Author: nell-boeschenstein

The 15-year-old Albemarle High School student convicted of plotting, with three other teens, to blow up two Albemarle high schools, was sentenced to juvenile detention March 5. The case has been closed to the public and little specific information has been released about the prosecution’s case against the teens. At the 15-year-old’s sentencing hearing, however, some of the evidence finally came to light.
Particularly revealing was the cross-examination of Dr. Eileen Ryan, a psychiatrist who testified on the teen’s behalf. Her testimony showed that the crux of the prosecution’s case were statements the boy made to police. Moreover, according to the boy’s father, the kid made these statements without a lawyer or his parents present. The father also said that none of the guns that were confiscated from the family’s house when the teen was originally taken into custody in February were presented as evidence in the trial.
Prosecutor Darby Lowe, reading from the interrogation transcript, quoted the teen as saying, “We were just going to go to school and kill everyone we knew except for our friends.”
Ryan, who had earlier described the teen as “altruistic, kind and generous,” yet also conflict-avoidant and passive, testified that this inflammatory statement was a response to a hypothetical question. She also said the teen never actually planned to take part in the plot, nor did he ever think the 16-year-old who apparently masterminded it would follow through. The older kid previously pleaded guilty to related charges.
According to Ryan, the 15-year old was caught up in a destructive relationship with his 16-year-old friend, who was bullied and did not fit in at school.
While the father admits that his son made mistakes that led to this ordeal, he says: “When you have a 15-year-old who has not been read his rights, and does not have a lawyer or his parents present, a professional interrogator can have a field day with the kid.”
The boy’s sentence will be determined on May 23, after Judge Susan Whitlock reviews a report from the Department of Social Services. He faces the prospect of being behind bars until age 21.—Nell Boeschenstein

Like so many eager lovebirds before them, a blushing bride walked down the softly lit aisle of the Las Vegas Bellagio Hotel’s wedding chapel on February 16 to meet her dashing groom and exchange vows. The elements of the ordinary were all there: bouquets, champagne, rings and vows, but otherwise this union was hardly run of the mill. The bride was an 81-year-old society matron and longtime Char-lottesville-area resident Betty Scripps, worth about $300 million and heiress to the Scripps newspaper fortune. The groom was Scripps’ 62-year-old ex-husband Jeremy Harvey, a Brit who lived in the area during his first marriage to her and stayed on after the divorce, a man whose past is as shady as a weeping willow in direct sunlight.

   Remarriage to an ex can have sentimental overtones, yes, but on the groom’s side of the aisle at the Bellagio, things might have looked closer to “broke and desperate” than “romantic and remorseful.” Just 72 hours earlier, the groom had been living the suburban dream with another, much younger woman in Charlottesville’s Colthurst subdivision off Barracks Road, all the while trailed by the legal and financial woes that await him in the Albemarle County couts.

   Harvey and Scripps married the first time on Valentine’s Day in 1998 after
a whirlwind, month-long courtship. It
was all chauffeured Rolls Royces and suites at the Ritz until they divorced in early 2004. Scripps left Albemarle, where she had an estate, but Harvey stayed around, “downsizing” to the Colthurst place, a rambling white clapboard house bordered by evergreens that dwarfs many of its neighbors. Harvey shared it with his girlfriend and her three children until the day he jetted to Vegas, refreshing the suburban cliché: Behind every freshly painted door, there’s a nasty divorce, an empty bank account, a tragic suicide, or some other soap opera subplot.

Matching picnic basket

  In January, Jeremy Harvey was served two lawsuits brought by former employees of his small investment bank, Quadrant Capital Group, based in Charlottesville. Stan Manoogian, who was the bank’s managing director for seven months last year, has filed suit in Albemarle Circuit Court. Manoogian alleges fraud, breach of contract and slander, and seeks $2.2 million from Harvey. Jim Hoffmann, who was Quadrant’s director for just nine weeks last fall, has filed suit in Albemarle County General District Court. Hoffmann wants $15,000 in wages he says he never saw. The lawsuits follow a stream of gossip and speculation about Harvey’s past that began flowing not long after he set up his business around here.

   Last October, the mother of Harvey’s Colthurst girlfriend anonymously sent Quadrant employees a package containing two newspaper articles from the Channel Islands, a set of British-owned islands in the English Channel. Harvey had lived on one of them, Jersey Island, prior to arriving in this country around 1997. Presumably, his not-mother-in-law disliked and distrusted Harvey from the start, doing everything possible to curtail her daughter’s affair. Her suspicions now seem well founded.

   The articles detail Harvey’s prior history in South Africa, as well as on Jersey Island. He was a schemer, they said, who had been brought to court or had had charges filed against him on 89 separate occasions
in relation to debts totaling $280,000.
All accounts characterize Harvey as the consummate wannabe, scrimping and scrounging to hobnob with the upper crust.

   One of his first schemes unfolded in South Africa. He was allegedly digging holes for pools there, collecting the money, then skipping out on the job. The article referred to the nickname given to Harvey by a South African newspaper—“Mr. Cool”—in cutting reference to his manners as well as his business, Cool Pools. Once settled in Jersey, he had a different scam, a time-management training system called Business Time Ltd. Reportedly, Harvey was threatened with copyright infringement after co-opting training techniques for Business Time without crediting the company that developed them. A pattern of unpaid debts, threatened suits and suspicious behavior was starting to emerge.

   The Jersey articles present compelling evidence of, at worst, con artistry and at best, chronic financial mismanagement that leaves innocent people in its wake. Tall, dapper and distinguished-looking with steely gray hair and a square jaw, Harvey plied friends and associates abroad with charm and polish—the same affects he eventually used to woo his millionairess wife and do business in Char-lottesville and Albemarle County.

   “[Harvey] is incredibly plausible,” says Jim Hoffmann, a jocular man with an impressive sweater collection and fondness for Barbour jackets. He echoes the same sentiment of “plausibility” expressed by Harvey’s former customers and business associates on Jersey Island in the newspaper article.

   “He was very good at getting people to put a bit of money into his schemes,” one former associate is quoted as saying. “He was a high-flying type of guy. His ambition was limitless, and he was always an edgy sort.”

   An American, Hoffmann attributes Harvey’s plausibility to “[the fact] that he’s an Englishman, was married to a wealthy woman…and he had the trappings. He had the new Range Rover and the matching luggage and the matching picnic basket.”

   Even after his divorce from Scripps, Harvey shamelessly traded on the Scripps caché. He maintained various local Scripps connections post-di-vorce, which is when Hoffmann first encountered him, and allegedly dangled them like juicy bait to attract Quadrant employees in Charlottesville.

Ripples in the pond

Combine “Englishness” with money and Americans go weak in the knees. It’s a phenomenon turn-of-the-century novelist Henry James spent a career exploring. It’s partly a fascination with surface flash—something people in Charlottesville certainly respond to. A flashy newcomer—be it a developer or slick politician—breezes in from out of town, wows us with big ideas, then disappears when cash runs low or the big ideas burst. But hey, it was a beautiful ride while it lasted.

   With his accent and continental charm, Harvey seems to take surface flash one step further, dragging clients, employees, and yes, vulnerable women into his snare.

   “One might enumerate the items of high civilization, as it exists in other countries, which are absent from the texture of American life,” James wrote. “No State…no sovereign, no court…no country gentlemen, no palaces, no castles, nor manors, nor old country-houses…”

   Parts of this nation manifest a preoccupation with cloaking what we lack (yes, aristocracy and country gentlemen) with whatever generic brands are available. Harvey chose his latest playground well: Albemarle County has a special, even naive, appetite for all things English. Take a spin out Route 231 through Keswick and it’s a feast of estates with names like Cismont Manor and Chopping Bottom that only wish they could claim Sir Christopher Wren as their architect.

   Literary analogies account for Harvey’s entrée, but they don’t explain his constant scheming. What does? Harvey would not comment for this article. Perhaps his new/former wife understands and forgives him. Locally, not many others do.

