sir. We really appreciate it!”
“Hell boy, don’t thank me now. I don’t even know if your check is good. And if it ain’t I may have to sue you to get my hundred dollars, eh?” He slapped me on the back. I didn’t think that was funny.
“Oh no! I’ll make sure the money’s in the bank on Monday. Honest.”
“We’ll see. Now, here—take my card so you’ll know who to say’s representing you if that should ever come up. And, lastly, if anyone from the bank contacts you and starts asking questions, the first thing I want you to do is get my card and give them my name and phone number. Do not…and I repeat…do not answer any questions or volunteer any information. From here on out I’ll do all the talking for you. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“And that includes the FBI. Of course, if they contact you I want you to call me ASAP! You got that?”
“Yes sir.” That frightened me, and I could tell Sharon was also shocked. At the mention of the FBI she reached out and grabbed my hand. When I squeezed her hand gently she just as quickly pulled it back.
OK, now off with you. I got me some work to do.”
He escorted us out the door, and we walked back out into the blazing sunshine.
***
The call came on Friday while I was at work. I walked into the break room and picked up the receiver laying on the table next to the phone’s base.
“Hello?”
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“This is Fogarty…your attorney!”
“Yes sir!” My heart jumped and skipped a couple of beats.
“OK, so before I start, are you somewhere private? I don’t want this call being overheard.
“Yes sir, it’s OK. I’m in a break room but there’s no one here.”
“OK then, here’s part of what I found. Do you own land in Pawhuska, Oklahoma?”
“Paw…what?”
“Pawhuska, Oklahoma!”
“No sir!”
“Humph, I didn’t think so.”
“Excuse me sir, but what does that have to do with my car?”
“Everything son, it has to do with just about everything!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, it’s pretty complicated and I can’t go over this completely on the phone. Can you come into the office this afternoon?”
“Sure! Does my wife need to be there also?”
“No son. Just you. This is all about you. See you…say…around four?”
“Uh, sure. I’ll be there.”
I called Sharon to tell her what the attorney had said. She didn’t seem too impressed.
“I should be home around five or six. I hope this turns out to be good news.” I told her.
“Whatever…” was her response, and she hung up.
***
“Here’s what the scam was.” Fogarty said, pulling a chair close to mine and throwing a stack of papers on his already messy desk. “This guy Eddie, or Lou…borrowed twelve-hundred dollars in your name from the Empire State Bank, and leveraged the loan against some real property that you allegedly own, or owned, in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Then he pocketed the money and pretty much just gave you that car.”
“What? OK, so that’s the money that was financed for the car. So, then when I pay back the loan in full, the car will be legally mine?”
“Um, not so fast. He gave you a 1962 Dodge Dart that he bought for two-hundred and fifty dollars from the Kansas State Police at auction. Only problem is, that car had a salvage title that expired thirty days after he bought it. He was supposed to part out that car…that is tear the car down and sell it for parts. Once it was all parted out, it would no longer exist. So, the car you’re driving now does not exist on any tax rolls, or registration lists. It’s a ghost.”
“What?”
“Yeah, most likely after he bought it he just had a body shop do some cosmetic work on the car for maybe a couple of hundred dollars—you know taking off the red light, the antenna…stuff like that, then spruced it up for sale and tried to get rid of it before the thirty days was up.”
“Oh yeah. That’s what the service guy told us.”
“Service guy? Look, tell me—have you had any trouble with the car? Mechanical trouble?”
“Well, yes. Shortly after we bought the car the transmission blew up and I had to get it replaced for six hundred dollars. That’s how I found out it was an ex-police car. The guy who replaced the transmission told me so.”
“Well, there you go. Sold you a real bill of goods, he did. Did that Lou guy offer to make good on the repairs?
“No sir. I could never reach him again by phone, and I didn’t want to have to drive all the way to Kearney and find that he was not home. So, we just kind of absorbed the expense.”
“You had six hundred dollars to blow on a car that you’d just financed for twelve hundred? Excuse me son, but that don’t make any sense.”
“Well, I’d just reenlisted in the Air Force a week before the car broke down, and when the car broke down, I had to spend all my reenlistment money on the transmission.”
