1971 -74. This song is one of my mainstays. This, “Take it Easy” and ”Summertime Blues”. Although written and recorded by the Beatles (they suck!). Joe Cocker made it his, and as far as I'm concerned, Ol' Joe is the only one who can sing it.
Now, the final chapter of my escapades...
Before the banks used computers, I would help inspire Minnesota to change their banking laws. The banks made it easy. This is how I would do it. I opened business accounts in five different banks using aliases. No one ever asked to see any identification. Writing checks, I would cover that check with another bank- “Piggy back” you could say. It's highly illegal and you must write new checks to cover the last one every day.
I was arrested on an old warrant one night, and spent five days in jail, which started them checks bouncing and a banker called in the FBI. One of the older agents, who after a year long investigation, called me a “gentleman thief” and wished me luck with the courts where, I would find out, the banks wanted me hung. I had played them.
Doing my version of Robin Hood, people who I had helped with groceries, rent and electricity so many times were nowhere to be seen- they were all gone. Once I was busted, I learned who I could count on. To this day I have six friends I can count on- all Vietnam Veterans. I call them my future pallbearers! If I need money, beer or a bed, I can depend on them.
Sitting in the witness chair, my lawyer was stopped by the judge from questioning me with his own question:
“How did Mr Earley pay you?”
“By check, your Honor.”
“Hopefully, you won't try to cash this check. It has no funds backing it and I will place another charge against your client. I had ordered Mr. Earley to stop writing checks, as you surely know, these are the charges Mr. Earley will face.”
That was the end of my 'High Buck' lawyer. The court assigned me a “public pretender”. I would be sentenced to restitution and five years. Damn, I better do something. I can't do 5 years. I will call my Ojibwa Mother..... Hello Ma, listen, can you get that federal judge you know to help me out?
Monday morning as the inmates were being loaded on the prison bus, I saw my draft dodgin' P.O. point me out, whereupon I was pulled out of line and released from the shackles. My PO led me to his new pickup. Get in, he said.
Driving away from the jail, he growled “I don't know who you know or how you did it, but the district court has ordered you to be placed in the Veterans Hospital for the primary Treatment of Alcoholism, to be followed by the VA's recommendation. That means for the next 5 years you will do what they say, plus pay off the $180,000 ordered restitution to the court! When and if you are able to do these tasks, it is further ordered that all your felonies will be reduced to misdemeanors. In my 5 years as a District Court Probation Officer, I've never seen anything like this!”
Thirty days later I had finished treatment. I had convinced my VA counselor that being Native American, I would need culturally sensitive aftercare. I was sent to an all-male Native American halfway house. Within one year I had received enough training to be hired as the “house counselor” and made it co-ed- the ladies got the top floor. I would marry number 2- an Ojibway woman.
Staying sober for the next 5 years, I was able to pay the restitution. Quickly, I would sell all my toys. By selling my house, cars, bikes and business, I was able to pay it. It was theirs anyhoo! Upon returning to court, the judge was happy, the PO was happy, I was happy, and celebrated this 'accomplishment' by buying a 1975 Shovelhead Harley Davidson...and getting drunk, divorced and fired.
Houseless, I would crash at friends. I dusted off my union card and would run a rock crusher at a Reddy Mix plant for the next 10 years. In 1985, I would get a DWI. The court would order me back to the halfway
house. Two weeks later I would be working at the county detox evaluating Native Americans for drug and alcohol treatment. Later I would be hired to go into the state prisons. Back at the halfway house, I would meet and marry the cook's daughter. We had two sons and I adopted her son. And got drunk, lost my house, job, and old number 3 left me. You know how it goes...what goes around.
She came back.
I worked at the VA, ran six houses for homeless veterans. We adopted her niece through the “Indian Child Welfare Act” (she will graduate from high school this year). My disability has forced me into retirement at 100%. On the 23rd of this month, we will close on a new 4-bedroom house!
Semper Fi! I'm here until I die! Life is Good!! Heres to ya!!! Rat
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