   Manoogian and Hoffmann were among the first to fall for Harvey’s schtick. With the Scripps name as his lucky charm, Harvey was more dangerous here than he’d been on the other side of the pond. He was no longer the guy digging the hole for the pool, he was now the guy sunning himself beside the pool. And power always reclines poolside in a chaise-lounge.

   Manoogian and Hoffmann see now where they should have asked more questions.

   “There are moments in time,” says Hoffmann, “when I’m like, ‘How stupid was I?’ But everybody’s had a strange boss. People behave in very strange manners. That’s not necessarily an issue. The issue is the collateral damage from that behavior. The ripples in the pond, so to speak.”

   They want their money, but their lawsuits, Manoogian and Hoffmann say, are about more than that. Quadrant is still ostensibly in business—complete with a descriptive website and a live secretary. Money aside, Manoogian and Hoffmann say they just want Harvey to pack it up and move along. As Scripps’ Eagle Hill estate was recently listed among the luxury homes for sale in The New York Times Magazine, the chances of the recently reunited lovebirds setting up house again in Charlottesville look slim.

Scripps Air Force

Manoogian, a businessman who’s worked everywhere from China to Chile, cuts a pretty sophisticated figure himself. Well traveled with large, somber green eyes, and a meticulously groomed moustache, Manoogian is most comfortable in tailored suits sans necktie.

   “He always made an effort to present himself as a privileged financier,” says Manoogian of his initial impressions of Harvey. The two met at a Washington, D.C. Christmas party in 2001, while Harvey was still married to Scripps. “[Harvey] presented his marriage as the union of two moneyed families… Our meetings were usually held in a suite at the Hay-Adams. When coming up from Palm Beach [to D.C.], he’d refer to his use of the ‘Scripps Air Force.’ And he’d always refer to so and so from a list of social luminaries with whom he’d just had dinner.”

   Sufficiently wowed, Manoogian saw the beginning of a beautiful business friendship when Harvey told him about Quadrant Capital Group. Harvey envisioned a small investment bank that would cater to privately owned family businesses, specializing in selling off those businesses once families decided to cash in. At the time Manoogian had a prior business commitment overseas, but the two kept in touch.

   Hoffmann met Harvey at the Foxfield steeplechase races in the fall of 2004. As with Manoogian, business and pleasure mixed well when Harvey and Hoffmann started chatting over the tailgate. According to Hoffmann, in the ensuing weeks, Harvey eagerly pursued the possibility of working together.

   When Manoogian returned stateside in February 2005, Quadrant had offices in Palm Beach, and the newly single Harvey was looking to open another office closer to home in Charlottesville. The timing, it seemed, was perfect for everyone.

   Harvey then gathered the players—Manoogian, Hoffmann and chief executive officer, Bob Lloyd—amid wood paneling, soft lighting and bottles of fine wine for an official get-to-know-you dinner at the clubby and oh-so-English Boar’s Head Inn. Lloyd declined to comment on the record for this article, but with him, too, Harvey practiced his art of promising one thing and delivering another. He reneged on his initial offer to make Lloyd chief executive officer of Quadrant, eventually signing Lloyd as co-managing director, instead. Lloyd, too, resigned from his position at Quadrant in December.

   Over dinner, Harvey indicated that his recent divorce not only freed up his desirable social calendar, but that the settlement would provide him substantial extra capital to invest in Quadrant. Three million dollars, he allegedly said, had already been invested, and another $15 million was earmarked for the firm. Manoogian and Hoffmann took the $15 million bait.

   Manoogian agreed to a two-year contract as Quadrant’s managing director, and began to move his family to Charlottes-ville, eventually settling in the upscale subdivision of Glenmore.

   

Sixth sense creditor-dodging

Wherever that $3 million investment might have been, it sure wasn’t spent on basic business necessities. When Manoogian arrived for his first day of work at the beginning of May, there were no copiers or fax machines in sight. No computer server, either. Dismissing—or simply missing—the red flag, Manoogian chalked up the deficient equipment to the fact that Harvey, old-world emissary that he is, doesn’t really get the whole technology thing. Manoogian thus spent the first couple months on the nuts and bolts, and coaxing Harvey’s social relationships into business relationships for Quadrant.

   Burying his head in the basics only lasted so long. The second red flag flew high at the end of June when Harvey indicated he was having trouble funding payroll. Quadrant’s payroll was managed out of the Palm Beach office. A payroll company issued the checks and provided health insurance coverage; Harvey was responsible for providing the money to the payroll company.

   At the time, Harvey blamed the cash flow problem on his Colthurst house, newly purchased for $1.3 million. The divorce money was supposedly on its way, and the absent $15 million was explained away as being temporarily tied up with family trusts in the Channel Islands. Having billed himself as independently wealthy from a respected British family, Harvey’s $15 million was supposedly separate from the divorce settlement.

   As Quadrant’s employees were to learn all too soon, payroll excuses and no server were only the first of signs to come that the cash in Harvey’s sterling money clip may have been more akin to Monopoly money than Ben Franklins.

   At the end of one of the hottest summers on record, what had been a temporary lull in Harvey’s suspicious behavior abruptly ended when a part-time employee’s check for $6,000 bounced. New and part-time staffers were not paid by the payroll company, but rather directly out of Harvey’s business account. Manoogian and Hoffmann now found themselves questioning not only Harvey’s business acumen, but his ethics as well.

   Around the same time—early fall—a secretary who wishes to remain anonymous due to her current work situation, had trouble getting Harvey to simply sign her paycheck. Accord-ing to her, all three of her paychecks were late.

   Hardly flush, she says the tardy checks left her $500 in debt. She has chosen not to take Harvey to court simply because, as she says, “I just wanted to leave. I felt that whatever I had gotten was all I had gotten and I was lucky to get that because he wasn’t going to give anything else up.”

   As for Hoffmann, although he had been working with the firm throughout the summer, he didn’t come on as a full-time employee until the end of September. Harvey immediately urged Hoffmann to submit paperwork to the payroll company so that it could handle his salary and insurance. Hoffmann submitted the paperwork in October and November, but it never went through for reasons Quadrant’s employees were soon to find out, but by then only Harvey understood. The missing pay is the $15,000 Hoffmann is seeking in his lawsuit.

   Simply paying his employees wasn’t the only demand on Harvey’s wallet. In organizing Quadrant’s files, his secretary saw her fair share of Harvey’s personal debts, she says: enormous amounts spent on clothing, jewelry, fancy hotels, and in the space of just two months, $30,000 allegedly shelled out for landscaping at the Colthurst mini-mansion.

   Given his flair for evading payment, Harvey’s debtors had no choice but to persist, coming by the office like salmon swimming upstream. A sixth sense for impending check-writing sessions always seemed to guide Harvey out of the office when his debtors came a-calling. Although no one interviewed for this article knows exactly where Harvey went, more often than not, he was nowhere to
be found. At Quadrant, as on Jersey
Island and in South Africa, running out
on debts—literally—was just business
as usual.

   According to the secretary and others, when Harvey’s debtors did catch him at the office, he was blasé.

   Echoing Hoffmann’s and Manoogian’s impressions of Harvey, the secretary describes Harvey’s method with his debt seekers as “very smooth, a lot of people get caught up with the fact that he has that British accent. He can persuade people that things are just wonderful.”

   Who knows which debtors played Harvey’s game, but his employees were nearing the ends of their ropes. Then, at the end of October, the package of Jersey Island newspaper articles arrived, and Harvey’s none-too-glamorous history in the Channel Islands was out in the open.

   Upon reading the articles, Hoffmann des-cribes his reaction: “Damn. That explains a lot.”

Happy Valentine’s Day

The articles were sent by the mother of Harvey’s now ex-girlfriend, who is unnamed in this article out of consideration for her young children. The not-mother-in-law had hired a private investigator to check out her daughter’s boyfriend. The P.I. she employed, David Watkins, was incensed by what he discovered. He was the one to go to the Jersey papers with Harvey’s rap sheet.

   Watkins’ research on “Mr. Cool” measures an inch thick on single spaced computer paper. It’s a masterpiece of a long history of dissemblance.