“My God! That’s sad. Anyway look, here’s the rest of the story. He and his buddies at the bank cooked the books to show that the twelve-hundred-dollar loan was written up as a chattel mortgage, securing the loan, the twelve hundred, with that same property in Oklahoma.
“So now the bank has paid out the money as a personal loan secured by a chattel mortgage in your name, on the property that you don’t own in Oklahoma. And that money was immediately pocketed by Billy, or Lou. Since there was no mention of a car in any of the paperwork, and the loan was written up as a chattel mortgage that you signed off on, you are out a car, and twelve-hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“Oh, and the best part is this: The payments you’re making every month to pay off the loan are going directly into an account co-owned by Lou, or Billy, or whatever he’s calling himself now, and the loan officer at the bank. On the bank’s books, the loan is probably delinquent and a lien will be issued, if it hasn’t already, against the property in Oklahoma that you don’t own.”
“So, when I bought the car a loan was made in my name based on property that I supposedly owned—and that money was split by Lou and the bank guy?”
“Right! That’s the first part of the scam.”
“OK, so now when I pay my monthly sixty bucks, that payment is going to the same two guys?”
“Exactly! You were sold an almost worthless car, with no title or registration for twelve hundred dollars, which was pocketed—and now you’re paying another twelve hundred dollars to the same two guys for the car. Bottom line is that they made twenty-four hundred dollars on a car that they bought for a couple of hundred dollars at a police auction. And so, the best part, or worst part, depending on your take—is that the loan at the bank is not being paid off by anyone. But because the loan is so small they’re counting on getting all the money from you before the bank notices.
“So I think what’s probably going on is that they’re putting your sixty-dollar payments into an escrow account at the bank—that way if the scam is noticed before you pay off the loan, they can produce the money if asked. Chances are they were betting that no one would notice until you paid your last payment. Then, they would’ve absconded with the money and say you never made any payments.”
“What happens when the bank finds out no one is paying back the twelve hundred dollars?”
“Well, the bank will send you a letter demanding you pay back the loan or they’ll place a lien on your property in Oklahoma. By the time the bank figures out that you don’t have any property in Oklahoma, they’ll file papers on you, demanding you pay back the loan plus penalties and interest. If you don’t, then then they’ll threaten a lawsuit or even jail for defrauding them. One of those papers you signed probably had you verifying that you were putting that property up as collateral.”
“Oh God. So, I guess the best thing for me to do is to stop paying the monthly payment and come clean with the bank. But then, what do I do with the car?”
“Whoa! Not so fast! You, I’m afraid are not off the hook. Because the original loan of twelve hundred dollars was taken from the bank—and because you signed a chattel mortgage in the amount of twelve hundred dollars with the promise to make twenty payments of sixty dollars—you are still required to make payments—regardless! That’s the only thing that may save you in the long run—proving you’ve made goodwill payments all the while and have not tried to defraud anyone.”
“But…the payments I’m making are for the car! And the bank’s not getting the money! So, if I don’t own the car, and the money is not going to the bank, and I can’t get the car titled or registered, then why should I continue to make payments?”
“Unfortunately, the bank won’t care about any of that. See, they are out twelve hundred dollars—taken from them under fraudulent conditions. Now, the guys responsible are probably going to go to jail…or their case will drag on for years in the courts…and the bank will not wait that long for their money. The easy fix for the bank is to turn to you and have you continue to make payments on this chattel mortgage. You have about six or seven hundred dollars left on the note, right?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“So, at least the bank will think that they will recover that much of the original twelve-hundred-dollar loss. They won’t care that you have a car that has no title and ain’t worth spit. That’s not their problem.”
I sat there staring at the stack of papers without really seeing them. I was crushed and didn’t know what to say.
Finally, Mr. Fogarty reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to tell you something, but if ever asked I will deny that this conversation ever took place. Understand?”
“I…I think so.”
He pushed his spectacles up onto his head and pulled his chair even closer to mine. “If this were me…that is, if I were in your situation…this is what I would do. First, stop making any more payments. It’s going to take the bank months, if not years, before they get to the bottom of this. By the time they figure out the chattel mortgage thing and tie it to you, you should be long gone. You’re in the service so I’m sure you’ll be reassigned somewhere in the next year or so.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m being transferred to Okinawa in October.”
