Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen, Page 3

  Jan Bongers, the man who was walking Claude, couldn't believe it. According to the police report, "the victim observed the dog crawling on the roadway … with the above [suspect] standing over the dog holding a handgun to the dog's head."

  Bongers backed off, he said, when Furci pointed the gun at him.

  After Furci went home, Bongers gathered the dying dog in his arms and ran for help. Neighbor Arlene Garren heard Jan shouting: "That guy just shot Claude! I don't believe the crazy bastard shot the dog!"

  Bongers raced to a veterinary hospital with Claude comatose in the trunk of the car.

  It was a bizarre incident with like repercussions. Furci now is charged with cruelty to animals and aggravated assault with a firearm, a felony for which he could get a mandatory three years—and be disbarred. However, his attorney happens to be his law partner, the one and only Roy Black.

  The killing of Claude the sheep dog became a matter so grave that no less than Dr. Ronald K.Wright, Broward's chief medical examiner, performed the postmortem. "God, do I hate autopsying dogs," Dr. Wright testified.

  His task was complicated by the fact that Claude had been frozen, and needed to thaw. Still, Wright was able to determine that the fatal shot had been fired with the gun barrel pressed against the dog's fur.

  Roy Black said Furci had acted in self-defense, that Claude had attacked first. He suggested that Furci didn't mean to point the gun at Bongers. The Broward State Attorney's Office didn't buy it.

  Then Black went to work. He hired a private investigator. He got aerial photos of the crime scene. In 43 separate pleadings and motions, and 17 depositions, he and lawyer Mark Seiden hammered at the character of Claude the sheep dog.

  They demanded records of his breeding, birth and pedigree; of any dog shows he'd won; of any previous bites or attacks. Claude's background, they asserted, was "of critical importance in formulating the accused's defense."

  Attorney Black noted discrepancies in accounts of Claude's age (somewhere between six and nine years) and exact breed. A police report described the dog as a Bouvier des Flandres while his owner, Olivia Gluckson, said he was a Briard.

  The age was important because of the prosecution's contention that an older dog was less likely to attack. The breed was significant, Black explained, because while Briards might be gentle, "the characteristics of a Bouvier des Flandres, on the other hand, could be entirely different."

  Unfortunately, Claude was not around to defend his honor. His credentials included work as a professional dog model in magazines.

  In a deposition Jan Bongers testified that the sheep dog had approached Ginger "in a very pleasant, playful manner," and that the two dogs had sized each other up the traditional doggy way.

  attorney: "Who did the sniffing?"

  witness: "Both."

  Olivia Gluckson poignantly testified how Claude had rallied briefly at the veterinary hospital; how he had recognized her and even wagged his tail shortly before the end. "You couldn't help but like Claude, he's a very sweet and gentle dog," she said.

  Olivia said she phoned Frank Furci and said, "Did you shoot my dog?" She said the lawyer replied, "I don't know you," and hung up.

  Furci declined to discuss the shooting. His wife Joan has said she went outside when she heard their dog Ginger make a "loud, loud cry." She said her husband told her the sheep dog had attacked them.

  The case was scheduled for trial this week, but postponed. Apparently Roy Black has done his job—there is talk of a deal that would permit Furci to plead no contest to the animal cruelty charge and avoid the three-year felony.

  "Disgusting," Jan Bonger says. "A very frightening kind of case," adds Olivia Gluckson, who says her children are still "devastated" by Claude's violent death.

  In all the court records there is no explanation for why anyone walking a Doberman in daylight would need a .45-caliber pistol for anything.

  Pistol-packing guards shoot up sense of security

  February 11, 1987

  Last week a security guard at a local Food Giant grocery store shot and seriously wounded a customer who was arguing over the price of limes.

  It's an age-old question for the lawman with a gun—where to draw that fine line for using deadly force. Is it limes, or tangerines? Grapefruits or guavas? Produce or dairy products?

  Just when do you pull the trigger?