   The pages upon pages of Watkins’ document abound with testaments from Jersey Islanders, references to swimming pool holes, repossessed cars, Business Time Ltd., and Harvey’s capacity for maintaining, as one person writes, “a champagne lifestyle based upon a beer income.”

   One anecdote, in particular, could have been a slapstick scene from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels…if it weren’t so distressingly desperate. It goes like this: Harvey was having a standoff with the oil company over what he owed them. (Typical.) The company sent someone to Harvey’s house to collect while Harvey was hosting a dinner party (typical) and Harvey told the man to leave. (Typical.) The man left, but parked his truck so that none of the guests could leave. He refused to move until the bill was paid. (Not so typical.) Cornered, Harvey passed a hat among his guests to collect the funds. You can only hope the guests got at least some good champagne out of the deal.

   Harvey, however, couldn’t pass the hat for 89 debts and $280,000, so he ran all the way to the United States around 1997. There, he turned his ultimate trick, landing a rich, older woman.

   According to an article in Hello! Mag-azine, a celebrity-happy British tabloid obsessed with money and fancy houses, Harvey met Betty Scripps—who is 20 years his senior—at a Washington, D.C. party in January 1998. They waltzed the night away and by dawn Scripps was smitten and blushing like a teenager in love. The notice of their Valentine’s Day wedding appeared in The New York Times one month later.

   Even that announcement is fraudulent. It said Harvey’s family started the Bowater Paper Company in London in the early 19th century. Not exactly. Known today as Rexam, the company has no Harvey names engraved in the cornerstone. Harvey’s dad worked for the company, but he was no founding father.

   For the six years they were married, Harvey and Scripps split their time between Scripps’s 202-acre Eagle Hill estate in Albemarle, and Palm Beach, Florida, where Scripps was a grand dame of the society set.

   “[The Palm Beach scene] is the richest scene in America, bar none,” says Jose Lambiet, who writes a gossip column
for The Palm Beach Post and has cover-
ed Scripps and Harvey for years. “Fam-
ily name matters a lot and while there is
a lot of new money, there are also the staples of the upper crust and [Scripps] is
up there.”

   Like all random people photographed with the rich and famous, with Scripps on his arm—or, rather, Harvey on her arm—Mr. Cool became a gossip column celebrity by association, his name popping up regularly in the society pages of The Palm Beach Post, Women’s Wear Daily, The Washington Post and The Washington Times. The couple was also active philanthropically in Charlottesville, donating $1.6 million to UVA’s Miller Center for the creation of the Scripps Library and Multimedia Archive to house the center’s collections on the presidency.

   By early 2004, however, the passion had fizzled and Scripps was waiting for her divorce from Harvey to be finalized. That year she moved to the Bahamas; Harvey remained in Albemarle County, traded on the shiny trappings of his former life and recruited Manoogian and Hoffmann to work at Quadrant. It’s probably fair to say now that having tasted life at the top, the pain of returning to a plebian lifestyle was simply too much for Harvey to bear.

   Speaking through her lawyer, Scripps had “no comment” on anything regarding her relationship—past or present—with her former/new husband. Harvey, also speaking through a lawyer, had “no comment” on anything.

Going nowhere

Once they had received the Jersey Island articles about Harvey’s shady past, the stakes rose steeply for Manoogian and Hoffmann. Their ethics in question, their professional careers were in danger as well. Fraud was the issue. Without putting what they knew of Harvey on the table, could they legitimately do business with Quadrant clients?

   Quadrant’s lawyers said yes. Legally speaking, the firm was in the clear. However, what Manoogian had now learned about Harvey and what he was to learn in the ensuing weeks, is the basis for his fraud charge: Manoogian entered into a contract with Harvey believing that Harvey and Quadrant were legit. In the end, Manoogian believes that Quadrant was legit; Harvey himself, not so much.

   By the middle of November it was clear Quadrant was on shaky, if not shady, ground. It was then that an employee phoned the payroll company with a routine question about health insurance coverage. Instead of getting a routine answer, he was told Quadrant had no relationship with the company. It had been suspended as a result of outstanding debts. All full-time Quadrant employees had been without health insurance for weeks though they were unaware of that. Harvey, allegedly, had not paid for payroll funds since September, nor had he alerted Quadrant employees that their coverage had been terminated. The payroll company did not return repeated inquiries for confirmation.

   At the beginning of the second week of December, Manoogian, Hoffmann and Lloyd all resigned from Quadrant. As a parting gift, according to Manoogian, his November paycheck for $10,400 bounced.

   “In the end we [the secretaries and the bankers] were all the same,” says Harvey’s former secretary. “Everybody’s out of something. We were all cheated and we believed we were part of something that was going somewhere.”

   That $15 million in start-up capital never materialized. Chances are, it never existed.

The return of Mr. Cool

Call Quadrant today and a cheerful-sounding secretary answers the phone, but Harvey isn’t there. Quadrant’s list of “professionals” includes only Harvey and William Mitchell, the former vice president of Quadrant who was based in Palm Beach. That’s another lie: Mitchell also left the company in December. Harvey’s all alone at Quadrant now, but he may be too busy honeymooning with Scripps to attend to business.

   According to Manoogian and Hoff-mann, before skipping town, Harvey had been spreading rumors that his former employees were fired, not that they resigned within days of each other. Both Manoogian and Hoffmann have written proof of their resignations. This, for Manoogian, is slander. And he’s taking it to court.

   With the debts that await Harvey should Manoogian and Hoffmann win their
lawsuits, and on the seemingly good chance that there’s no $15 million stashed away somewhere, Harvey will need another checkbook and someone else’s AmEx at his disposal. His bride has what he needs.

   Lambiet, the Palm Beach gossip columnist, reported at the beginning of February that Harvey and Scripps planned to remarry on Valentine’s Day, which, had they stayed married in the first place, would have been their eighth anniversary. However, just days later, the wedding was off. The article insinuated the lawsuits facing Harvey in Albemarle County played a roll in the latest breakup.

   Moreover, Lambiet insinuated that the lawsuits and Harvey’s financial straits prompted his overtures to Scripps to begin with. The article quoted Scripps’ would-be matron of honor as saying, “When it comes to Jeremy, Betty is like a 16-year-old girl… But I can’t figure out what she is thinking. And then, I’m sure Harvey was the one pushing for remarriage.”

   It went back and forth for a week and a half—the wedding was on, the wedding was off, the wedding was on again, the wedding was off again—culminating in news of the Vegas elopement. While Harvey may be thanking his lucky stars that Scripps took him back, there may be a family in the Colthurst subdivision that’s not exactly celebrating the news.

   Through his lawyers, Harvey has expressed his intent to file a countersuit to Manoogian’s, but would not specify what the suit would allege, when it would be filed, or whether he would be around to see it through himself.

   While lawyers handling these suits busy themselves with the language of the courts, there is of course another currency—literally—that undergirds this sordid tale. Harvey, Manoogian, Hoffmann and the others unnamed in this cross-continental story were seduced alike. It’s an allure best summed up by Henry James: “Money’s a horrid thing to follow, but a charming thing to meet.”

’Tis the season to eat turkey. In honor of the holiday, and in deference to giving turkeys everywhere a voice of their own, C-VILLE’s resident turkey interpreter Nell Boeschenstein sat down with Tom “the Angry” Turkey for some heavy-hitting reporting, and to pluck Tom’s birdbrain for some sweet morsels of tender turkey wisdom. Needless to say, with the gallows awaiting, Tom wasn’t feeling too sunny. Yet, mood be damned: Tom still had plenty to say. An edited transcript of the interview—and Tom’s last words—is printed on the next page.

 

Nell Boeschenstein: How did the turkey become the Thanksgiving bird?