“Perfect! You won’t even be in the U.S. How long you gonna be gone?”
“Probably a couple of years…maybe three.”
“Well, there you go! That’s your out. OK, the second thing I would do is drive that car somewhere secluded, and leave it. Take all your possessions out of it and walk away. Whenever it’s found the police will run the VIN, but they’ll find nothing—because there’s no title. That will also take a long time for anyone to figure out, and by the time they do you’ll be out of the country.”
“But what if they find me and file some kind of charges for me to face when I come back to the U.S.?”
“All that takes money, son. And a lot of time and effort. For six hundred dollars, the bank will likely just drop the matter in the end. Besides, they’ll have the car, once they figure out that they do. Besides, they’ll have bigger fish to fry, believe me.”
I walked out of Mr. Fogarty’s office even more confused and more depressed than ever. So now I was out another hundred dollars that I couldn’t afford to lose; the car I was driving didn’t belong to me even though I’d been making payments on it faithfully; and, now I would end up with no car for my wife to use when I left for Okinawa. On the drive home, I thought to myself, ‘If I’d just kept the Chevy none of this would be happening.’
***
I was depressed and confused and truly embarrassed. Sitting in the car I decided that what I didn’t want to do was to go home and face Sharon. So I didn’t go home, but I should have. Instead I made a rash and most unfortunate decision that had to rank as one of the worst decisions of my life.
I headed for the Anchor Inn.
As soon as I walked in Butch must’ve seen that I was not in much of a mood. He waved me over to a corner of the bar and poured me a scotch and water.
“What’s up kid? Feeling OK?”
“Not really…”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Got it. As soon as you’re ready I’ll pour you another one. You look like you really need it, so it’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
After having three or four drinks in quick succession, instead of feeling better, my mood darkened even more. One minute I was angry, the next I was full of sorrow. Thinking that the more I drank, the better I would feel was not working out for me.
After pouring me yet another scotch Butch pulled up a stool and put his arm around me.
“OK son, listen. I know it’s none of my business, but I heard about what went on with your wife and that guy at the station, and I can only imagine how you feel. That had to be a rough deal for you.”
“It’s not just that Butch. There’s a lot of shit happening that really has me down right now, and I just can’t figure a way out of it.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I know that you’re also being transferred and having to move your family to Nevada, and I know that’s really weighing down your mind. But look son, this isn’t the end of the world. You’ll pop back up again. Shit, look at me: three fucking ex-wives, a stint in the Navy brig, and see where I landed. It could be a lot worse.”
That didn’t make me feel any better.
“OK, look on the bright side: you won’t be stuck out in the middle of the fucking prairie anymore. You’ll have a whole new country to explore and a lot of those geisha girls to chase while you’re there!”
“Butch, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but what I need right now is some quiet and more scotch.”
“OK, coming up. Sorry, just trying to cheer you up.” And he heaved his huge frame off the stool heading for the other side of the bar.
Later, a few more of my friends wandered into the bar and headed over to greet me. That was not what I needed, nor was it what I wanted. I asked Butch what I owed him and he just waved his hand dismissively. I walked back into the cool Kansas evening, shading my eyes against the quickly sinking autumn sun and got back into my car.
I sat there for a while wondering what I should do next. But what I really wanted to do was to go home and hold my wife tightly, tell her how much I loved her, and more than anything else, beg for her forgiveness. I wanted to assure her that as hurt as we both were, our love would help us get through this very rough patch, and even though I was leaving, I was going to do everything in my power to bring her and the boys to Okinawa. But deep in my heart I knew that all this was way too late—and that thought made me sadder still.
Firing up the engine, I turned the car towards I-35 north and headed for Kansas City.
After parking the car, I made the rounds—visiting the clubs where my friends, Joy and I had spent a lot of time and money. Instead of feeling better listening to some of my favorite musicians and seeing the people there laughing, dancing, and having a good time, I descended into a much deeper and darker place.
Sometime in the late evening, or very early morning, I found myself back in the car, racing south on the freeway heading back to Gardner. I’d never opened the car up to its full potential, and noticing that there was very little traffic, I thought this would be a great time to do that. After all, I thought, in a few days I’d be gone, and the car would be on its way back to the bank. So…why not?
