Money Thief: The Life and Times of a Master Till-Tapper. a Self-Portrait of a Former Thief and Drug Addict

By "James E. ""J.L""" Jones

Money Thief traces my path from the age of twelve to sixty-five, through numerous prison terms, heroin addictions, several marriages, and finally, to redemption. Each chapter, or mini-story, chronicles some significant event in my life. While each event did in fact occur, their chronological sequences may not be one-hundred percent accurate. Over the passage of time, coupled with vast amounts of drugs consumed, my recollection of times and places may have been somewhat eroded, By writing this story, I hope to illuminate the fact that no matter how far afield one may wander, redemption is not only possible, with diligence of purpose and focus, it is attainable. The life I led, although influenced by various factors beyond my control, was the product of my bad choices; just as my choice of redemption was the result of my own decisions and actions. My frivolous pursuit to discover and understand the enigmatic world around me has led me on a destructive path of heartache and misery; and broken dreams that seemed beyond repair. Yet, with diligence, hard work, and a constantly evolving mind-set, I have met the awesome challenge of rehabilitation, and have firmly grasped the reins of recovery from the diabolical hands of crime, prison, and drug addiction.
-James E. J.J. Jones, Oct., 2010

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469125282

"James E. ""J.L""" Jones

none

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by James E. J.J. Jones.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012906772

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-2527-5

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-2526-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2528-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

109447

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Chapter One  Baby Boy Baker

Chapter Two  Billy Jack

Chapter Three  Returning Home

Chapter Four  John Higgins

Chapter Five  Tragic Magic

Chapter Six  The Till Game

Chapter Seven  California Dreaming

Chapter Eight  In The Mix

Chapter Nine  Change Of Plans

Chapter Ten  A Wing And A Prayer

Chapter Eleven  Strawberry

Chapter Twelve  Expanding My Game

Chapter Thirteen  Arizona State Prison

Chapter Fourteen  Maisha

Chapter Fifteen  California Department Of Corrections (Cdc)

Chapter Sixteen  Family Man

Chapter Seventeen  Colleen

Chapter Eighteen  Trying Again, To Get It Right

Chapter Nineteen  I Will Fight No More Forever

Glossary

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

IN WRITING ABOUT oneself, it is imperative to resist the urge to embellish facts with exaggerations and half-truths. Yet, my greatest challenge was in presenting this truth without concern for its dramatic or entertainment value. It is, therefore, my absolute commitment to tell this story with those factors in mind.

In sharing my life experiences, I hope to reveal, with some clarity, my thought processes, as my transformation into becoming a committed criminal and drug addict unfolded, and took shape like a piece of clay in the hands of a master sculptor.

As readers, you will sit in moral judgment of my misdeeds and criminal escapades. And you have every right to do so. My disdain for the proper rules of civil behavior is inexcusable. I seek no sympathy or pity for the choices I made and the consequences I suffered as a result of those choices. I am merely relating how one man chose to live his life, and how he came to understand the extreme difficulty of regaining his footing after falling so hard.

In acknowledgement, there are several persons I would like to thank for the development of this book; without whose encouragement and assistance may have never been written. I owe special thanks to my dear sister, Jean, whose ceaseless urging and prodding finally prompted me to write my story; and to my niece, Alayne, who served as my editor, my counselor and my strength, when my interest in writing was sagging the most; and to my many friends and associates who in part, shared my story to some degree. I give thanks and appreciation to all those who touched my life in one way or the other, and made it all possible.

-James E. J.J. Jones, Oct., 2010

AUTHOR’S NOTE

MONEY THIEF TRACES my path from the age of twelve to sixty-five, through numerous prison terms, heroin addictions, several marriages, and finally, to redemption. Each chapter, or mini-story, chronicles some significant event in my life. While each event did in fact occur, their chronological sequences may not be one-hundred percent accurate. Over the passage of time, coupled with vast amounts of drugs consumed, my recollection of times and places may have been somewhat eroded, By writing this story, I hope to illuminate the fact that no matter how far afield one may wander, redemption is not only possible, with diligence of purpose and focus, it is attainable. The life I led, although influenced by various factors beyond my control, was the product of my bad choices; just as my choice of redemption was the result of my own decisions and actions. My frivolous pursuit to discover and understand the enigmatic world around me has led me on a destructive path of heartache and misery; and broken dreams that seemed beyond repair. Yet, with diligence, hard work, and a constantly evolving mind-set, I have met the awesome challenge of rehabilitation, and have firmly grasped the reins of recovery from the diabolical hands of crime, prison, and drug addiction.