Tom Turkey: Ye olde turkey on ye olde Thanksgiving table harkens all the way back to ye olden days. Governor William Bradford, who helped found Plymouth Colony, organized the first Thanksgiving feast in 1621. Twenty years after the fact, Bradford recounted both the celebration and the first holiday-inspired turkey slaughter in his History of Plymouth Plantation. Behold:

“They begane now to gather in ye small harvest they had, and to fitte up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health & strenght, and had all things in good plenty; for as some were thus imployed in affairs abroad, others were excersised in fishing, aboute codd, & bass, & other fish, of which yey tooke good store, of which every family had their portion. All ye somer ther was no want. And now begane to come in store of foule, as winter approached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besids water foule, ther was great store of wild Turkies, of which they tooke many, besids venison, &c. Besids, they had about a peck a meale a weeke to a person, or now since harvest, Indean corn to yt proportion. Which made many afterwards write so largly of their plenty hear to their freinds in England, which were not fained, but true reports.”

(Translation: Yeah, we ate turkey, and a lot of other stuff, too. We alsoe coodnt spel.)

   Thus, the “eat turkey, be merry” tradition originated with Bradford’s text. The holiday itself, however, was not an official opening day for Hollywood releases until President Lincoln made it so in 1863.

 

Eagles, Ravens, Cardinals. If football and Thanks-giving are a natural pair, why not the Turkeys?

Not to get all self-loathing on you, but have you ever seen a turkey? Interacted with a turkey? Even caught a glimpse of a turkey on TV? If so, you would know that there is nothing about a turkey to inspire thoughts of fleet-footedness, fear, or alpha-maledom—all of which are qualities football teams aspire to conjure when they christen themselves.

   That said, Virginia Tech apparently didn’t get the memo. Their HokieBird is derived from a turkey, which sucks for them for the following reasons: First, turkeys are hardly athletic. They’re so fat their wings can barely lift them half an inch off the ground. They’d definitely be picked last for a fifth-grade game of dodgeball. Second, they’re dumb as a box of rocks. While they don’t drown in the rain as rumor has it, when they get scared they all crowd together in a corner and the stupid animal at the bottom often suffocates. One can only hope for the sake of the species that Darwinian theory ensures that in each instance the bird that dies is the stupidest of the stupid flock.

   As a side note, had Ben Franklin owned a sports team, it’s not unlikely that he would have dubbed them The Turkeys. Franklin famously argued for the national bird to be the turkey instead of the eagle in his hilariously titled essay “Turkey vs. Eagle, McCauley is my Beagle.”

 

I hear the President pardons two turkeys a year in a Rose Garden ceremony.

You heard right. Two luckier commercial turkeys than I will live to see out the end of their natural days. The tradition started for reasons unknown with President Truman and is still going strong. The birds are raised just like any other at a farm in West Virginia and under the direction of the National Turkey Federation.

   A week or so before Thanksgiving, they’re brought to the Rose Garden and the President officially pardons them. Used to be the turkeys were then taken to the somewhat incongruously named Frying Pan Park in Fairfax, where they lived out the remainder of their days in peace. However, this year the turkeys will travel to Disneyland Resort and Theme Park where they will be the honorary grand marshals at Disneyland’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

   The public can also participate in the process by voting online on what to name the birds. Last year’s winners were christened Biscuits and Gravy, over other such appealing options as Gobble and Peck, Adams and Jefferson, and Patience and Fortitude.

   Need one even mention the irony that even in the most forgiving of holiday spirits, it’s probably never crossed Bush’s mind to pardon an actual human being?

 

I was just wondering where in C’ville I can purchase a great fried turkey?

Know that saying, “money can’t buy everything”? Well, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but here’s a case in point (i.e. money ain’t going to buy you no good fried turkey.) Think about it: You buy a fried turkey at some grease joint the day before, and by the time you get it home, it sleeps in the fridge overnight, you reheat it the next day and serve it on the holiday table, and, d’oh! It’s a little cold, a little rubbery and a little inedible.

   Really, there’s only one answer to your question: Get your hands dirty. Buy the raw bird at El Gigante (Giant, for those not in the know) like all the other plebs, take it home, break out that apron your mom gave you, rev up the fryer and dunk the bird like a basketball.

   Against my better judgment, a few suggestions as to where to purchase the fryer: Sam’s Club and Sears sell ‘em for $60 to $90. If you’re planning ahead, a little Internet savvy goes a long way, too. Google “turkey fryer” and there are deals aplenty to be had.

I want my mom to come down from NYC. Too long of a drive for her. Amtrak is booked solid. Don’t want to send dear ol’ Mom on the Greyhound. Are there any other options?

I beg to differ on the “Amtrak booked solid” front: According to my sources, there is one seat left on the 3am train out of Penn Station on November 23. However, if she refuses to get her lazy ass out of bed, I’m here to serve.

   First, peep craigslist.com for a rideshare. Your mom’s future carpool partner will inevitably turn out to be some Charlottes-ville-native-turned-Williamsburg-hipster complete with ironic mullet and faded Devo t-shirt, but hey, it’s free. Plus, the conversations that would result from such a road trip pairing would be well worth what Mom might suffer in transit.

   Second, hitch. She’s got a thumb. Tell her to use it or lose it, honey.

   Third, fly. Some say Icarus was just unlucky; I say he was just a stupid bastard who didn’t know how to “do the chicken.” Of course, airplanes are always an option and not all booked as of right now. Hint: It’s cheaper out of Newark and into Richmond.

   Honestly, though, I hope you’ve solved this problem on your own instead of waiting for 11th hour advice from a turkey.

 

After many years of cooking dinner I feel stuck on the same old menu. Turkey and cornbread are unchangeable; however, I would like some ideas for new accompaniments. Our tradition is bourbon sweet potatoes, green beans or broccoli, Waldorf salad, cranberry orange relish, rolls, pumpkin pie and birthday cake. Also, my daughter and I got up early last year and had a short yoga practice. We found this wonderfully calming and fortifying for the work ahead. Just a hint for the tired cook.

Exsqueeze me? Baking powder? What kind of idiot serves birthday cake on Thanksgiving?! And who’s birthday are you celebrating anyway? Captain John “I understand Indians” Smith? Poco “I understand white men” hontas? I think you need to get your celebrations straight and that means ixnay on the birthday cake, mmmkay?

   Repeat after me: Pies. Pecan, apple, sweet potato, rhubarb. Thanksgiving is all about the pies. Meditate that when you yogacize Thanksgiving morning.

   For more pie-related oral exercises, also see Sally, When Harry Met.

 

Turducken—Que es?

More bang for the duck, that’s what. Birds of a feather cooking together. Killing three birds with one stove.

   In short, a turducken is a deboned chicken stuffed inside a deboned duck. Then, that ducken is stuffed inside a deboned turkey. The net result, turducken, lands three times the bird flu and three times the fun, folks.

   Lore has it that turduckens are a Southern thang, cooked up by some crazy Cajun who liked him some serious white meat. Yanks can mail order the delicacy, though, at www.cajungrocer.com. Now that’s poultry in motion!

   If you want to catch turducken in action, famously fat football announcer John Madden gorges on one on air every Thanksgiving. It’s unclear whether this tradition is a public-service announcement or product placement.

Which movies can I escape to this Thanksgiving weekend?

Movies are the great escape from houses where endless conversations spawn from the classic themes of “how Granny’s doing” or whether Cousin Willie got that sweet Cadillac. So, it’s no wonder the masses flock to the multiplex after shoveling in a ten-pound meal. Unfortunately, from the looks of it, the weekend’s offerings are designed to get you on an early exercise regime that has you walking out of the theater soon after you walk in.

   A taste of the slimming pickings opening in Charlottesville this weekend:

   Just Friends, in which a guy who was fat in high school returns, svelte and handsome, to his hometown and woos his first love. This continues that fine Hollywood tradition of, when a roll calls for a fat person, dressing a stick figure in a fat suit and calling him “fat” instead of just hiring a fat actor desperate for work and thus saving the makeup artists a lot of trouble.

   Yours, Mine & Ours in which both Dennis Quaid and Rene Russo have 18 kids between them, but somehow they still find the time and sex drive to fall in love with each other. One word: Whatever.

   In the Mix, in which pop star Usher tries to convince us he’s a DJ who somehow gets stuck bodyguarding a mob princess. Starring the alleged sex addict’s washboard abs, no doubt.