I reached down and found the lap belt that the Kansas State Police had installed in all their vehicles, and secured it around my lower waist. I heard the reassuring click as the buckle on the right belt locked onto the metal tongue of the left.
Just after the College Street exit the freeway straightened itself out and became three lanes of unimpeded gray concrete a full three miles until the Santa Fe Street overpass. I pushed the accelerator all the way down to the floor. The four hundred and thirteen cubic-inch Ramcharger engine instantly responded with a deep-throated roar and I was violently pushed back into the seat.
A few seconds went by and I noticed that the front fenders and hood were beginning to vibrate. I glanced at the speedometer and saw it nudging past the 100 MPH mark. Since it only went to 120 MPH, it was my intention to pin it there and see how much faster the car would continue to accelerate past that mark.
A type of euphoria filled my chest, and for a few moments I felt almost invincible. Even though the steering wheel felt extremely light and the car was hardly responding to even moderate pressure left and right, I felt absolutely no fear of losing control.
In what seemed seconds, I saw the Santa Fe Street overpass come into view in the distance—its illuminated elevated guard rails shimmering against a backdrop of total darkness. That’s when I noticed the huge circular concrete pillars supporting the overpass.
There were three sets. One set to the right side of the three southbound lanes, the second set to the left of the northbound lanes, and the third set directly in the middle of the overpass rising from the grassy center median separating the northbound from the southbound lanes.
A wispy thought, in the form of a question and articulated by a soft dark voice rose up into my consciousness from somewhere deep in my mind:
Do you know what would happen if you aim the car directly at the set of pillars on the right side of the freeway?
Without a discernable pause and not waiting for me to answer, the response arrived:
Why, everything would just go black, that’s what. And all you know, and all you fear would just cease to exist. That’s what would happen.
Then, another question—this one from a lighter voice—my conscience.
But, then what would happen to me?
Nothing. The dark voice answered. Peace and quiet, and eternal darkness. No more pain. No more regret. Peace, forever.
Yes…peace. And forgiveness? The light voice asked.
Of course, forever and ever.
Then, my own mind’s voice interceded. “But, what about my wife and my boys? What will happen to them?”
Ah, them. They’ll finally be released from your destructive influence, the dark voice answered self-assuredly, and they will be looked after by others who are certainly more worthy than you. So don’t worry—just turn the wheel a bit to the right and the peace you desperately seek will come.
Then, quiet.
I recall marveling at just how quickly the gray concrete pillar was moving towards the front of my car. I glanced to the right and my headlights illuminated the edge of the emergency lane and then a bed of soft gravel.
The roar of the engine and a deep rumbling as the tires on the right side of the car dug into the gravel jerked my attention back to reality.
“NOOO!!” I heard myself scream. “NO! NOT THIS WAY!!!”
And I jerked the steering wheel to the left!
The car seemed to float—the front-end veering sharply to the left—the force pushing me to the right on the smooth plastic seating. The seat belt dug into my midsection and I hung on to the steering wheel, desperately trying to find the brake pedal with my right foot.
I saw the large overpass pillar flash off to my right, and then almost instantly reappear on my left. It flashed across the front of my car and quickly disappeared off to the right.
The car was in a violent three-hundred and sixty-degree spin. Then, another. And another. And another.
Dust rose from the inside of the car and got into my eyes and nose. I hung on to the steering wheel until I thought my fingers would be torn from my hands.
I was thrown against the driver’s side door and my left shoulder screamed in pain as the door handle dug into my flesh. My head hit the closed window glass causing my vision to black out momentarily. Then I was back.
The lanes of the highway came and went…from left to right—and finally and slowly, the car’s gigantic tires reestablished their grip on the concrete surface.
The spinning had stopped, and now the car was traveling backwards slowly, but straight. And my right foot found and depressed the brake pedal. I saw the Santa Fe Street overpass through my front windshield when I should’ve been seeing it in my rearview mirror.
The car drifted to a stop—the acrid smell of burning oil and rubber wafting up through the floorboards and stinging my nose and eyes.
And I took a deep breath.
A violent shudder shook my body and I wanted to vomit. I pulled my left hand off the steering wheel and rubbed the rising knot on the side of my head. I felt a trickle of warmth run down my arm and I noticed my sleeve was torn.