-James E. J.J. Jones, Oct., 2010

CHAPTER ONE

Baby Boy Baker

IN MARCH OF 1936, at the stop of the Great Depression, a nineteen-year-girl walked into the City and County Hospital of Fort Worth, Texas, and announced that she was about to have a baby. The Hospital attendants quickly rushed her to the delivery room. About forty minutes later, she gave birth to a 7-pound, 3-ounce baby boy. That baby boy was me, and the nineteen-year-girl was my mother. Her name was Estella Mae Baker, the third eldest daughter of Emmitt Baker, of Flatonia, Texas.

Soon after giving birth to me, I was told by my Aunt Monk, who was our family’s historian, that my mother had fled the hospital, stopping only long enough to give the hospital staff her name. I had no name at that point. Nor did I have a father’s name. Subsequently, the hospital simply wrote Baby Boy Baker on my birth certificate. Maybe that was why my Grandfather always referred to me as ‘boy,’ instead of by name, which I didn’t have. But that little discrepancy had long since been corrected, before my Grandfather ever even saw me.

At any rate, keeping accurate birth records on people of color was not a priority in those days. That’s just how it was. Coming onto the perilous stage of life without a name or a father, have foretold for me, a life filled with missing pieces.

My Aunt Monk, continuing her narrative about my mother’s mindset when I was born, told me that mamma had returned to the hospital five days later to retrieve her recently abandoned package, me. And with me in arms, she again fled the confines of the hospital. Only this time, she provided the hospital with the name James to be put on my birth certificate, but still no father’s name. And neither did my name James replace Baby Boy Baker. It seemed that somebody had dropped the ball.

It wasn’t until some years later that I learned, while trying to secure my birth certificate, that It still had no father’s name on it, nor a child’s name, for that matter. It only had baby boy, born to Estella Mae Baker, on March 27, 1936, at two a.m. So, armed with my military and prison records, I petitioned the hospital authorities to ‘fix’ my birth certificate. My request was granted. I was now a person who had his name on his birth certificate; James Earl, the name my mother had actually given me, but still no father’s name.

I’ve learned that in every family, there are keepers of the family history, as well as family secrets. In some cases; there are several story-tellers in a family. In my family, before my sister, Tommie Ruth was born; it was my mother’s younger sister, Maude, who we called Monk. Aunt Monk was the baby girl of the baker clan. She was masterful at recalling all the family dirt, as well the family history and gossip. My need to know about my mother’s flight from the hospital when I was born was burning inside of me. And since my mamma had no intention of sharing that piece of history with me, I called on my Aunt Monk. She knew where all the bones were buried. Not only was she knowledgeable about family stuff, she was eager to share it.

First of all, she said, your mamma didn’t flee the hospital that night because she didn’t care about her child. She was deathly afraid of Papa. She had hidden her pregnancy from him because she wasn’t married to your father. And Papa was violently against unwed mothers. He would have murdered her if he had known. So it was out of pure fear that she ran off when you were born.

When you were about a year old, your mother found the courage to face Papa with his new grandson. By then, she had married your father. So she went to Papa seeking his blessing and forgiveness. The passage of time had softened his rigid stance, and he grudgingly gave her his blessings. His forgiveness, on the other hand, was another story. Aunt said that she doubted that he would ever forgive her.

With her worse fears behind her, my mamma and my father left my birth city of Fort Worth, and settled in a little, whistle-stop town called Avalon, about twenty-odd miles south of Fort Worth. After about six months, in Avalon, they relocated a few miles away to another equally small town called Blooming Grove. Here, we would remain for about a year before moving again. This time, it was to Mansfield, a few miles further south of Blooming Grove. Mansfield was the birth place of one John Howard Griffin, the Award winning author of the best-selling biographical novel Black like Me. John Howard and I were about the same age when he wrote his novel. But we never knew each other growing up. The ugly Spector of Jim Crow Law, a system of racial segregation, known mostly in the South, prevented that from happening. However, after John’s book was published, I did have the chance to meet him at a book signing, and share my interest in his courage and his work.