   All’s not lost, though. If you’re feeling pretentious, The Libertine, about a 17th-century poet and starring Johnny Depp is sure to appeal to two distinct, and populous, demographics: English Ph.D. students and Depp groupies. Trouble is, it’s only opening in limited release—and Charlottesville might be a little too limited, if you catch my drift. Rent, of course, is the feel-bad movie of the year. Transvestites! AIDS! Singing and dancing! Kill me. And last but not least, you can’t go wrong with Pride and Prejudice, the latest incarnation of which stars Keira “How’s My Hair?” Knightley and also opens this weekend.

 

How many pounds of your kin’s flesh will Americans eat on Thanksgiving? What about the rest of the year?

According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, our nation’s fatties will gather round the holiday table, say a prayer for their cholesterol and proceed to consume—no, inhale—an estimated 45 million, or 675 million pounds, of turkey flesh. That’s 15 percent of our nation’s annual turkey production. At least I’m not alone…

 

Where can I volunteer on Thanksgiving?

Feeling a little sheepish, are we, for the blatant excesses of Thanksgiving bounty? No way to cure a little guilt than with some well-placed volunteering. Helping the less fortunate doesn’t take long—only an hour or two—and the good karma ensures at least one guilt-free holiday season.

   The Salvation Army distributes meals on Thanksgiving Day and the man with the plan is Jim Hart. You can reach him at 295-4058. Another place to check in with is the United Way. They can point you in the direction of organizations in need of holiday volunteers.

   I contacted the United Way because, though my attitude might be the stuff of tar and feathers, my hard turkey heart is in the right place. The United Way recommended a perusal of www.1-800-volunteer.org. All you got to do is type in your zip code and up pop 94 local organizations from the Rivanna Trails Association to the HIV/AIDS Services Group to the Virginia Discovery Museum just begging for some of that free time you would have otherwise spent staring at the TV and coming up with insulting nicknames for Matt Lauer.

   Being a “Bingo Caller,” “Friendly Visitor” or “Buddy” for a couple of hours might not make Page Six, but that Big Intelligent Designer in the sky? He’ll be sending Santa Claus your contact info.

Gourds—aside from decorative purposes, are they or are they not the most useless plants in the universe?

There’s no question that gourds are among the most decorative of the autumn vegetables. Who dares decorate a table with brussel sprouts?

   But gourds aren’t just decorative, they are also, like a good man, useful around the house. Just ask gourd enthusiast Jeanie Dickson. Go to www.gourdsbyjeanie.com and behold gourds as Christmas tree ornaments, gourds as wall sconces, gourds as birdhouses and gourds as coffee tables.

   Lest Jeanie can’t convince you of the profound importance of gourds, allow the American Gourd Society to exercise its powers of persuasion at www.american gourdsociety.com. While there is nary a peep on the site about how one might prepare a gourd to eat, there is advice aplenty on what judges are looking for in a cutthroat gourd competition.

   For example, “Accessories are used to assist and enhance your gourd entry, not detract from it.” So, if you’re going to go designer, do your gourd a favor and make sure her handbag has a tastefully sized logo, and doesn’t scream “Chanel” too loudly.

 

Should I worry about bird flu this Thanksgiving?

The real question is: Should anyone worry about bird flu, ever? If you’re going to get it, you’re going to get it. Doesn’t matter how many New York Times articles you read that scare the bejeezus out of you, there’s really no sense in getting your feathers all in a ruffle. So you eat bird and get bird flu. What’s the worst that could happen? You die? Well, tough shit. Been there, done that. You’re clucking for sympathy with the wrong bird, sweetheart.

 

What’s your favorite side dish?

(For this question Tom adopted the persona of numerous characters and acted out each one—including stage directions and Narrator—NB)

A play in one scene.

The stage is set up to indicate a turkey barn. Turkeys are piled up to the ceiling, each in a small wire cage. Lots of gobbling ensues from the chorus turkeys as Farmer Dan enters stage left carrying a bucket and approaches Tom the Turkey’s cage, which is downstage center.

Farmer Dan: I have a special breakfast for you this morning, Tom! (Farmer Dan tilts the bucket toward Tom so Tom can see what’s inside.) These aren’t your ordinary slops and grains, my fine, feathered friend.

Tom: Gobblebobblescoregobblegobble.

Farmer Dan: And how would you like that served? With some rotting compost? Some dead animal parts?

Narrator rushes in from stage left holding the script above his head and shaking it furiously. Sound effects sound a record scratching to a stop

Narrator: Hold it right there, Farmer Dan! You’ve veered from the script! Turkeys don’t have side dishes served with their slops!

Farmer Dan and the Narrator both freeze. Tom turns to the audience and asks

Tom: Next question, please?

(Note from the playwright: Green bean casserole rocks my world.)

 

What’s up with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?

There are many questions starting with “why” that the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade raises. For example, “Why Macy’s?” “Why Thanksgiving?” and “Why a parade?” The answer to all of these questions appears to be, “Why not?”

   In 1924, the employees at Macy’s Department Store decided it would be fun to kick off the holiday season with a parade because, because, because, because, because…because of the wonderful things a parade does…

   Like taking giant, flying, inflated Elmos, Garfields and Mickey Mouses for a stroll down Central Park West. Seems New Yorkers, who the rest of the year proclaim their cultural and intellectual superiority over the rest of the country, think this idea is rad. Two and a half million people line the streets of the Big Apple to take in the scene, and another 44 million fans with a weakness for Disney characters watch the festivities on television.

   How much you wanna bet that the writers of Ghostbusters were looking for a way to wrap things up as they sat watching the Macy’s parade one year. As a huge, inflated float with crazy-ass cartoon eyes approached them, they looked at each other and screamed, “Eureka!”

The National Dog Show: Why? And why on Thanksgiving?

Careful with your facts, there, Fido. NBC may televise “all the excitement” of the National Dog Show on Thanksgiving, but kindly allow me to burst that bubble and assure you that the “excitement” is well over by the time Thanksgiving rolls around. The dog show happens and the winners are crowned in mid-November.

   As to “Why?”, that’s simple. Life is competition, yo. Just ask Darwin. And because dogs aren’t out in the wild to perfect the species on their own anymore, it’s our responsibility as humans to dress up in tuxedos or sequined dresses and do it for them.

   As for the “Why on Thanksgiving?” part, no one seems to know for sure why this important event is broadcast on this particular day, but let’s hazard a few guesses:

a) NBC has decided that there’s really no use in competing with Thanksgiving Day football programming and, to put it bluntly, is simply looking for something, anything, to fill airtime. A dog show is cheap and it takes all day. Animal Planet employs this tactic on Superbowl Sunday when they air their low-budget masterpiece, “Puppybowl,” a home video of puppies chasing a fake football around a fake football field.

b) The dog show covers a distinctly different demographic than football. It’s fairly certain that people who hate watching football may be at least slightly less opposed to picking up hair-styling tips from poodles.

c) Thanksgiving is a family holiday. What could be more wholesome programming than a dog show? What, you were hoping for a Hallmark Hall of Fame production of Sarah, Plain and Tall?

In memoriam, Tom “The Angry” Turkey, March 10, 2005-November 24, 2005

 

Bird is not the word
T-Day the compassionate way

For most families, the highlight of Thanksgiving dinner is a delicious golden brown, oven-roasted turkey. But for those who celebrate Thanksgiving “the compassionate way” (that is, meat-free), the thought of tearing into the flesh of a poor, defenseless bird is unsettling to say the least. That may explain why many are turning to tofurky as an alternative to this traditional Thanks-giving fare.

   Besides the fact that serving to-furky is totally in vogue and reflects that you’re a conscientious, animal-friendly hipster (A-list celebrities like Alicia Silverstone and Kim Basinger swear by it), tofurky is also appealing because it can be prepared just about any way you want. It can be served glazed or barbecued, or as a stew or chili. And yes, it can even be roasted like a Butterball. For ideas on how to prepare a tofurky for this special day and for all kinds of cool tofurky recipes, visit the Vegetarian Resource Group online at www.vrg.org or visit Compassionate Cooks at www.com passionatecooks.com.