  Now comes the news that the security guard, Hugo Nilo Salazar, has himself been in previous scrapes with the law—a disclosure that seems to come as no shock to state licensing officials.

  To see what a cracker jack job Florida is doing to regulate the private security business, I checked our clippings from the last five years. Some of these guys make Barney Fife look like Wyatt Earp:

  • August 1986. A security guard shot a man in the back after he allegedly walked out of a South Dade convenience store without paying for a six-pack of beer.

  • May 1986. One security guard shot and wounded another security guard in a dispute at a Miami Beach hotel bar.

  • March 1986. In Pompano Beach, an ex-security guard allegedly robbed the hotel that had employed him and shot two of his former co-workers.

  • December 1985. In Lauderhill, a 21 -year-old security guard said he accidentally shot his friend in the head while their car was stopped at a traffic light.

  • October 1985. In Miami Beach, a former security guard who was returning his uniform accidentally killed himself while trying to remove his gun from the waistband of his pants.

  • June 1985. In North Dade, one security guard shot and fatally wounded another during an argument.

  • June 1985. In Palm Beach, a security guard who was not authorized to carry a weapon allegedly used a shotgun to shoot a suspected shoplifter.

  • March 1985. A Miami security guard was charged with second-degree murder after shooting an unruly customer at a Church's fried chicken restaurant.

  • March 1985. A Pompano Beach security guard was charged with manslaughter after allegedly shooting a suspected burglar with a 20-gauge shotgun.

  • January 1984. A security guard at a Miami construction site was charged with second-degree murder after shooting another guard during a quarrel.

  • August 1983. A security guard was charged with manslaughter after shooting a suspected shoplifter as he ran through Miami's garment district.

  • August 1983. A 73-year-old bank security guard allegedly shot and killed another guard because he thought that the man had put a voodoo hex on him.

  • April 1983.Two security guards at a Key Biscayne marina got into an argument and opened fire on each other. One died.

  • August 1982. In Miami Beach, a security guard was charged with second-degree murder after fatally shooting a 78-year-old man. The old man allegedly had tried to stop the guard from beating up a woman.

  The pattern is unsettling. When security guards aren't shooting each other, they're shooting unarmed civilians, which happens to be a crime. Not even real policemen can shoot shoplifters.

  While some firms diligently check a guard applicant's qualifications, others obviously don't care.To make matters more ridiculous, police are not required to report crimes by security guards to state licensing authorities.

  To prove conclusively that any bozo can become a security guard, this newspaper sent a reporter out to do just that. In one day he got a gun, a badge, a nifty uniform—and a job.

  That was i£ years ago, and not much has changed. Obviously legislators still don't have enough wisdom to keep guns and badges away from clods, loons and hotheads. If there's no other solution, do what Sheriff Taylor did to Barney Fife—take away his bullet.

  Horse race would have sloppy track

  March 21, 1988

  This week, the Florida Cabinet gets to hear about the big plan to put an Arabian horse-racing track on Miami Beach. Literally, on the beach.

  Such a bold idea could only come from that special breed known as the "Miami Beach promoter." In this case, two such visionari
es announced that November is a swell time to hold the first Arabian Horse Desert Classic.

  They're talking about a weeklong jamboree that would include a charity ball, a 26-mile run and—hang onto your cabanas!—a beauty pageant.

  The promoters have predicted 100,000 visitors would flock to watch the ponies run on the beach between Fifth and 11th streets. (Presumably, grandstand prices will vary with proximity to the stables, the cheaper seats being downwind.)

  The Beach is hoping to attract 2,600 top racehorses from around the world. For authenticity, even the jockeys would be garbed in Arabian-type costumes.

  The mere promise of Willie Shoemaker dolled up to look like Valentino is a powerful draw indeed, but toss in a bevy of half-naked beauty queens and you've got class with a capital C.

  Not surprisingly, Mayor Alex Daoud has hailed the scheme. The Chamber of Commerce says it will make the media aware that Miami Beach really does have a beach, as its name might suggest.

