He said the counselors got him a job in the kitchen of a local restaurant, but it didn’t work out because he had trouble following directions from his supervisors. However, they continued to work with him and found him volunteer work at a homeless shelter.
“I liked helping in the shelter. Got to work around parents and their kids, see how they acted with each other,” said Tiny. “Seeing them in normal situations helped me reconnect with life. See what normal was.”
He then said that it had been a little over two years since he last contemplated suicide. He no longer drank or used drugs and had been clean for over a year. He had moved into a group home for veterans and now helped out at the downtown coffee shop before volunteering at the homeless shelter in the afternoons.
“See homeless vets every day in the park downtown,” he said. “The owner lets me take them the day-old pastries. I try to talk to them, but mostly I listen. I understand their pain and feelings of loss. Others walk by them as if they’re invisible. I thought maybe you, Mr. Holmes, could tell my story and get people to understand these are real people who just can’t figure out how to live in this town.”
I said, “Tiny, we would be honored to tell your story. Maybe we can even interview a few of the homeless vets in Ferdinand Plaza.”
He nodded, looking exhausted and appearing relieved that he gotten all this out without collapsing. He said, “This is the first time I told this to anyone outside of the home or treatment center. The place is a military town, but it ignores the vets sleeping on park benches. We need your help.”
“We will help,” said Summer as she looked at me. “Won’t we, boss?”
“We will, but it will take us a few weeks to pull this together,” I said.
Tiny said, “I know you’re a busy man.”
“Not too busy for this,” I said. “It’s an important story. I’ll come by Bodacious Brew next week or so, and we can talk more.”
Tiny stood up, smoothed his jacket, fastened his top button, and straightened his tie. He reached over and kissed Summer’s hand.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Summer,” he said. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”
As I walked back to my desk I thought, Pensacola never ceases to amaze me. There are people with stories all around us. Our newspaper needed to survive to tell them.
Roxie yelled with her hand over the receiver on her phone, “When are you going to deal with this Hines-Wittman crap? Once the Frost story hits, I won’t have any customers. You’re killing me!”
“Offer them free upgrades,” I told her. “This will pass.”
Everyone turned away from me. I walked over to my desk, where someone had posted a note to call Stan Daniels. I reached his secretary, who asked me to drop by at eleven o’clock, which gave me about forty-five minutes before I had to head out.
Dare called to say she was heading to New York City.
“Had this trip planned months ago,” she said. “Promise me you won’t do anything with the suicide note until I get back. And join me for brunch on Sunday.”
I agreed, knowing Gravy’s expert wouldn’t have finished his analysis until then anyway.
I posted another article to the blog:
ECSO IS TOP-HEAVY
Escambia County Sheriff’s Office appears to be top-heavy when you compare it to the operations at the Pensacola Police Department (PPD).
To manage its 112 police officers, PPD has 20 sergeants, 5 lieutenants, an assistant chief, and the chief. The department has as a supervisor for every 4.2 police officers.
To manage its 243 deputies, Sheriff Frost has 72 sergeants, 35 lieutenants, 8 captains, a major, chief deputy, and himself.
The county sheriff’s ratio of supervisors to deputies is 2.1. In other words, Frost has twice as many supervisors for every officer on patrol than PPD.
Plus, the Escambia County Sheriff Office is spending 335 percent more to supervise its deputies than PPD does to supervise its police officers.
Within ten minutes, my cell phone vibrated. The caller ID read “Frost.” I ignored it. The phone vibrated again. The text message said: “Hi, this is Alphonse. Could you meet today for lunch at H&O?”
I replied, “Yes, 12:30? But u r buying.”
Then I headed over to Daniels’ office.
16
Stan Daniels and I had become acquainted during the 2006 park referendum fight. We didn’t have a lot in common. The rich and powerful of Northwest Florida flocked to his firm. I took up for the ‘little guy’ and tried to tell the stories of those with little money or influence. I had more in common with the trial attorneys that took Daniels’ clients to court.
For that reason, I didn’t think I could ever like him. His idea of making a better Pensacola meant making his friends richer. Me? I thought of helping that single mom holding down two jobs trying to feed her five kids. I didn’t begrudge him, though, and realized he went to bed every night thinking what a great job he was doing for the community.
He slept. I rarely did.
Daniels came from behind his desk and greeted me when his secretary escorted me into his office. You could imagine him beating out Wittman to be the Catholic High quarterback. Unlike Wittman, Daniels was still slim and athletic. On the wall were pictures of him crossing the finish line at the Boston and New York City marathons—just another reason for Wittman and
