Chasing Down the Jumpers

By Janice Drake

Morris Brown, bail bondsman from Champaign, Illinois, stumbles into his extraordinary life in the 1950's. His journey parallels the events of the first 60 years of the twentieth century. His showmanship and persistence at tracking down bond jumpers make his story compelling. He spends years perfecting the art of catching the allusive jumpers.
Morris Brown connects with movie stars, the mob, and ordinary folks in need of help getting out of jail. Never one to shy away from publicity, he floods the country with handbills and thousands of book matches, emblazoned with pictures and known habits of fugitives—plus fat rewards and personal greetings for good heath, a happy Yule or a bang-up 4th of July. Local newspaper reporters follow him to lunch counters, railway stations, and courtrooms, looking for a tidbit from this local celebrity.
Stirred by the desire to make social changes and serve his community, this "people's friend" spends years pursuing political office while sidestepping his mob connections. How will these issues be resolved? Can he make it work? These questions Morris thinks about quietly, mostly to himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667813707

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Copyright ©2022 Janice Drake

First Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66781-369-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66781-370-7

Printed in the United States of America

For Floyd Wright, Jr.

It is hard to reason about death. Hard to let go of someone you love. I have looked for my brother in a lot of places, but never in a place where he might be. The prospect of finding him around the corner of each building on the block, behind the trees and flowers is terrifying. How can I possibly keep his legacy alive? How can I not? I know people who reach the end of their days must leave others who must live out their days without them. It is difficult to be the one who has so stay behind.

Contents

Author's Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Update

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Author's Note

During an interview with Steve Lewin for another book, he stated that the most interesting person he ever met was his Uncle Morris. Steve revealed some great characters in that discussion, so I took the challenge and found that he was right.

Though the story of Morris Brown came to me as a gift, there was a great deal of study and toil to be done before it could be written down. It had to be written with every pen I owned. History is not the past as it really was. It’s the shape we give it. If Morris’ story was worth telling, I ought to love it enough to be willing to work over it until it was true—true not only to the ideal, but true to the real.

At the end of our lives, after we have passed on, all that is left of us is our story. These stories are our ticket to immortality. Knowing that future generations will retell our stories liberates us into a realm of timelessness. Who would have thought there was something so powerful in a simple tale waiting to be told?

And now that Morris’s story is told, what does it mean? How can I tell? What does life mean? If the meaning could be put into a sentence there would be no need of telling the story.

Prologue

People don’t walk away from money. They should sometimes, but they don’t.

They had a cheesy ceremony in the back of the car. That was it. Sammy Lewis pulled off the side of the road on the outskirts of Champaign, turned to Morris in the backseat, pricked Morris’s thumb with a pin, kissed him on the cheeks, and said Congratulations, you’re in. They didn’t hold burning paper, or a stiletto, or a gun, or anything like that. It was nothing like it was supposed to have been in the old days, nothing like it was in the movies.

Morris was disappointed. But he decided to use it for all it was worth. Working for the organization would give him a chance to expand his horizons. Customers would be lining up to use his get out of jail free card. The Brown Iron and Metal Company was a solid business venture but way too routine to suit Morris’s taste for adventure and his craving for fancy cars and fine clothes.

I’m not taking orders from anyone, Morris shot back.

That’s not true; you’re taking them from me, Lewis intoned.

Morris was not quite sure what to say to this, or if he should be saying anything at all. He was far from sure, far enough to feel doubt at the thought. He let this sit. It did. Hard.

Lewis gave Morris what he considered a reasonable deal. But he’d hardly call it fair. Reasonable, but not fair. Fair was for grade school.

Well? asked Lewis.

I think we’re good, he replied. As soon as it was out of his mouth, he expected Sammy Lewis to make a biting remark about the inappropriate use of the word good. Instead, Lewis gave him a thumbs up, suggesting that he considered the two of them teammates. For now, at least.

Don’t be such a dick, replied Lewis, but there was no rancor in his voice, and he was smiling, too. He reached over and punched Morris on the arm.

The two of them exchanged the kind of telling male expression that seals a secret. Morris could feel the words inside his mouth, begging to come out, but it wasn’t going to be at this moment. He locked his mouth shut on all the words he felt bubbling up. No point saying them. Nothing so loyal as the old mob tie, was there?

Nobody ever quit the mob. Not because of blood oaths or fear of getting clipped, but because… well, why would you? Morris said his goodbyes, hopped into his Ford coupe, and followed his headlights home through the dark, thinking over everything Sam Lewis had told him.

Everyone knew the mob had been banging prostitution and gambling in the Chicago and Champaign areas for everything it was worth. They had been around since before prohibition. Morris had provided his share of bootlegged liquor. The skim had flowed and why not? And listening to the guys—the conversations were always about sex, food, smells, girls, small dicks, and homos. And crime, of course. Most of the scores never came off, of course; they were just bullshit—but some of them did. The truth was that the crew would steal anything, even stuff they didn’t want and couldn’t use, just because they could steal it. And that’s how Morris fit in. He was there, as the only bail bondsman in Champaign, to post bail and get them back into circulation so they could do it all over again. His brand-new state license, number 48, had just gotten off to a great start. With the university in town filled with students who loved to party and the air base near-by, the mob connection added to his bottom line. The mob used their money to cozy up to politicians, influence public policy, and elect their own candidates.

Morris liked being around mobbed up guys. It kept things interesting and gave him a whiff of notoriety and danger. It brought new customers and made his office at the salvage yard gangster chic. He would make sure that no one thought he was weak. The mob mentality on weakness—sooner or later, the mob would have to kill him.

Later, he would occasionally lie awake at night wondering if he only chose the mob to make his life interesting. But it was just a nagging fear that usually passed after a moment or two of self-reflection. He was not going to indulge any sort of misguided quiet around that. He told himself he could handle it. Because no one could be honest all the time—not even Morris.

He thought about his life, as it had been and as it was now. You’re not much, Morris Brown. This surprised him, but he felt it to be true. His story was carved into him deeply; it sat quietly tucked deep beneath his ribcage all the time. It was like waiting to throw up, he thought—how you could sense it, but it wasn’t there yet.

A person never saw himself from the perspective of another. He never knew how he really looked. In fact, it was a time when a man was nothing but a suit of clothes, a shirt and tie, shined leather shoes and a gray felt hat. If thought attractive, it was because he had a nice smile and a twinkle in his eye. It had nothing to do with class or wealth or race. Adults of every class, race, and income level conformed, within a wide enough range to permit expressions of individuality and regionality. It was a generally accepted idea that men should look alike.

Photographs showed a man in his late forties of middle height with wavy light hair. Morris was not a tall man, but he was able to command a room. He had presence about him, and he was good at making a good story better. Morris was so alive—always working, laughing, his hands never still, always holding a cigarette, throwing out dry humor, or throwing back a glass. There was contradiction in his still concentration and restless energy, and the mysterious magnetic attraction of a man of ordinary appearance.

You would never call Morris a cultured man by any means, but he had some surprises in him. Take the crossword puzzles for instance. Morris could do the Sunday New York Times puzzle in ink. This was one of the traditions his father, Benjamin, had started to learn English when he emigrated from Russia. He ordered the paper to be delivered to the salvage yard each week. It came in on the train, and he spent part of each Sunday lounging in the back room with the puzzle and a drink. Morris could thank his father for all the words in his head, and he was a walking dictionary, but the funny thing was, he didn’t use any of those words in his conversations