I guess the things I remember most about Mansfield were the fields of cotton and corn all around our house. I can still smell the pungent aroma of sulphur, as they sprayed the crops surrounding our house. The clouds of sulphur hung over our house like a blanket of fog. I also remembered that we were sharecroppers; a system where landowners would provide free housing to poor families, who in exchange, would work the crops for a share of the harvest revenue. Thus the term ‘s-h-a-r-e-c-r-o-p-p-e-r’ was created. This was a widely used system throughout the south.

In September, of 1939, mamma gave birth to a baby girl. They named her Tommie Ruth. She was a pretty, dark skin child with big beautiful eyes. A little more than a year later, mamma was at it again; another little girl was added to our family. Her name was Emma Jean. Jean was a cute, little coffee colored, baby who seldom cried. Although her name was supposed to be Emma Jean, Somehow, on her birth certificate it came out ‘Emogene.’ But to us, it was always just Jean.

Being almost five-years-old, it was a joy for me to play with Jean without getting my ass whipped for making her cry; because she seldom ever cried. I can barely remember the times, but I was told that I was a little terror; getting into everything, exploring, breaking things, always being someplace I shouldn’t be, running my mouth, and generally being a nuisance. Now, besides my sister, Tommie Ruth, I had another little person I could terrorize, Jean.

Mamma wasn’t through having babies; right at two years later, we got our fourth addition to the family. It was a boy this time. They named him Eddie Lee Jones Jr., after our father, Eddie Lee. We were now four-deep, stair-stacked, barely a year and a half separated our ages. I guess on the surface, we were a happy family. But there were rumblings in paradise. Daddy was not only a drunk; he was also a cheater, so I was later told. To add fuel to the already raging fire, he would beat mamma unmercifully. Since we lived in the middle of nowhere, what could she possibly been doing to deserve these beatings? I was too young to understand the inner workings of a marriage, but I guess daddy felt justified, or was too drunk to know any better. At any rate, their relationship came to an end. There was no big fanfare about the breakup. They went to court to see who would have us. Since their breakup was irreconcilable, the court ordered that since my father was better able to care for the kids than my mother, he was awarded custody of the three smaller children. They let me decide which parent I wanted to go with. I chose to stay with my mother.

My father’s mother, Ardelia Wyatt, owned a big house on a farm. My sisters and brother were taken to live on her farm, allowing mamma visitation rights agreed upon between the parents. Grandma ‘Deal,’ as she was referred to despised my mother. For one thing, mamma was too ‘light’ skinned, and Grandma Deal didn’t like light skinned people. Plus, there was always some lingering doubt about her son being my ‘real’ father.

Grandma Deal was very strict and mean. And with my little sister Jean being a few shades lighter than the rest of us, she frequently caught the full brunt of Grandma’s mean streak. I felt so bad for my little sister. She was in a Devil’s den and couldn’t do a thing about. But like the saying goes; better thee than me. As black as I was Grandma Deal would have probably killed me had I lived with her.

After the split between mamma and daddy, mamma and I moved back to Fort Worth, where mamma a hard working, hard drinking, illiterate country boy named Robert Richie. After hooking up with Mr. Robert, the three of us quickly moved back south to Blooming Grove. Since it was just a stone’s throw from Mansfield, where my siblings were, it made visiting much easier for us.

By now, I was eight-years-old, and as wild as a buck deer; killing cats, chasing skunks, and chickens and generally making a nuisance of myself. I wasn’t really bad, as ‘bad’ goes. I was just adventurous and mischievous. My new step-dad, Mr. Robert, as I was instructed to call him, was not my greatest fan, and did not appreciate my exuberance. As a matter of fact, I believe that to him, I was a necessary convenience; I came with the package; he wanted mamma, not me!

Looking back, I think Mr. Robert was the leading reason for my flight from home. There were other reasons as well;