   If a turkey-free Thanksgiving sounds great, and you’re really itching to take your compassion to a higher level, Farm Sanctuary has your solution. A turkey shelter with locations on the East and West coasts, Farm Sanctuary rescues hundreds of turkeys from slaughter every year. Through its Adopt-A-Turkey program, animal lovers can sponsor a turkey for just 20 bucks. (It’s not exactly sponsoring a starving child in Darfour, but it’s a step in the right direction).

   Adopters receive a color photo of their feathered friend and their very own adoption certificate. Imagine a framed photo of your adopted friend in the center of your Thanksgiving table—what a conversation-starter! Go to www.adoptaturkey.com to learn how you can save a turkey—not eat one—this Thanksgiving.—Joyce Carman

The Albemarle County Circuit Court is open for business, but save for the eight people present (all but one being part of the proceedings) the place is empty the 12 rows of wooden gallery benches being merely ornamental. Behind the bench, beneath a gold-framed picture of Thomas Jefferson, Judge Paul Peatross sits front and center, head resting where it always rests: in his right hand. Peatross’ habitual pose mirrors Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker,” only Peatross looks infinitely less Grecian and markedly more bored than the French sculptor’s famed subject.

   In the witness box, a young police officer recalls arresting the defendant for possession of marijuana.

   Public Defender Jim Hingeley builds his argument: Did you say the search of the vehicle would take 10 seconds? How many times did you say that? Did the search take 10 seconds? How much longer than 10 seconds did it take? The question here, Judge, is whether the scope of the search exceeded the permission granted.

   The Commonwealth’s bow-tied Attorney, Jim Camblos, rises from his seat and turns towards the judge. What Mr. Hingeley fails to note, Your Honor, is that the officer was just doing his job—to look for contraband.

   Although Hingeley and Camblos have worked together for more than 25 years, they refer to each other as “Mr. Hingeley” and “Mr. Camblos” before the judge. Likewise, both lawyers address Peatross as “Your Honor” or “Judge.”

   If procedure is king of the courtroom—even an almost empty one—then courtesy is queen. It may sound quaint, but in this modern age of blue dresses in the Oval Office and go-fuck-yourselves on the Senate floor, the courtroom is one of the last bastions of old-fashioned etiquette. But until there’s a serious breach in decorum, the kind of thing that earns headlines, most people may never realize that a vacant courtroom is supposed to be a sanctuary of good manners. Even the toughest criminals say yessir and nossir to a judge, and impatience with either King Procedure or Queen Courtesy spells trouble for all.

   Judge Peatross is one of five judges on the Albemarle County Circuit Court. More than 4,500 criminal cases and 3,000 civil suits pass through that courthouse each year. In his hands he holds not only his head, but the fate of everyone from murderers to pot smokers to people with one too many speeding tickets.

   However, during the past two years Peatross has managed to antagonize his colleagues so much with his courtroom conduct that in February 2004 Hingeley and Camblos filed separate, formal complaints against him. Five months later, the State’s Judicial Inquiry and Review Commission recommended Peatross’ removal from the bench and passed the case on to the State Supreme Court. The commission has made that recommendation only nine times since it was established in 1971.

   In a 2004 article commenting on a similar situation between Rhode Island lawyers and judges, Carl T. Bogus, a law professor at Roger Williams University, argued that Rhode Island judges are thin-skinned. They abuse their power, he said, by punishing lawyers who are critical of them with excessively tough sentences for their clients. Taking as his starting point a quote from W. Somerset Maugham— “People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise”—Bogus asserts that lawyers’ occasional solicitousness towards judges is problematic.

   “Saying that lawyers treat the judges with deference fails to capture the interaction,” writes Bogus. “It is more accurate to say that lawyers bow and scrape. Some lawyers have elevated fawning to an art form, pulling it off with subtle eloquence.”

   Bogus goes on to say that, along with the sense of power that comes from holding a person’s future in one’s hands, years of ass-kissing and sycophancy lead to what’s known as “black robe disease.” The symptoms, says Bogus, include when a judge becomes “impatient, disdainful and cantankerous.” Such adjectives echo the criticisms leveled against Peatross.

   “The very best judges have such wonderful demeanors that it brings out the best in lawyers,” says local defense

attorney Steven Rosenfield. “But there are judges that have demeanor problems that exacerbate an already tension-filled system.”

   UVA law professor George Rutherglen, an expert in civil procedure, allows that judges are given “quite a bit of latitude to be blunt and critical, especially outside the presence of the jury.” Yet the Judicial Inquiry and Review Commission, which read and seconded the complaint against Peatross, is staffed partly by judges. If anybody, they ought to have an idea of what’s kosher on the bench and what’s not.

   The Virginia Supreme Court handed down its decision on Peatross in late April 2005. While the Court did not exactly exonerate Peatross, it ultimately decided there was not enough evidence to remove him from the bench. So, after a self-imposed nine months off from criminal cases, Judge Peatross returned to Circuit Court in early July of this year to preside, once again, over cases argued by Hingeley and Camblos. And the drama ain’t exactly over.

 

Peatross listens impassively to Hingeley’s motion to suppress evidence in the marijuana search case, occasionally adjusting the perch of his head in his hand. Just weeks earlier, Hingeley had filed a motion that Peatross recuse himself from the bench for this particular case. The defendant, now sitting quietly at the defense table, had asked Hingeley to do so based on what he knew about Hingeley’s relationship with the judge. Peatross overruled the motion.

   After hearing out the two attorneys in this afternoon’s motion to suppress, Peatross says he’ll have a decision within two weeks. “Thank you, Judge.” Hingeley and Camblos echo each other, collect their things and exit the courthouse.

   The archaic manners of the room’s players emulate its spartan interior. Aside from the Jefferson portrait, the courtroom’s only other decorative flourishes are two other portraits of dead white men, framed copies of the Declaration of Independence and Monroe Doctrine, the requisite flags and two brass chandeliers. The chorus of crickets outside fills the deserted room like a liquid.

   “I’m reminded when looking at the courthouse,” says Rosenfield, “that Jefferson…believed [the courthouse] was the center of all of public discourse. It was the pinnacle of the community and, architecturally, there is that notion of solemnity.”

   The last to leave, Peatross rises from his blue, leather armchair and retreats to his chambers. Even when he’s seated it’s clear the 60ish Peatross is thin, but upright and engulfed in his voluminous black robes, he’s virtually disembodied. At about 6’2" and with a slightly stooped posture, as he leaves the room Peatross looks like he might tip over.

 

Paul Peatross graduated from Hamp-den-Sydney College in 1968 and got his J.D. from the University of Richmond three years later. After 14 years as an attorney, Peatross was appointed to a judgeship on the Charlottesville General District Court. He was named to the Albemarle County Circuit Court in 1992.

   Clearly, Peatross has had plenty of time to build up a reputation among the Court Square crowd, and it’s not just Hingeley and Camblos who have found the judge rude when it comes to criminal cases.

   The record, which became public when the case went to the Virginia Supreme Court, stresses the judge’s on-the-job demeanor.

   “[Peatross] is regarded as a judge who is often intemperate and impatient on the bench,” wrote local attorney Fred Heblich in a letter to the Judicial Inquiry and Review Commission on the topic of the judge’s court demeanor. “He angers easily, and he sometimes makes decisions out of anger that demonstrate meanness and spite. He is known as a judge who frequently treats prosecutors and defense lawyers with sarcasm, disrespect, and contempt. “

   Even lawyer Fred Payne, who wrote to the Commission that, “Off the bench, Judge Peatross is kind, compassionate and eminently likable,” allowed that he’s seen “Judge Peatross treat persons appearing before him in a manner which I can only characterize as rude.”

   The letters in support of Peatross were from lawyers mostly familiar with the judge’s work in civil cases; the issue at hand was his demeanor in criminal cases.

   Peppered with terms like “gentlemen,” “your honor,” and “Mr. Firstname Lastname,” the letters submitted to the Commission by local lawyers spell out, in print, the formality of the courtroom—its vocabulary and mannerisms. Such sentence constructions stand in stark contrast to the allegations of rudeness that is the meat of the texts.

