"Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk." (Henry David Thoreau)There are two great branches of evidence in a Criminal Case. They are direct evidence and circumstantial evidence. The meaning of direct evidence is as plain as the nose on your face. A first grader can easily grasp the concept. Whatever a person perceives with any of his physical senses is direct evidence. If you see a crime happen that is direct evidence. And if you smell it or touch it or taste it or hear it as it happens -- that is also direct evidence. Everything else is circumstantial. Therefore, the meaning of circumstantial evidence is easily comprehended and just as easily categorized. If it isn’t direct evidence it’s circumstantial evidence. And if there’s a trout in a can of milk, we know the farmer has dipped his can into a stream of water. We didn’t see him do it, but we know the squiggly rainbow didn’t come from a cow’s udder. The finned scrapper getting his first taste of milk is irrefutable circumstantial evidence of dairy farmer duplicity!

A Trout In The Milk

Profiles In ProsecutionBy Mel Harmon

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Mel Harmon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-6745-7

Contents

Author's Note.....................................................................vPreface...........................................................................viiThere's A House I Know By Heart...................................................3The Passionate Sense Of What Might Be.............................................37Direct Evidence Follies At Freedom Park...........................................83The Ultimate Act Of Selfishness...................................................93The Arrogance Of Lust.............................................................115The Arson Home Invasion...........................................................125Extremism In The Pursuit Of Procedure Is A Mockery Of Justice.....................143A Bible And A Jar Of Petroleum Jelly..............................................163Clues In A Blood Splattered Room..................................................201A Bowl Of Chicken Soup Before We Part M'lady?.....................................223Terror Has A Human Face...........................................................237A Learning Experience.............................................................253

Chapter One

I'm the son of a farmer. When I was two years old my father and mother moved into a four room adobe farmhouse. The year was 1940 –– a time of simplicity and frugality. We had kerosene lamps for lighting, a coal burning stove for heating, and a wood burning stove for cooking, There was no central heating nor cooling system – we had no electricity. We lived without much money, without a telephone, without a television, without a washing machine, and without running water. We only had a battery powered radio, and our culinary water had to be hauled from town in a large metal barrel.

One day the water barrel slipped and mashed one of Dad's thumbs. It looked like a fleshy appendage of bloody pulp after the accident. I was terrified! The sight of the mushy thumb remains etched in my mind to this day. Recovery is painfully slow. And sometime during the healing process my father, blessed with innate common sense, acquires a greater appreciation for thumbs. He decides that two healthy thumbs are a very valuable commodity. Therefore, once he is physically able – necessity being the mother of invention, he builds a cistern on a nearby hillside. Then, with the confluence of a crudely constructed water pipe system, town water poured into the cistern from a 500 gallon tank secured in a wooden frame that slides in and out of the bed of our pickup truck, and the law of gravity – we have some running culinary water at our farmhouse. And Dad doesn't have any more mashed thumbs, though an occasional scaly lizard does find its way into our water supply.

* * *

Actually, there is running irrigation water just a few rods east of the house. A large irrigation canal fed by river water borders our farmland for half a mile. It carries irrigation water for hundreds of acres under cultivation throughout the Fields. The Canal is wide and deep and the current swift. Several years before the smashed thumb incident, and only a few months after we'd moved to the farm, I chose to do some exploring, so I've been told. Mom has recited the story on many occasions. What follows is a reasonable facsimile of her various accounts of the event.

I am playing on the back doorstep of our farmhouse, when I decide to shake things up by embarking on a summer stroll – solo. My quest will take me about a quarter mile along the narrow west bank of The Canal in search of my Father. So, I scamper through the small, lateral irrigation ditch immediately south of the house, which is empty. Then, I make a beeline for the Big Ditch – the Fields Canal. My objective is soon attained.

I pause at the brink of the waterway, peer into the depths of the roily water, and hang a hard right. Childish instinct choosing to toddle along the razor thin footpath that threads its way through thick brush along The Canal. Hoping the primitive path leads to my Daddy. Thereafter, short, unsteady, tipsy step after step I persistently trudge through the thick underbrush along the edge of the swift moving water. Separated from the channel of the stream by a scant twelve inches of bank. One carelessly discarded farm implement, one slip, one stumble, one misstep, or one slight cave-in along the path I trod would have caused me to splash unseen into a certain watery grave – sweeping me miles downstream in the turbid water and out of the mortal lives of two loving parents.

But it didn't happen. It's been said, "God protects babies and fools." (George Bernard Shaw) I'm living proof of the veracity of the renowned playwrights flippant remark. Heaven protected me that pivotal day long ago when a baby boy foolishly strays from his Mother's safe haven and tries to find his Daddy all by himself.

Words cannot adequately describe the reaction of my dear Mother when she notices her little toddler in striped coveralls is missing. I believe my Mother's worst nightmare has always been that one of her children would fall into the murky waters of the big irrigation ditch and drown.

