Burden of Proof

By Steve Orlandella

For nine years, Vic Landell is a star pitcher in the Major Leagues. When his elbow finally gives out, he retires to paradise - the Gulf Coast of Florida. With millions in the bank and no other skills, he ponders his second act. His father is a detective, so he becomes a private investigator. After a year of peeking into bedroom windows and searching garbage cans, he meets the woman of his dreams - a statuesque TV anchor/lawyer with definite femme fatale possibilities. Then, a close friend is found dead at a ballpark under suspicious circumstances. Unhappy with how the Police are handling the case, he takes up the hunt himself. When it becomes obvious his pal has been murdered, it is Game On! With the help of his pistol-packin’ girlfriend and his savvy father, he strives to find the killer before the team leaves Florida. Set against the background of Spring Baseball in the Grapefruit League, “Burden of Proof” is many things - a mystery, a romance, a courtroom drama and, above all, a whole lot of fun. One reader has said, “Look out Sam Spade there is a new detective in town. Burden of Proof, A Vic Landell Mystery, sets a new standard for a modern detective mystery. The author has developed strong characters and a clear an entertaining story about Vic Landell, a retired profession baseball player turned detective and Marcia, his gorgeous 5 foot 12 in red-headed spitfire associate who has more spunk than Emma Peel from the 60's TV series “The Avengers! The book is a well-developed mystery that is spiced with humor with great background information on professional baseball on Florida's Sun Coast.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay W. MacIntosh
• Release date: Jan 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370613724

Steve Orlandella

Steve Orlandella (1950 - 2016) spent his career working in television, most of it in baseball. He studied broadcasting, history, and theatre at California State University, Northridge. While working on his degrees, he joined the University staff as Producer-Director of Educational TV. In 1979, he joined KTLA Channel 5 in Los Angeles as a news producer, senior sports producer, and director of "News at Ten". In 1985, he was promoted to KTLA's Supervising Producer/Director. He produced and directed entertainment programs, Angels baseball, and Clippers basketball games. In 1987, he worked for MCA/Universal as Producer of Media for the Merchandizing/Licensing Division, later becoming an independent producer/director. He produced winter and summer Olympic specials, Kings hockey games, promos and commercials for Z-Channel and Sportschannel, and directed boxing, pro and college basketball. In 1993, he became Producer for Dodgers Baseball for nine seasons. He won Golden Mikes, Associated Press Awards, and was nominated for Emmys twelve times. He received two Emmys for his work with the Dodgers. In 2005, he launched Steve Orlandella Productions and Ormac Press. His published works include "Burden of Proof", "Capitol Murder", "Marathon Murders", "Dance with Death", "Midtown Mayhem", "Titanic", "The Game", and "Stevespeak".

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Genesis

If you reside in Florida near the Ocean, you qualify as a resident of a Coast. If you live between Palm Beach and Miami, you are on the Gold Coast. Between Port St. Lucie and the Indian River? That would be the Treasure Coast. While the area around Cape Canaveral is, no surprise, the Space Coast. Over here on the Gulf of Mexico, we limit ourselves to just one. The stretch that runs from above Tarpon Springs all the way down to Naples is known as the Sun Coast. Now in the dead of a Florida winter, which means that the temperature has plummeted to a mere eighty degrees, I am constantly reminded of Sarah Miles’ languid portrayal of Alice in the film White Mischief and her line for the ages, Oh, God, not another fucking beautiful day.

As my Lotus Elise SC makes the left off Bee Ridge and merges into traffic onto Interstate 75 Northbound, I am about an hour away from my destination. Here is your chance to vet me. I was born Victor Anthony Landell, on August 22, 1979, at the Massachusetts General Hospital. From day one, everybody called me Vic. My father Peter, Pete, was a Captain of Detectives for the Boston Police Department and recently retired to Falmouth on Cape Cod. My mother Katherine, better known as Kate, was Chief Nurse at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute until the day a cerebral hemorrhage took her life four years ago. Her death devastated my father. My older brother by sixteen months Thomas, or Tommie, is a Commander in the Navy and living out my dream – flying fighter jets off a Nimitz-class carrier.

