The Larson Family

In my previous blog – A New Beginning – I told part of the story of my Uncle Jim, incarcerated for the last thirty-two years, convicted on the charge of second-degree murder. He will be released on December 16th.

My mom printed out that blog and sent a copy to my Uncle Jim and shortly thereafter I received a letter from him. Since I was short on facts, he corrected and informed me on a few things. An excerpt:

[Your blog] like your letter to the parole board, reached a deep spot not often awakened. I’d like to correct a number of misconceptions in your blog. I correct these things not in any harsh way, only so that you have more facts to base things on.

Despite Jim’s sentiment that he wasn’t correcting me in a harsh way, I was a little worried that I had overstepped some boundary by getting the facts wrong. The last thing I wanted was for my uncle to be upset with me before we even get a chance to know each other in person. He continued:

I was arrested and tried for the case I am about to be released for in 1977, a little over thirty-two years ago.

I don’t know where I got the idea it was 1973, but if you read my previous blog, you can now know, it was ‘77 and not ‘73.

I had three separate trials, the first two trials resulting in 1) a mistrial as the jurors could not agree — nine voted in my favor that time, and 2) a mistrial, as the prosecutor made inflammatory statements to the jury in his closing arguments — things he legally could not say. He did it on purpose, as he felt I would not be convicted that time either. The third trial, two years later, lasted three to four weeks and the jury finally convicted me of a lesser charge [of second-degree murder].

It was my belief then and now, that the jury compromised the last time, thinking that I must have done something — so they found me guilty of something.

Nice, right? Don’t ever let anybody tell you that the American legal system protects you from multiple trials with laws against ‘double jeopardy’.

The only evidence against me was all circumstantial — no one even so much as saw me with the man who ended up being killed.

I did not kill — nor did I help anyone to kill — the man who ended up dying. There was a drunken fight in a motel room and the man was killed. My only involvement at the time was being in the room. I never helped, nor even so much as laid a hand on the victim. But I did help the man who did it afterwards… to get away, and gave him a place in Pittsburgh to rest for a few days. Now you know my involvement.

I had heard much of this story from my Uncle before. What was he doing in the hotel room? Who was the man who died? I got a letter from him many years ago which explained in some detail, but I don’t have it anymore and I’m not sure I can remember the details. I can say my Uncle Jim has admitted being involved in dealing weapons to groups like Posse Comitatus and the American Indian Movement, both of which were quite active in the seventies. I’m not sure that the ‘meeting’ which ended with a man dying had anything to do with these activities, but it at least gives you an idea of how three guys in a motel room could have wandered down such a dangerous path.

As I said in my previous blog, my Uncle doesn’t downplay or shirk responsibility for the acts which ended with his imprisonment. He fully admits that he’s done — and was doing — things he should not have been doing. If I’m reading between the lines of his letters correctly, what he does have a problem with — and I do too — are the legal shenanigans which kept him behind bars for so long.

The original charge was first-degree murder, and I was found guilty of the lesser charge of second-degree murder, and given a parolable life sentence. That last is very important.

It is my understanding that those in Michigan who received “Parolable Life Sentences” served, on average, twelve to seventeen years. Perhaps my relation to Jim is coloring my judgment, but that seems like a sufficient amount of time for a man like my Uncle — a man who was essentially in the wrong place at the wrong time, involved in things he should not be doing, yes. But not a killer. So, how did he end up getting so much time?

Years after my imprisonment, the state of Michigan and some of its politicians decided that they wanted to make a new law regarding lifers, saying in 1992 that “Life Means Life.” And they went a big step further… making their new law retroactive to include all lifers, parolable or not.

So while I started out with a parolable life sentence, given to me by a jury… the state gave me a sentence that three juries couldn’t give me, with the stroke of a pen.

Can you imagine? Our justice system is built on several key principles. That you have a right to trial by a jury of your peers is a big one. And the jury’s decision, and the judge’s subsequent sentence, are binding. And yet a politician can essentially overrule the decision of a jury and the sentence of a judge because it’s politically popular? “Vote for me. I’m tough on crime.” Get off my johnson, Mr. Politician. Everybody is tough on crime. Have you ever heard a politician say “Nah, you know, crime doesn’t bother me so much”? Saying it, and campaigning on it, is just a way to appeal to people who are angry with their own lot in life.

I will go into detail on how my Uncle ended up being released in a future blog. — Troy

We went to Island Park to take our Christmas Card photo today. November 14th, and no snow on the ground. Maybe my memory is deceiving me, but I don’t recall many winters as a kid where we didn’t have snow on the ground halfway through November. Not that I’m complaining… it is a beautiful day.

For any family members who might want a printable copy of this photo (this means you, Mom), just right-click it and save it. It’s hi-res and printable quality, sized to 4 X 6. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all. — Troy

Yesterday was zero day for Gizmo. Neutering time. The vet I spoke of in my previous blog–This Kitty’s Gone Nuts–works out of his home, and I was pretty suspicious to be honest. He lives here in North Fargo, and offered to come by the house and pick Gizmo up for a ten dollar fee. Things being tight and all, I thought I’d drop him off and save the ten bucks. But no matter what I said, this vet insisted on coming to pick him up. He even knocked off the ten bucks, and still came to pick him up. Makes me wonder if this guy didn’t want me to see where he lives for some reason.

Yesterday afternoon the vet shows up, writes me a receipt and proof of vaccination slip, and leaves with Gizmo. As he was leaving, he said he might bring Gizmo back in a few hours, depending on how he’s recovering. Well, he called me last night to tell me a few things. First, Gizmo peed all over inside his kennel after his ‘procedure’ and then rolled around in it. So he was kinda stinky. At about ten o’clock, he called again to say Gizmo was still pretty groggy from the sedative and could barely walk, so the Vet was gonna keep him overnight. He said he’d bring him back at eight-thirty in the morning.

So, seven-thirty rolls around and the doorbell rings. I vaulted out of bed, threw some clothes on and answered the door to find the Vet standing there with Gizmo in his pet carrier. He looked terrible. The Vet said he had a hard time giving Gizmo the antibiotic tablets, so he just gave him a shot instead. He then requested I return the handful of antibiotic pills he gave me yesterday since the shot would supposedly handle the chance of infection. We shook hands and he left.

I crouched down and opened the pet carrier and Gizmo wouldn’t even come out. Poor kitty was so groggy he could barely walk. I picked him up lifted him out, and that was when I realized it looked my kitty had gone through Vietnam. He must have been rubbing his face on the cage all night, trying to get out, because he rubbed a bare spot on his nose. I set him down on the floor and he wobbled his way into the dining room, hid under a futon for a bit, and then staggered his way downstairs, all the while walking with his hind legs a foot apart. He looked like a cowboy that just got off a horse after a three month cattle drive.

I haven’t even gotten a chance to check out his stitches yet, because he’s so fragile, I don’t dare mess with him. Hope everything is OK with him… he’s spent most of the day hiding in the basement. — Troy