  State agencies are not as keen on the Arabian Classic. Delicate health questions have been raised about the presence of 2,000-plus horses on a public playground.

  As one official in Tallahassee put it: "Just like we don't like sanitary landfills in parks, we felt running horses on a beach is incompatible with the beach."

  One problem is that the sand on Miami Beach is technically more of a grit—pulverized shells dredged off the ocean floor and packed by bulldozers. If it's too rough or too hot on the hooves, I suppose you could always fit the horses with tiny open-toed sandals.

  The other problem is not so simple to solve. As everyone knows, these big animals are not easily housebroken.

  Think about it: 2,600 thoroughbreds. Figure 20 pounds of muck per horse, per day, and you get (conservatively) 52,000 pounds. That's 26 tons a day. Now stack that up over a week's time and you're staring at 182 tons—we're talking a Mount Everest of horse puckey.

  Skeptics would see cleanup as a messy problem; optimists (and isn't this what the Beach is all about?) would see it as a public-relations challenge.

  It's not so big a crisis, really. Tourists on South Florida beaches are used to quick-stepping around all kinds of daunting obstacles, from poisonous jellyfish to gobs of tar, to the occasional human torso. A horse dropping would hardly make them dash for the hotel checkout.

  Before allowing such a minor drawback to squelch an otherwise brilliant idea, why not try to turn it around and make something positive?

  One obvious solution is to ask the city commissioners themselves to clean up after the horses. They are, after all, vastly experienced in this area.

  Another suggestion:

  Between races, we stage celebrity "scoop-ups." Line up five famous people, give each a gold shovel and a burlap sack, and tell them to go to it. For the inaugural, we could fly down the entire cast of The New Hollywood Squares.

  Picture a shovel-wielding Richard Simmons chasing a pack of sleek Arabian steeds along the shimmering sands of Miami Beach—well, you just can't buy that kind of publicity.

  And, for the kiddies, a boisterous "Dodge the Muffin" contest. Epcot, eat your heart out.

  Some people are saying that thundering horses don't really fit the image of a tropical beach. Neither do Teamsters, yet they're down here every year with their conventions and loud shirts. Talk about a scary stampede.

  With more polished extravaganzas like the Arabian Desert Classic, the future of the Beach is shining. No more cheap gimmicks and crackpot promotions. This is the big time now.

  Sophistication with a capital S.

  Just when you thought it was safe to go to the beach …

  April 6, 1988

  Fun and frolics reigned at Haulover Beach again this past weekend, as scores of chowderheads ignored posted warnings and plunged straight into a dangerous riptide.

  If that weren't enough excitement, a mob of male high-school kids attacked several teenage girls, ripping off all their clothes, grabbing their breasts and genitals and chasing them down the beach. When one of the Haulover lifeguards tried to shield one of the girls, he was kicked repeatedly.

  "She was naked and they were grabbing her. I just wanted to get her out of the crowd," said the lifeguard, Ken Chouinard. "It made me sick, and it also made me fearful for the people who come out here."

  Some of these festivities were captured on tape by a WTVJ-Channel 4 news crew and should be recommended viewing for anyone who is considering a leisurely family outing at Haulover.

  For years this has been a trouble spot, though the parks department doesn't advertise the fact. Keeping the beach safe apparently is a low priority in the budget, as evidenced by the minimal way in which the county polices the area and staffs its lifeguard crews.

  "We get the same consideration as macrame classes and kickball games," says Lt. David Battenfield, a Haulover lifeguard for the past 15 years. "This county is providing people access to this beach, but it's not providing their protection."

  For a long time, the lifeguards have been trying to get someone to pay attention. The near-riot this weekend, combined with the perilous surf conditions, portend a disaster in the making—an expensive one.

  Currently, Haulover Park has 11 full-time lifeguards on staff. Part-timers are hired to fill out the shifts, though many are not trained as emergency medical technicians, as the full-time lifeguards usually are.