Slowly I turned the still running car to the right and brought the front end to bear in the right direction—southbound.
I eased over to the emergency lane and shut off the engine. I disengaged my lap belt, opened the door, and stepped out.
The cold autumn night air flowed into my lungs and helped calm my churning stomach. I walked around to the back of the car and leaned back on the trunk. My hands were shaking, and in my mind I could still hear the echoes of the contradicting voices. I squeezed my eyes tightly and tried to force them out of my head.
In the redness of the rear tail lights the sleeve on my left arm looked purple and moist. I popped the trunk open and found a not-too-dirty shop towel and held it to my upper arm. My shoulder ached and my head was pounding.
After a few minutes, I realized just how cold I was, and on shaky legs walked back to the driver’s side, holding the towel tightly against my arm, and got back into the car.
I drove the remaining few miles to my home in Gardner, my mind blank…all the while staying well under the speed limit.
***
There had been no one else on the freeway. Had there been, they would’ve seen the small blue Dart sliding and spinning from the far-right side of the freeway, across three lanes and literally flying under the overpass. I had executed at least four and a half three-hundred and sixty-degree spins, remaining completely level. The police car’s heavy-duty suspension, tuned to accept extreme lateral forces, and the car’s low, wide stance had kept the oversized tires mostly on the roadway preventing the car from losing its lateral balance and rolling over. A less sturdy suspension and skinnier tires would have surely failed, and the car would not have been able to stay level and would have rolled violently. Both I and the car would’ve been destroyed as the inertial velocity spent itself out by turning the car into a rolling missile—disintegrating itself, and me, on the super-hard highway surface.
The Long Goodbye
A decision had to be made about what to do with the car and how to get Sharon and the kids back to Nevada, and our options were severely limited. Sharon’s attitude was that since I was the one who had gotten us into this situation, I would have to be the one to dig us out. So, every day for about a week I played and replayed the scenario in my head, and in the end, only one solution seemed viable.
First, I made a trip to the Payroll Office at the base and submitted a formal request for an advance on my travel funds. The check that I’d written to Mr. Fogarty had put a big dent in our almost non-existent funds, so the advance would help us with the expense of moving Sharon and the boys to Nevada and helping them with rental money for a couple of months.
The payroll officer warned me that when the travel funds were issued in advance, there would be no money to draw on for any expenses I may incur when I reached my destination base.
The payroll officer cautioned me, “Your first paycheck will probably be delayed for about a month after you get there, so that’s why we recommend that you leave something in the travel money fund for unexpected expenses once you get to Okinawa”.
Against his advice I requested and received, the entirety of the travel money that was afforded for my travel. I then used part of this money to purchase one-way airline tickets for us from Kansas City to Reno; then, a single ticket for me from Reno to Oakland, California. From there I would travel by bus to Travis Air Force Base where I would stay for a couple of days before boarding a military charter flight to Naha, Okinawa.
I gave the rest of the money, minus about twenty dollars which I kept for myself, to Sharon for her and the boys. I told her that since I would be eating in military chow halls and wearing my military uniforms on my trip overseas, I would need very little money. Further, I assured her that I had set up an allotment with payroll, assigning eighty percent of my pay, after taxes, to be sent to her monthly once I reached my base. She expressed very little, if any, emotion—and only seemed interested in finding out when she could expect to receive the first allotment payment.
Finally, I came to a decision on the Dart. Heeding my lawyer’s advice, I decided to just leave the car once we departed Kansas City. However, since I didn’t feel comfortable with his suggestion that I just drive it somewhere and abandon it, I instead opted to do something a little less sinister.
The night before we left our apartment for the taxi trip to the airport, I sat down and wrote a letter and addressed it to the Empire State Bank of Kansas City.
To Whom It May Concern:
Enclosed please find a “Monthly Payment Coupon Book, nine (9) money order receipts, and a set of ignition and trunk keys to the 1962 Dodge Dart, a used automobile which I “purchased” from Lou Werner of Kearney, Missouri, late last year.
To the best of my knowledge, I applied, and was approved, for a loan from your bank in the amount of twelve hundred dollars ($1,200), to be repaid in twenty (20) equal installments of sixty dollars ($60) per month, until the sum of the loan was completely paid. Each monthly payment, made with U.S. Postal money orders, submitted to your bank was to be accompanied with a coupon from the enclosed booklet.