   The way architects have their own brand of handwriting, lawyers have a patented brand of formality—and it seems to really mean something to them.

The situation among Hingeley, Camblos and Peatross began to deteriorate in the fall of 2003. That September, Camblos was prosecuting a client of Hingeley’s on a felony charge. On hearing day, and taking into account the defendant’s background, Camblos decided to reduce the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor.

   Not so fast, said Peatross. Either drop the case or prosecute the felony. When Camblos and Hingeley tried to explain their rationale and timing, Peatross grew impatient. According to transcripts from the hearing, no apparent conclusion had been reached when Peatross abruptly announced that he was taking it upon the Court to drop the case. The judge later admitted his decision was inappropriate.

   Following the incident, Camblos wrote to Peatross expressing anxiety over what Camblos wrote was the judge’s “unnecessary and uncalled for” reaction.

   Peatross’ response? It’s not personal, it’s business. That became the judge’s refrain in the following months.

   Commenting on the incident to the Commission, Peatross explained, “It is nothing personal, it is a matter of trying to conduct the business of the court. I don’t have anything personally against him, I just want him to operate in a business-like manner…”

   In December 2003, another dispute erupted. Camblos and Llezelle Dugger, an attorney in Hingeley’s office, had worked out a plea agreement prior to trial. Peatross didn’t accept it. A second plea agreement was presented in which the defendant would plead guilty to all charges except one. They agreed that the final charge would go to a jury. Peatross accepted this and gave the defendant a tough sentence—the maximum on all four plead misdemeanors. Peatross’ reasoning, according to Commission transcripts, was that if the jury gave a tough sentence in the felony case then Peatross could adjust his sentencing with regards to the misdemeanors.

   The day after sentencing, Camblos told Peatross he wanted to drop the final charge. The sentence, said Camblos, was already more than enough. Peatross, however, didn’t buy the lawyer’s claim that he hadn’t planned to drop the charge all along; Peatross believed there had been a pre-existing agreement between Dugger and Camblos—to which the judge was not privy—to drop the case.

   This possibility infuriated Peatross.

   “I felt like the integrity of the court was at stake,” Peatross told the Commission. “I didn’t think the lawyers were being up front with me, whether it was intentional or unintentional.”

   Just days after Camblos’ request to drop the charge, Peatross unceremoniously fired both attorneys from the case.

   Peatross told the Commission in retrospect, “I still feel [the attorneys misled me], but if my actions were wrong and I overreacted, then I should correct them in any possible way.”

   After each of these encounters the attorneys filed motions to reconsider and wrote personal letters to the judge expressing concern about his behavior. The judge denied the motions and didn’t deal with the matter privately or in person.

   “It’s easier to do a good job for one’s client [be it the state or an individual],” explains Steven Rosenfield, “if everyone’s getting along outside the courtroom.”

 

Peatross’ nickname among criminal defense lawyers is “Maximum Mac.” He’s known for his tough sentences and rarely cuts anyone a break. For example, it was Peatross who recently sentenced (on appeal) an Albemarle couple to over two years in prison for serving alcohol to minors at their kid’s 16th birthday party. While this was less than the original 8-year sentence, seeing as Camblos had recommended a 90-day sentence, many still considered it harsh. According to local lawyer Fred Heblich’s letter to the Commission, “it is said of him that ‘his idea of reasonable doubt is a suspended sentence.’”

   The final straw came in early February 2004. During docket call, which is when a judge schedules upcoming hearings, motions and trials, Hingeley asked to move back the date of a trial. According to the testimony of Camblos, who was present at the docket call, “[the Judge] then asked Hingeley with irritation, sarcasm and anger, while throwing his hands in the air, to tell the Court what day he wanted.”

   Two days later, on February 4, 2004, Camblos and Hingeley’s offices each filed formal complaints against Peatross with the statewide Judicial Inquiry and Review Commission. (Camblos says these actions were not coordinated.) The attorneys’ primary grievances? Peatross had shown little respect for the king and queen of the courtroom: procedure and courtesy.

   After a formal hearing in June 2004, the Commission concluded that there was sufficient evidence to recommend that Peatross be taken off the bench and a formal complaint lodged with the Virginia Supreme Court.

   Citing specific canons from the Canons of Judicial Conduct for the Commonwealth of Virginia, the Commission’s notice to Peatross stated, “You have failed to uphold the integrity and independence of the judiciary…to avoid impropriety and the appearance of impropriety…and to act at all times in a manner that promotes public confidence in the integrity and impartiality of the judiciary…You have failed to be faithful to the law…and to be patient, dignified and courteous to those with whom you have dealt in an official capacity…”

   At that juncture, Peatross voluntarily took himself off the criminal bench until the Supreme Court had decided the case. He limited his casework to civil complaints for the next nine months. During that time, the State paid him his regular salary of $125,795 and substitute judges filled in for him in criminal proceedings, according to D.J. Geiger, the State court system’s media relations spokesperson.

   In April 2005 the Supreme Court decided there was a lack of “clear and convincing evidence” that Judge Peatross had acted inappropriately and dismissed the case. Instead of calling Peatross’ behavior “extremely impatient, undignified and discourteous,” as the Commission had, the Virginia Supreme Court chose the words “stern, direct, and authoritative,” and thus not in violation of the Canons. Peatross was free to return to criminal cases.

   Both Hingeley and Camblos declined to be interviewed for this story. Peatross, too, declined to be photographed or interviewed, saying the public record speaks for itself.

 

In late April Judge Peatross returned to criminal cases on the Albemarle County Circuit Court bench, where Camblos and Hingeley again argue cases in front of him. The question that now arises is whether it’s possible for Peatross not to hold grudges against the attorneys for the ordeal of the past two years.

   Indeed, Hingeley anticipated this situation when addressing the Commission: “As a result of this, I would find it very difficult to appear in front of Judge Peatross, or for anybody in my office to appear in front of him…I think that that client would be very concerned about my ability to represent that client zealously and effectively…”

   Camblos and Hingeley believe their clients could pay the price for them publicly criticizing the judge, and that a judge known for tough sentences could get even tougher. The dilemma is described in the article by Bogus, the Rhode Island law professor.

   “There is a strongly enforced taboo,” he writes, “against criticizing the state’s governmental institutions, particularly its courts. The targets and enforcers of this taboo are one and the same: the lawyers and judges themselves.”

   Hingeley tells his clients about his office’s relationship with Peatross. If the client doesn’t want Peatross to hear the case based on what’s transpired, Hingeley’s office files a motion asking Peatross to recuse himself from the case. In the four months since Peatross has returned to the bench, only six clients have asked for a different judge. Peatross has dismissed each of these motions, maintaining that he is entirely impartial.

   The feasibility of that claim invites the philosophical debate of where and how we draw our emotional boundaries. It’s impossible to reach conclusions about Peatross’ vow of impartiality because the only person who could possibly know the internal workings of Paul Peatross the Judge is Paul Peatross the Man. But even then, can Peatross the Man know himself beyond a reasonable doubt?

   Taken as a whole, the six cases, including that of the alleged marijuana possessor, hold no clue yet, either. As of press time, only one case had been concluded. Another case has been dropped, three have not yet gone to trial, and one awaits sentencing.

   But whatever the outcome, on the afternoon Hingeley moved to suppress evidence against his alleged stoner client, Judge Peatross appeared cool, calm and collected. Was he on his best behavior given recent events? Only time will tell.

 

Bench pressed

 Each of the players in the Peatross drama testified before the Judicial Inquiry and Review Commission in June 2004. The following are excerpts from what Peatross, Hingeley and Camblos had to say for themselves.

“At the last minute, for the first time he looked at the case and decided he doesn’t want to treat it as a felony, and I thought that was inconsistent. I thought that took up a lot of time, that put a lot of people to work when he could have made that decision earlier, and I was hoping that he would understand that he should be more conscientious in how he was going to present his cases and make decisions earlier is what I was trying to encourage.”

-Judge Paul Peatross on Commonwealth’s Attorney Jim Camblos regarding the September 2003 case

 

“If I am lying to you, I invite you to remove me from office, because I cannot appear here before you and tell an untruth, and I am telling you the truth. That’s what happened.”