My IQ score says I should have been a great student, but my interest level begged to differ. I was more concerned with the Red Sox and girls, though not in that order. If you look across the Charles River from Storrow Drive, you can see Harvard and M.I.T. So near and yet so far. Let’s just say I wasn’t ticketed for either, more likely some State college or with luck, UMass.

I didn’t get to UMass, and for one good reason – my left arm. I played baseball in high school, gifted with a decent fastball and not much else. During my junior year, a coach took me aside and said, You have the longest fingers I have ever seen. Why aren’t you throwing curve balls? Good question. So, I worked and worked to develop what ballplayers call the deuce. Lo and behold, by senior year my curve and I were unhittable.

Then the phone started to ring, and suddenly college coaches who a year before wouldn’t have given me the time of day were begging me to play for them. Being a Catholic, wanting my parents to see me play, and having the chance for a quality education, I chose Boston College.

The Society of Jesus expected me to do more than just pitch. Things like go to class, study, pass, and oh yeah, graduate – concepts that USC and Texas didn’t bother to mention. A major in history was coupled with a minor in philosophy. Philosophy? Once the Jesuits have you, they never let you go. Of course, neither discipline would get me a job since philosophers are always the last ones hired. Meanwhile, my hurling was coming along nicely, and after four years, I graduated – with honors.

Now, Boston College is no one’s idea of a baseball or for that matter, a football factory. If you want a centerman or a lawyer, you look here. If you want a shortstop, you look elsewhere. Most scouts couldn’t find Chestnut Hill with both hands and a map. Wonder of wonders, midway through my senior year I was being scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates. Miracle of miracles, they drafted me. OK, so it was in the 30th round, but I was in no position to quibble. My philosophy career would have to be postponed. Game called on account of – the National Pastime.

Continuing up I-75, a town appears on our left. Not just any town, it is Bradenton aka Sarasota’s ugly stepsister. Bradenton has precisely two claims to fame. It is the home of Tropicana Orange Juice and, for six weeks every winter, the home of the Pirates. This is where it all began for me, February 2000, spring training with Pittsburgh. I arrived on the afternoon of the 15th – bringing with me a glove and a dream. When a Major League team drafts you in the 30th round, your signing bonus will just about pay for a baloney and cheese sandwich. I couldn’t care less. I was a Professional Baseball Player.

In all, three summers would pass toiling in the Pirates minor league system. I started playing A ball in Lynchburg, Virginia; the year after, AA in Altoona, Pennsylvania; and finally, AAA in Nashville. While down on the farm, I played with guys on the way up, some others on the way down, and a few on the way out – has-beens and never-wases, prospects and suspects. The Pirates told me I was a prospect. So, I rode the buses, slept in team motels, ate a lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and waited. In the spring of 2003, my time finally arrived.

With Bradenton in the rearview mirror, we now transition to the I-275. The high-strung Elise is loafing along in 6th gear at 80 mph and goading me on as the road bends right. Coming into view is our local Jewel in the Crown, the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, according to some expert the third greatest bridge in the world. It’s the gateway to St. Petersburg, the back way to Tampa.

At the end of spring training, I was called into the manager’s office. There would be no going back to Nashville. I had made the team and would go north with the Pirates. The word I was looking for was incredulous, because some way somehow, I was headed to the show.

The end of the Bridge is the start of St. Petersburg. A city of two hundred and fifty thousand, it sits across the bay from Tampa and faces the Gulf of Mexico. If you are poor, you live in Tampa. Rich? St. Pete.

Further up the 275, accompanied by the wind noise around my open car and the whine from the supercharger a foot behind my head, I decide to fight back. Up comes the volume on the Lotus’ CD player. A note about my music – I was educated by parents who explained to me that modern music sucked, and rap is crap – ‘60s rock and roll is the only real music. Thus, the CD changer has everything from the Beatles covering Ain’t She Sweet to the Rivingtons and their immortal Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow. Then add in a dash of Francis Albert Sinatra, and since this is Florida, a dollop of James William Buffett – mix well, and Voila! Music.

When we arrived in Pittsburgh, I was told that my starting days were over, and I was now a short reliever. In the lexicon of Baseball, a left-handed short reliever is the guy who arrives in the 8th inning with the game hanging in the balance for the sole purpose of getting out the other team’s best left-handed hitter. So, I had a role to play.