  Haulover Beach is about 1.4 miles long, but almost 43 percent is out of immediate range of a lifeguard tower and basically unguarded. The biggest stretch between towers measures 810 yards—a long way to run, if somebody's drowning at the other end.

  The last accident took place March 23. Lifeguards got there swiftly and pulled the 42-year-old tourist out of the water, but he died later.

  The miracle is that it doesn't happen more often. During the past week or so, strong winds and spring tidal conditions have made Haulover particularly treacherous, with invisible run-out currents sweeping many swimmers out toward the open water. Lifeguards officially closed the beach on three days, but plenty of idiotic showoffs hopped in anyway.

  On March 27, Haulover lifeguards logged 10 rescues. On March 29, the number was nine. On March 30, it was 15. Business peaked again this past weekend with 19 rescues on Saturday and 28 more on Sunday.

  While the park is much more crowded than it was in 1975, there are five fewer full-time lifeguards now. During last year's budget crunch, the county proposed cutting back even more on the staffs, but the lifeguards successfully argued against it.

  Today the lifeguards meet with county parks officials to plead—again—for help in making the beach safer. They aren't asking for salary hikes; they want more lifeguards, more towers and better lifesaving equipment. They also want a regular and visible police presence.

  Saturday's clothes-ripping melee took place with a Metro crime suppression team nearby. Still, the teenagers ran wild. "A combat zone," Battenfield said. No arrests were made at the scene; police say they are trying to identify the assailants.

  On the bright side, at least nobody took a bullet.

  On March 26, startled Haulover beachgoers watched as one man pulled out a machine gun and shot another, while still a third drew his own pistol and popped off a few rounds. A bystander was shot and wounded as he walked his three children out of the park.

  Just another day at the beach. If the undertow doesn't get you, the snipers will.

  Let's crow for Hialeah cockfighting

  April 17, 1989

  Let freedom ring!

  Three dozen men cradling live chickens appeared at the Metro Justice Building the other day to demonstrate in favor of—don't laugh—cock-fighting.

  The men were members of a Hialeah "social club" raided last week. Police arrested 186 people, seized 86 birds and grabbed $40,000 in gambling money.

  The club offers live music, rides for the kiddies and a restaurant. But the main attraction is a i^o-seat fighting pit where grown-ups sit and cheer while two dumb barnyard animals mutilate each other. Can you think
of a nobler cause for demonstration? Raise your placards high, boys.

  How dare the police shut down such an enriching pastime! My goodness, if they strip us of our right to torture God's hapless creatures, then what next?

  Granted, an organized cockfight isn't really an act of nature. Under normal farm conditions, most roosters are too busy chasing the hens to stop and disembowel each other.

  But with a little human guidance and just a touch of inbreeding, a rooster becomes a ferocious fighting machine.

  I know what you're thinking: chickens. Gamecocks are basically just chickens in drag. And how fierce can a chicken be?

  Plenty fierce, especially if you attach razor-sharp spurs to its scrawny yellow legs. These devices are made of honed steel, bone or fiberglass. The purpose is to replace the rooster's natural spur with something slightly more effective.

  Otherwise a cockfight is about as thrilling as a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon. Without artificial spurs, the birds just hop and squawk and pull each other's feathers out. Where's the drama in that?

  But add those nasty little can-openers, and cockfighting becomes a macho life-or-death spectacle. In fact, matches often do not officially end until one of the two birds expires of its wounds. That's when the big money changes hands.

  We're talking rich tradition. Dueling poultry goes back to the days of ancient Persia and Greece, before video games, when people were forced to amuse themselves with whatever was handy. Given the abundance of chickens, and the relative ease with which they could be dragooned, it was only natural that a mindless blood sport would evolve.

  Popular among English nobility (what wasn't?), cockfighting was soon introduced in colonial America. Among its ardent fans was the highly cultured Andrew Jackson. Always controversial, cockfighting was outlawed in Great Britain and Canada. Massachusetts banned it in 1836. In recent years, the legality has been debated from Maryland to Louisiana to Key Largo.