She runs around the outside of the farmhouse, and seeing no sign of me, she dashes to The Canal. Breathlessly staring upstream and downstream as a fervent prayer forms in her pounding heart. "Dear God, no – no – no! Not my precious baby. Please don't let him be in the water. Please. Please. It will kill me if I've let him fall into the water!" However, she still sees nothing. There is no sign of the curly, tousled little head of hair. As quickly as a blink of the eye, it seems, he is gone.

My Mother can see my Father working in the second field south of the farmhouse. She begins running and stumbling along the narrow ditch bank toward him. The rough brush scratches her legs and the palms of her hands are abraded by smother weed, Johnson grass, sunflowers, and clods each time she falls. The heavy growth of foliage along The Canal shields the intrepid little toddler from her view. Tearfully, panic-stricken she screams my Father's name, "Elmer –– Elmer –– Elmer, help me! Melvin's gone. Melvin's gone. I'm afraid he's fallen into The Canal. Dear God, help me! Help us!"

Who can fully grasp the anguish of a mother who fears she has lost her little two year old, the first-born of her womb, into a treacherous current of deep running water? That little one who is the object of her loving care each day from the time the sun rises until the sun sets – and into the night. My Mother's fright becomes hysteria. The delirium makes it hard for her to see or think and breathe. She is crazy with grief and misgiving. How is it possible she has allowed this to happen? How can she ever forgive herself?

Finally, her screams, her frenzied gestures, and her desperate dash along the canal bank catch Dad's attention. He drops his shovel and runs along the ditch toward her. She's so distraught he's been unable to fully understand the situation. But he has heard her cries concerning "Melvin" and fears the worst. His heart aches. Tears stream down his face as he plows through the brush.

Then suddenly, in a heartbeat, darkness turns to light. The foolish toddler and the frantic father meet. He sees me as I see him, and I scamper into his open arms. SAFE – in the loving grasp of my Daddy. My Mother is about fifty feet away. When she sees my Father scoop me into his arms, she sees an answer to heart-felt prayer and senses the nearness of the Lord. She's lifted into brilliant blessed rays of happiness again. It's as though a son has been reborn. Her truth is redemption, self-forgiveness, and the chance to be a more vigilant mother. Black depression is dispersed and boundless joy envelopes her soul.

The relief is immediate and immense. Everything around her evolves into a golden haze. She loses strength in her legs, her eyelids flutter, and she collapses in a heap on the ground. My Precious Mother FAINTS! The beauty of life renewed, hers and mine, is a sacred remembrance.

* * *

My first actual mortal memory is of a black pickup truck rack. What this particular pickup truck is to "pickup" are pigs going to market. So, more precisely stated the rack is really a black-pigs-going-to-market-rack for the family's black Ford truck. A brood of ill fated pigs raised on our farm is scheduled to make an unsolicited one-way trip to California. These porkers are probably content to reside in the squalor of our pig digs for the remainder of their natural lives. They undoubtedly have no interest in making a cramped trip to the Golden State in the bed of a pickup. But Dad has a different plan in the late summer of 1942.

The presence of pigs on the farm isn't prompted by an altruistic view of swine. The pigpen domain is the stinkiest spot on our property. The pigs are only tolerated because Dad loves pork and he believes we can sell those we don't eat for a profit when they achieve marketable size. Furthermore, Dad's oldest brother lives in Glendale, California. Therefore, a trip to the coast will provide us with an opportunity, as the expression goes, "To kill two birds with one stone." Rather, it gives us an excuse to roam. We can visit our relatives and kill six pigs with one trip from home.

My Father painstakingly constructs the pig rack, and even though my youthful skills as a painter are seriously deficient, Mom and me proudly paint the rack a gleaming black to match the color of the pickup truck. No self-respecting farm family can travel to California without being color-coordinated. After several coats of pain have been applied, the rack reposes for a time in the yard about thirty feet west of the farmhouse. There the shiny black pig rig can dry and be displayed. The town road is a single, narrow dirt lane that winds just a few feet north of the house. The eye-catching black rack is a visible monument for all to see. The Harmons intend to take their pigs to the slaughterhouse themselves.

When the big day arrives, we manage to coax our little herd of pork-chops-on-the-hoof up the chute to the height of the pickup bed. From that level the squealing bristly mammals are prodded into the bed of the truck. I remember how they slid and sprawled and sh––t as their hooves made contact with the slick metal surface.

And then we were off to L.A. –– Dad and Mom and me. There wasn't any Disneyland yet, the Magic Kingdom is a decade and a half into the future. Nevertheless, the excitement we felt, as we embarked on this grand adventure with our cargo of six, was euphoric. These farm folks were livin large! Though I do recall feeling a slight lump in my throat as we headed west on the dirt Fields Road. This is my first trip away from the security of our snug little adobe house.

We didn't do any sightseeing. We drove straight toward the market. It isn't easy, even when you have a shiny new black rack, to travel nearly 400 miles with six homesick pigs in a pickup bed. Well, maybe it isn't homesickness but a form of seasickness that is the problem. I only know those six pigs pooped a lot. Every time we make a turn there is a palpable sway to the entire pickup as the porkers slide and scramble from one side of the bed to the other. It makes steering difficult for Dad, and of course, the smell becomes incredibly noxious! Traveling down the busy highway we leave an unmistakable aroma in the air, and an unmistakable trail of litter spattered on the road – from muck seepage through the end gate of the old Ford.