That first year in a Major League clubhouse was an education. I learned the official language of Baseball – profanity. Players are quite skilled at using modifiers, That frigin’ ball went so frigin’ far and so frigin’ high! They also like adding the word mother for emphasis. The boys are also adept at coming up with phrases to describe particular situations. If a pitcher goes nine innings and allows two hits, a player might be apt to say he stuck the bat up your butt. Conversely, if a reliever comes in, faces four batters, gives up four hits, and allows four runs to score, he has just shit all over the place. Then there are the ladies. What to a rock guitarist is a groupie, to a middle infielder is an Annie. Baseball Annies, like groupies, come in various sizes and shapes, some rather good, some with lots of personality. They have one thing – all right, two things - in common. They want to meet a ballplayer, and they know the exact location of every team’s road hotel. Some players will always choose quality over quantity, but for others, a ten o’clock two is a two o’clock ten. And, of course, there are the bird-watchers, those drawn to the mating call of the double-breasted mattress thrasher.

The year before, Pittsburgh had opened a glorious new ballpark right on the river with a view of downtown. Unfortunately, their silk purse came with a sow's ear – the Pirates. That summer, the team mustered just seventy-five wins to finish fourth. We outdid ourselves the following season, seventy-two victories. Ta Da!

For two years I did my job, did it pretty well, and then awoke one morning to learn I had been traded to the St. Louis Cardinals. The Pirates had started yet another urban renewal project. Rebuilding was the one thing they led the league in. Their desirable assets - me, I suppose - were being exchanged for still more prospects. I was headed for my second team, having been swapped for the legendary player-to-be-named-later.

At least I was going to a winning team with a great manager in Tony La Russa. In 2004, the Cards won a stupefying 105 games to take the pennant before having their lunch handed to them by the Red Sox in the Series. The team had front row seats for the death of the Curse. 2005 looked to be more of the same as we won 100 games and swept the Padres in the first round. In the next round, however, we got swarmed by the Astros’ Killer B’s. Bagwell, Berkman, and Biggio sent us packing in six games.

I enjoyed my season – notice I used the singular and not the plural – in St. Louis because the fans were arguably the best in baseball. Soon, it was moving day again. The Cardinals had some young arms ready to come up from the minors. Young arms is a euphemism for rookies who play for the minimum, and I was a highly paid veteran – as a result of arbitration – at over $2,000,000 a year.

There is a dirty word for what I had become, a journeyman.

And while we are on the subject of dirty words, now appearing on your right is Tropicana Field, by unanimous consent the worst ballpark in the world. To me, it’s the box St. Petersburg came in, a domed monstrosity full of girders, cables, catwalks, and about a million-and-a-half ground rules. All of which beg the question, What genius decided that, on a summer evening, Floridians wanted to be indoors? Happily, I had the displeasure of playing there on precious few occasions.

So, the Cards shipped me off to the Atlanta Braves. Talk about your boomtown, you can feel it growing up around you. In Buckhead alone, there is enough nightlife for five cities and per square-foot, more beautiful put-together women than anywhere else in the world. You can’t swing a fungo bat without hitting a babe. Needless to say, my three years in Atlanta were a lot of fun, thanks in large part to a new, lucrative three-year contract.

While there, I got to play for another big-time manager, Bobby Cox. There is a problem with playing for the likes of Cox and La Russa – they are used to winning. For fifteen straight years, the Braves had made the playoffs. Well, we put a stop to that.

Not only did we not make the playoffs, we chalked up the first losing season in fifteen years.

Oh Lord, I hope they are not rebuilding.

The Braves were a team in transition, learning to cope without future hall-of-famers Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine. The next season, we somewhat righted the ship – 84 wins left us five games behind the Phillies.

In reality, all we did was rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic. The win total dropped to 72 the following year. Then we were 20 games adrift of the Phils. It was time to rebuild in Atlanta and time for me to go. During the winter, I was traded again, this time to Philadelphia, and in February 2009, I reported for spring training with the Phillies in Clearwater.

Would it have killed somebody to trade me to the Red Sox?

