“That’s me,” he said good-naturedly.
“Jimmy Taylor, you are under arrest for first degree murder on a warrant from Jackson County, Oregon.”
Jimmy’s half-smoked cigarette fell to the porch floor as his hands were wrenched behind his back by one of the police officers. Handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists.
Jimmy couldn’t believe what was happening. “There has to be some mistake,” he said. He caught one last look at a stunned Jeannie as he was assisted down the steps.
After being turned over to two other strangers and pushed into the back seat of a car, Jimmy heard a third man who had climbed into the front say, “The law requires that you be advised you have the right to remain silent; that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law; that you have the right to the presence of an attorney; and that if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you prior to any questioning if you so desire. Do you understand these rights?”
Jimmy could hear Jeannie protesting. Someone was screaming; it sounded like Julie. “Yeah, I understand.”
“I’m Peter Jones. Are you willing to talk to me?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you ever been in the State of Oregon?”
“No, never have.” Jimmy twisted his head trying to see what was happening in his front yard, but couldn’t.
“Were you born in Tennessee?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you be willing to talk to me about a homicide that occurred in 1967 in Jackson County, Oregon?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know anything to tell.”
Another man got in on the driver’s side and started the engine. As the car pulled away, visions of home and family were gradually pushed aside. The veil of time parted and Jimmy glimpsed a dark night on a jagged mountain peak, twenty-one years earlier. He was seeing events as though the nightmares were happening to someone else. Unfortunately for him, they weren’t.
In 1967, the country was running scared. Confusion reigned. During the past four years hope had eroded as one devastating event followed another. That dreadful day in Dallas was still etched upon the memory of those who had watched and prayed as their leader, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was killed by an assassin’s bullets. In death, JFK had captivated a nation’s attention even more than he had in life.
The war in Vietnam had escalated to the point where it was the new president’s, Lyndon Johnson’s, obsession. He seemed convinced that he could bomb Ho Chi Minh into submission. During any pause in the action the leader of the North Vietnamese would order his people out of their holes and they would rebuild what had been destroyed, working with a demonic fervor until the next wave of bombers roared in. It became evident that LBJ was not a field general. His constituents remarked about how he’d aged.
At home, a civil war was being fought. Not between the states, but between the generations. The antagonists were parents and their teenage children, young people who were rebelling against the assassinations and the war. Once the hippie movement gained momentum, it rolled like a mighty river towards California, carrying with it rebellious children from families who were devastated by the disappearance of their offspring. Highways were lined with hitchhikers, most heading west.
One day a child would be at home, resisting parents who were out of tune with the times. The old folks were willing to continue bombing until the bastards surrendered; the younger insisted we walk away from Vietnam and mind our own business. Many youths felt as though communism might even be preferable to our corrupt capitalist government. They cried out for new leaders. They wanted Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
Many of the younger generation fought tradition, corporations, and established forms of organized religion. It was important to them that they identify with one another, not with the warmongers who were running America. They liked colorful flowers, beads and bells, and psychedelic drugs. Their long hair, hard rock music and questionable morals earned them the nickname, “Hippies.”
A horde of these dropouts followed the sun until they met the placid waters of the Pacific. Thousands migrated to San Francisco. Many homes throughout the land were missing one or more of their children. Parents often wondered if the fault lay within. Stunned by this sudden shift in values and culture, most suffered in silence.
Seeing the United States after three years in Uncle Sam’s Navy, Jimmy Dale Taylor was suffering from culture shock. His ship had docked at San Francisco when he had received his discharge, and he had stayed there.
Now, as he strolled towards his afternoon job in the Tenderloin area this Monday, Jimmy reflected on his current status. He worked at a bar down near the wharf. It wasn’t the kind of job he really wanted but he was employed, which was more than many of San Francisco’s new citizens could say.
He came from a family of eight children. His father was a disciplinarian who expected patriotism of his children. His devoted mother said of her son, “Jimmy wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a bit of a Romeo, but he would get hurt real easy and he’d always believed in showing women respect. It was the way I brought him up.”
It was no wonder Jimmy felt somewhat out of place among the hordes of hippies. He was clean-shaven, even if he had long sideburns. His dark hair was no longer cropped with whitewalls, but neither was it long and unwashed. It was of a length that could be combed straight back.
He stared as a bus roared up the hill, probably headed for Haight-Ashbury or Golden Gate Park. The vehicle was packed with the young and foolish. They shouted inaudible sounds. Hands were in constant motion. These were the flower children. They came from varied backgrounds and from all over the country. The bus belched black fumes and passed out of sight.
Girls wandered the streets. Many were homesick but felt cut off from their families. Now they were reaching out for whatever affection they could find. Give them a joint or a hit of acid and they would love you all night. Or until they passed out. Few of either sex had a steady job or a reliable source of income. To the extent possible, they cared for their own. They laid claim to parts of the Haight-Ashbury section. There they would often live together in vacant houses until they were discovered and thrown out by the cops. These same cops sometimes got their kicks by waiting until rain was pouring before tossing hippies out into the muck.
As Jimmy pressed on, he wondered if the country was tilted towards San Francisco. Hippies from all over the country rode a numb thumb to the Bay Area. It seemed as though the coast was a sediment trap for the malcontents.
These rebels liked to march down Market Street, protesting the Vietnam conflict. A familiar cry was, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?”
Here there was a war, too. A constant struggle between the old law and the freethinking hippies. Jimmy was not willing to conform to what these dropouts considered to be a nonconforming society. He might puff on a joint now and then but he steered clear of hard drugs. Beer he liked. Maybe a little wine.
Jimmy wanted a change. He wanted to get out of San Francisco. He’d