To say we were not adept at driving in a big city is a gross understatement! All three of us are intimidated by the size of Los Angeles, California. Even the pig-squealing moves up a few decibels in intensity as we chug and shimmy through the streets of L.A. Perhaps, the piglets sense the slaughterhouse lays at the end of the journey – awful in it implication for them.

We don't know the way to the slaughter yard, of course. Our foray through the city consists of a series of turnoffs to frantically study the big city map, which to us is practically indecipherable, a lot of backtracking, and a host of directions solicited from people who clearly don't know any more about Los Angeles than we do. Our entire venture into the bowels of L.A.'s meat packing district could have been a primer in how not to traverse the byways of a big city. It's a pitiful exhibition of how to go in ever expanding circles without meaning to.

Obviously, farm-folks on the move in a large city don't want to have an accident. Well –– we did! I don't really know if "the accident" is precipitated by Dad's inexperience with metropolitan driving, the confusion of being lost in the maze of Los Angeles streets, the embarrassment created by the noise and smell of our little Ford pig-transport –– whose newly painted black rack has lost its sheen, the distraction of six skidding pigs, the spectacle of curious on-lookers gawking at every intersection –– or fate. I only know we did have a bump-in.

As we lumbered through one of those seemingly endless big city intersections, we broadside a yellow Cadillac driven by a fancy big-city dame. The event catapults us into a tizzy. I don't have a clue who the lady was – we didn't wait around to get her name. It could have been Greta Garbo for all we knew, or some other Hollywood legend.

My Father quickly hops out to survey the damage to our pickup. It is minimal. There wasn't much velocity behind the impact. After all, I did say we were "lumbering" through the intersection at the time of the collision. And a cursory head-count of the porker-six did not suggest any fatalities – only a mucky melee! So, Dad gets back into the cab, puts the ole stick shift into a grinding reverse, and we go traipsing off into the big-city-maze.

I don't know how extensive the damage was to the Cadillac – we didn't wait around to do a crash-damage inventory. I don't know if the police were called – we didn't wait around to share pertinent facts with the gendarmes. And we didn't contact any coppers about the situation after we'd left the scene neither. Too flustered to think straight was our excuse, I suppose.

We do turn to look "ere ... [we] drove out of sight," and the big-city cookie has extricated herself from her vehicle. (Clement Clarke Moore, Twas the night before Christmas Poem, adaptation) She is standing in the intersection shaking her fist, and probably shouting expletives.

Only the good Lord knows what she's saying, but her body language didn't look friendly, and I'm going to guess she's launching a slew of unsavory epithets in our direction. However, it's all to no avail. The mishap is behind us. The pig farmers in the piggie-van from hicksville are going, going –– gone!

Eventually, we do find the Los Angeles stockyards. There we unmercifully unload the slaughterhouse-six. We hated [Ha!] to part company with our stinky companions, but Dad's wallet is plumper when we leave, and that is ample solace for the emotional trauma of leaving our soon-to-be- pork-chops behind. Though, had the six prime porkers had their say so, they surely would have oinked a dour, "We definitely do mind being left behind."

We stayed the night in Glendale with Uncle Irvin, Aunt Winnie, and my cousin Mary. I still remember how friendly they were. Aunt Winnie was charming and sweet and hospitable. She seemed especially anxious to make us feel welcome and to attend to all our needs. Uncle Irvin was very nice too, but in a somewhat more reserved manner. Mary was several years older, and much more grownup and sophisticated than me. We didn't have much in common then – except for the same last name. She tried to engage me in youthful conversation, but I could only shyly drop my head and fidget my fingers.

Later that night, lying all alone on an unfamiliar bed in a dark bedroom in a strange house far away from our farmland, I recall crying inconsolably. We'd experienced a very eventful day. Perhaps, a little too exciting for a country boy. Many thoughts were cascading through my mind. It isn't always pleasant being away from home. It's a little scary, and I yearned for the comfort and security of customary surroundings. Lonely for the little adobe house I knew by heart. "Mid pleasures and palaces we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." (Adapted from American actor and dramatist John Howard Payne's 1823 opera, Clari, Maid of Milan)

My Mother heard me and came to offer sweet condolence. She cradled me in her arms. Laid by me on Aunt Winnie's fluffy bed, and told me a story about a boy with a motorcycle. We'd seen motorcycle riders on the road earlier as we'd driven along the highway to California.

I don't remember anymore about the story. I've never had a motorcycle. I've never wanted a motorcycle. I've never ridden a motorcycle. And I wasn't very interested in motorcycles that distant night in Glendale, California. But I do remember that my dearest mother was able to quiet my sobbing and dry my tears and make me feel less lonely. She did it with a hug and a kiss and a story. It is the first of many stories I have remembrance of Mom telling me. I'd love to have her tell me the story again, but she is gone for now.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Trout In The Milkby Mel Harmon Copyright © 2011 by Mel Harmon. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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