Clearwater is precisely where we are now. Having exited the 275, we are now northbound on U. S. Highway 19. First stop is the Lotus Dealer where I am leaving the Elise to be serviced. Note to anyone who plans on buying a high performance British sports car – make sure you know where the dealer is.

Mine is fifty-five miles from home.

I am fortunate that the appointment will only take about three hours, and the service manager gives me the use of a loaner car – lest I miss an appointment and wind-up with parts stamped Made in England littering the Interstate. Ten minutes later, we are back on the Highway.

Spring with the Phillies did not start well. The Club already had left-handed relievers, so why did they trade for me? There was talk about my going back to the minors, hardly music to my ears.

After six years in the show, the thought of playing out the summer in Allentown, PA, toiling in AAA for the Lehigh Valley IronPigs – whatever they are - was almost too much to bear. Now, for the first time ever, the R work crept through my mind. Retirement.

That said, pitchers can be notoriously fragile. Sure enough, a ligament tear here, a pulled muscle there, some tendinitis, and surprise – once again I was invaluable. That summer, the Phillies used twenty-two different pitchers.

I hated Philadelphia – didn’t like the town or the people, and the cheese steak will never replace the sub sandwich or a slice of Regina’s pizza. The poor man’s Cradle of Liberty held no allure for me since I grew up in the real one. The Phillies had moved into a new stadium in 2004, a big upgrade over the dump they used to play in. Citizens Bank Park is many things – pitcher friendly is not any of them. It wasn’t so much a ballpark as it was a launching pad – Canaveral, without the alligators. There were precisely three saving graces. Starting at the top, the Phillies were winners. Second, thanks to my now being eligible for free agency, they were paying me over $6,000,000 a year on a new three-year deal.

The third came in June of 1910, when a Delta charter landed at Logan Airport. As a result of inter-league play, the Phillies came to Boston. The next day, I walked on the grass at Fenway Park. You can change grass to sacred soil because, to any true New Englander, this is hallowed ground as surely as the sod on Lexington Green. I got to pitch in Baseball’s Basilica.

A month later, it was well past midnight when we checked in to the Hilton in San Francisco. I got to my room and the message light on the phone was blinking. My father had called and said it was urgent. I called his cell phone and barely recognized the voice on the other end. Through his trembling lips came two words, She’s gone. My mother was dead. Four hours later, I was in a cab back to SFO, with a reservation on the first flight home. I had arranged for a high school buddy to pick me up at Logan, and we drove to Newton.

The view of our classic New England brick and wood home just off Commonwealth Avenue was a sight for these sore eyes. My father was crushed. High school sweethearts, they had been married for thirty-seven years. Two days later, we buried her in the Holy Cross Cemetery in Malden.

The Navy was able to get word to Tommie, somewhere in the Mediterranean. As for my dad, my only hope was that he would throw himself into his work, which he did. As for me, heartbroken, I went back to helping the Phillies win ballgames. And we kept on winning. Like every team, we had injuries and like every good team, we fought through them.

We put together a solid 93-win season and in September, clinched the Club’s third straight Division title. We rolled through the playoffs, making short work of the Rockies and the Dodgers, and landed a spot in the Fall Classic. I now had a shot at a ring. But looming in the other dugout was the team every Bostonian loathes, the team Red Sox President Larry Lucchino immortalized as the Evil Empire – the Bronx Bombers. I swear to God – I’d root for the plague if it were playing the Yankees.

The bastards had won the Series twenty-six times, and far be it from us to stand in the way of number twenty-seven. So, the latter-day Murderer’s Row took us out, four games to two. No title for the City of Brotherly Love, and sadly, no ring for moi.

Midway through the next season, while warming up, I felt a sharp pain in my elbow. There are two places a pitcher never wants to feel discomfort – in the shoulder, which usually means a torn rotator cuff, and in the elbow, most likely ligament damage. I wanted a second opinion. It took one trip to the Kerlan-Jobe Clinic in Los Angeles and one exam by the great Doctor Jobe himself to confirm my own diagnosis – my elbow needed work. In the lingo of medicine, it’s known as an Ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction. For a pitcher who didn’t quite make medical school, it’s called Tommy John Surgery. So, on July 23rd, I went under the knife. The surgeons were pleased with the procedure and saw no reason why I could not continue pitching. Two weeks later, I began rehab.