As you will note, there are eight (8) coupons missing from the booklet, and eight (8) corresponding money order receipts; each representing a cash payment to your bank; and each in the amount of sixty dollars ($60).
I was recently advised by my Attorney, Mr. Timothy Fogarty, Esq., Attorney at Law, that due to some illegalities that have occurred within a certain department in your bank, I am not, nor will I ever be, the legal owner of the 1962 Dodge Dart, which I assumed was financed by your bank.
I was further advised that the monies that I have paid to your bank for almost a year never went to satisfy the “loan” or “note” that I assumed was put in place for me to legally purchase the aforementioned automobile.
Subsequently, I have discovered that since I hold no interest in, nor do I legally own, this vehicle, I am unable to register, nor am I able to title it in Kansas, or in any other state. I have also been counseled by my attorney that any time I drive this automobile, I am doing so illegally.
Therefore, I would ask that, at your discretion, you dispatch representatives from your bank to recover said automobile, which is located at (residential address inserted). The vehicle has sustained no body or engine damage since I took delivery of it, and at this time the doors and trunk are locked and secure.
Finally, please be advised, and I hereby Declare, that I will no longer submit monthly payments to your bank since I do not legally own this vehicle; Nor do I accept the responsibility of paying off a “loan” or “note”, which when “satisfied”, will not result in my legally owning said automobile.
I remain,
Respectfully,
Frank De León
I placed the letter, car keys, coupon book, and money order receipts in a heavy manila envelope, and after printing the address of the Empire State Bank of Kansas City on the front, packed it in my briefcase. I planned to deposit the envelope into a Postal receptacle when I arrived at the Kansas City Airport the following day.
As the taxi pulled out of our small driveway at the apartment in Gardner, Kansas, the driver turned to me and said, “Wow, what a great looking car. You own it?”
“Nope.”
***
So, ten months after I reenlisted in the Air Force and committed to serve my country for another four years, I was rewarded by being given orders shipping me out of the country and forcing me to leave my family alone again for an indeterminate amount of time.
The reassignment came at a very difficult time in our lives; a time when Sharon and I were not only going through a very difficult time in our marriage, but also at a time when our children needed to have both parents present in their lives.
Although I had finally come to the realization that the majority, if not all, of the blame for the damage to our marriage was directly attributable to me and my loutish and selfish behavior, I had also promised myself that I would do everything in my power to atone for my foolish misdeeds. If I had learned anything from the devastation that I had created in the last year, it was the stark realization that I loved my wife and children very deeply, and was profoundly remorseful for the hurt and pain that I had caused.
However, now that I was being sent thousands of miles away, and with no way to directly communicate with, or to demonstrate to Sharon my willingness and determination to repent from those grievous transgressions, I slowly began to accept the possibility that all may well be lost.
Several times, on the long plane ride to Reno, I desperately attempted to engage Sharon in conversation leading to a discussion regarding our shaky marriage, but after several rebuffs I realized that this was not the time nor the place. By the time we disembarked the flight I was convinced that our life together was all but lost.
A few days later, having traveled from Reno to Travis Air Force Base in Oakland, California, I boarded a military chartered Boeing 707, bound for Naha, Okinawa…over twenty hours away.
After touching down in Anchorage, Alaska, and Tokyo, Japan for refueling, the plane finally arrived at Naha Air Base, in Naha, Okinawa, twenty-two hours later.
The weather had been in the high thirties when I’d left Reno so I had dressed out in my Air Force winter blues, complete with a dark blue overcoat. As I descended the mobile stairway from the silver Northwest Orient Airlines jet onto the tarmac at Naha, I was met by a suffocating high level of humidity and an air temperature in the high eighties. The stale breeze carried a noxious and lingering odor of raw sewage that did nothing to quell my already slightly upset stomach. By the time I reached the check-in desk inside the terminal still clothed in my overcoat and wool blue uniform, I was soaked in sweat and hoping I wouldn’t throw up.
It was Wednesday, October 27th, 1965, and I was now on an island sixty-five miles long and five miles wide, located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, almost seven thousand miles from the West Coast.
To be continued…