I was three months into rehabilitation before I was allowed to simulate a throwing motion. One month later, they let me swing a golf club. By February, I was throwing off a mound with little discomfort. I then joined the Phillies in Clearwater to do more throwing and increase my arm strength. In April, I started throwing my bread and butter pitch – the curve ball. For whatever reason, it wasn’t breaking, or as players would say, biting. During August, there was a traditional rehab tour of the minors, and left-handed batters who I used to have for lunch were lining shots over me, under me, and through me. In September, when Major League Baseball teams expanded their rosters to forty players, the Phillies didn’t even bother to call me up. In their minds, and in mine, I was done.

No sad songs for me. I had put in nine seasons in the bigs and earned what, in clubhouse-ese, was a shit load of money. In time, I will receive a very generous pension. While I was no one’s idea of a miser, I was somewhat careful with my Benjamins. Teammates would pony up $250,000 for a Ferrari, whereas your humble servant would plunk down 50 large for a Lotus. A $100,000,000 contract usually carries with it a 10,000-square foot mansion or mansions. As you will see, I settled for less. And for good measure, I bought a ton of Apple stock at $100 and sold it at $600.

In short, I’m loaded.

Ahead is the Florida Highway 60 exit, then a quarter-mile down the State Road, followed by a right onto Old Coachman Road. Our destination is in sight – Bright House Field, spring home of the Philadelphia Phillies. It is part of the new wave of Florida ballparks with seats for 7,500 and a berm to accommodate an additional 1,500 freeloaders.

I’m here to have lunch with a good buddy, David Murdoch. Davy was the chief nuclear engineer on what is known in the Navy as a boomer, a ballistic missile submarine. As with so many before him, two months without seeing the sun got to be a little old. Having retired from the service, now divorced, and grossly overqualified, the Phillies hired him to be of all things their groundskeeper at the Bright House Complex.

We pitchers all loved him because he tailored the field to our liking. Ground ball pitchers got taller grass, and the foul lines were slopped away so a bunt would not stay fair. The bulb finally went on over some suit’s head, and he was named chief electrician. He is a stand-up guy, an above average golfer, and one of my best friends.

Lunch is at the Clearwater Wine Bar & Bistro, a popular spot on the water. While we wait for our food, Davy brings me up to speed on what he has been doing.

The Stadium has decided to update the lighting system.

Good lights are crucial in Florida for an obvious reason – in the summer, virtually every game is a night game. Davy drew up plans for a new, million-dollar system. He got the Phillies to go for it based on the fact that it was more energy efficient and would pay for itself – in a hundred years. Price didn’t matter to Davy. Whatever it costs to do the job – an engineer to the core.

You’re going to do that job? It sounds like trouble.

Do you think I’m going up those towers and handle all that high voltage? How dumb do I look? An outside firm does all…"

The installation? Design?

Yes.

Touch?

No.

Consider me greatly relieved. I have plans to clean your clock at Prestancia. When can you come down?

We’ll be on the first tee just as soon as I put baby to bed.

Two ginger ales, a club sandwich, and a fight over the check later – which I won, I drop him off at the ballpark.

Now back to the narrative. One morning during that first spring with the Pirates, I finished my work out early, borrowed a friend’s car, and went exploring. Seven miles south on U.S. Highway 41, I was stopped dead in my tracks. This was it. The sign said Sarasota. It might have as easily said Paradise. The town’s motto could have been "aqua, aqua, ubique. Latin? Seriously? Remember, I’m the product of a Catholic education. In English, that translates water, water, everywhere." The area includes two bays, one intra-coastal waterway, inlets, outlets, canals, a bayou, a river and one Gulf of Mexico. If you love the water - and I do, this is surely the place.

The little town seemed to have everything – theatre, opera, ballet, excellent restaurants, although the search for someone who can make lasagna like my mother goes on, and massive snob appeal, which we call sophistication. How could I not love a place whose symbol is Michelangelo’s David? I heard a voice saying, Someday I’m going to live here. It was my voice.

After three full years in the relative squalor of a Pittsburgh apartment, I was ready to make my move. Siesta Key is a special place, a barrier island with the Intracoastal Waterway on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the