-Judge Paul Peatross on the December 2003 case

 

“I was mad at myself because I was not standing up to him more than I had been standing up to him, because of the way he treated us…I was taking the easier course many times of just not saying anything as opposed to saying something and getting snapped at…that’s why I said our professional relationship troubles me deeply.”

-Commonwealth’s Attorney Jim Camblos

 

“I was very concerned about [defense attorney] Llezelle personally because this was very, very difficult on her, but I was also concerned about, from an institutional standpoint, how this affected our office…Public Defenders are always struggling against a negative impression of the people that we have in our offices and the work that they do. So now I am faced with a situation where there is a public declaration by a Circuit Court Judge that one of the people in my office is unethical and lies to the court and is guilty of misconduct, so I had to deal with that.”

-Public Defender Jim Hingeley on Llezelle Dugger’s dismissal from the December 2003 case

As a great man once said, “School’s out for summer.” Aside from the pool, the obvious place to take kids during the dog days of summer is to the park. Make that, to the playground, where the kids can entertain themselves on swings, slides, or by just looking up at the sky, as their caretakers kick back in the shade.

   However, as C-VILLE discovered while perusing the 15 Charlottesville city parks that include playground equipment and the county’s five counterparts, a satisfying playground experience is not always easy to find. The quality…er variety…of these playgrounds proved endless, a fact to which the following “playground report card” attests. Some were fit for the spawn of Windsors, some barely worthy of a game of “fetch” with the dog.

   The city’s park system is extensive, with 24 public parks divided into two categories: community and neighborhood parks. The neighborhood parks are larger and intended for the entire city’s use, à la Pen and McIntire parks. The neighborhood parks, such as McGuffey and Fife-ville, are more intimate and focused on the needs of the individual neighborhoods in which they are located. Fifteen of the city’s public parks feature playgrounds. That’s not including school playgrounds, however, which the City also maintains.

   The Charlottesville parks system began in 1917, when Paul Goodloe McIntire donated land for Lee Park. He upped his civic generosity in the following four years with additional land donations that became Jackson and Belmont parks. The parks system took off in earnest, however, when McIntire donated Washington and McIntire parks in 1926. Washington Park was originally intended to serve Charlottesville’s African-American citizens.

   Since the county isn’t as neighborhood-centric as the city, it has significantly less need for neighborhood parks that serve as community centers. According to Bob Crickenberger, deputy director for the County’s Parks and Recreation Depart-ment, the private communities popular in the county often build and maintain their own playgrounds. Of Albemarle’s nine parks, only five have playgrounds—most of which are secondary features to the main attractions of either swimming lakes or playing fields.

 

In 1972, Albemarle bought the land surrounding Crozet’s water supply and named it Mint Springs, thus adding life to the county’s park system, which began with the purchase of Chris Greene in 1971. Simpson Park, near Crozet and constructed in 2004, is the county’s latest playground. While there are no imminent plans for new playgrounds or renovations on existing ones, says Crickenberger, Albemarle’s recommended capital im-provements budget for 2006-’07 allocates $87,000 for parks and recreation. But, he says, “If we find something that needs replacement sooner, then we will juggle funds and do that.”

   Still, as far as Crickenberger knows, at present all the county’s playgrounds are up-to-date and safe. The department checks up on them monthly and is “constantly refurbishing” the mulch.

   Under the direction of Mike Svetz, the City’s director of parks and rec, Char-lottesville is beginning to evaluate the needs of its park system with a “Strategic Master Plan.” The 10-year timeline began this spring with assessments of the needs of both neighborhood and community parks as well as focus groups. The process will continue with a telephone survey of neighborhoods in August; the study should be complete in November 2005. It will pinpoint what needs to be renovated, what needs to be rebuilt entirely, and what needs to be built that was never there in the first place.

   From there, says Svetz, “We want to be able to prioritize things based on need,” as opposed to which neighborhoods raise the most ruckus. But regardless, “Safety, safety, safety,” is the No. 1 priority. For fiscal year 2006, the City’s capital improvement budget allocated $200,000 to parks and recreation.

 

A-B-C, easy as 1-2-3

How each playground made the grade

Visiting each of the 20 parks ranked in this story, C-VILLE evaluated each playground based on seven characteristics across a scale of 1-10. Below are listed those characteristics and the weight each was given.—N.B.

 

Charlottesville

Meade

Location: Meade Avenue

How big: 5.2 acres

How old: 1945/60 years old

Grade: B+

Overall: Meade Avenue is a busy street, but the playground at Meade Park hides the traffic well. Set back from the street and behind a fence, the playground has two sections—one for the older kids with an elaborate new jungle gym that includes monkey bars, balance exercises and a swing set, and one for the little kids with a smaller jungle gym with smaller slides and a baby swing set. There’s a pretty decent pool, too.

   The major point-loser here is shade. While there’s a sheltered picnic area between the two mini-playgrounds, there’s no shade for the play areas themselves. Plus, there’s the confusing aspect of where the park ends and people’s backyards begin. The park backs up on the backyards of the adjacent neighborhood, so that simply put, the geography of the place is a tad disorienting.

 

Washington

Location: Preston Avenue

How big: 9.25 acres

How old: 1926/79 years old

Grade: B-

Overall: Washington Park has a lot of things going for it—a new-ish, sufficiently dynamic jungle gym, plenty of green space to run, a lovely hillside stairway lined with day lilies, and a pool with a kick-ass water slide—but…but.

   Spatially, Washington Park is a bit of a challenge. Especially if a guardian has more than one charge. More especially if those charges are different ages and want to do different things. The problem is that the baby playground is located down the hill and out of sight from the big-kid playground. Even a babysitter with eyes in the back of her head could not keep an eye on kids at both locations at the same time. Plus, to complicate matters, there’s no simple path between the two playgrounds if double duty is unavoidable.

   Furthermore, the swing set for the big kids is situated such that it would be difficult to watch one kid swing and another kid on the jungle gym.

 

Riverview

Location: Corner of Chesapeake and Riverside streets

How big: 26.6 acres

How old: 1974/31 years old

Grade: D

Overall: It’s all well and good to take Fido for a run down at Riverview Park, but it’s a pretty pathetic place to take a kid. That’s because, well, the play equipment sucks. Not only is there not much selection, but what there is is in bad shape. The place hasn’t been updated since it was built in the ‘70s and the equipment includes swings, a nothing-but-the-basics jungle gym and four animals that bounce. All the structures are old, rusty and there’s chipped paint galore. Plus, instead of being set back in the open green space away from the cars, the playground hugs the parking lot.

   Mike Svetz, director of the Charlottesville Parks and Recreation Department, explains that the problem with the Riverview playground is that it’s built in the flood way and that when the City redoes it, the play area will be moved beyond the parking lot, at the very least.

 

Azalea

Location: Off Old Lynchburg Road

How big: 23.02 acres

How old: 1965/40 years old

Grade: B

Overall: Azalea Park suffers from the same disease as Greenleaf (see page 22): It looks pretty from the parking lot but the sounds of Interstate 64 lose the park big points. Big points. Drive to the end of the park access road and there’s the playground, so while there’s no immediate traffic threat, hidden behind a wall of trees, the effects of 64 are more insidious.

   The swing set is the low point of the play equipment. It’s rusty and the paint is chipping. Everything else—the merry-go-round, climbing structures, diggers and bouncy rides—is fine. There’s also a basketball court for the big kids and adults.

   On the plus side are the walking trails and stream that, as with Riverview, bring dog lovers to the park in droves.

 

Belmont 

Location: Center of Stonehenge and Druid avenues and Rialto Street

How big: 3.114 acres

How old: 1921/84 years old

Grade: A

Overall: Belmont Park is, by far, one of the nicest parks in the city. It’s got it all: It’s clean, the play equipment is sparkling, there’s plenty of green space and trees, a fun water park for hot days, a basketball court, and picnic shelter. Each section of the park, while autonomous, is well integrated into the park space to create “flow.”

   The water park is the highlight with several fountains and showers that are a happy compromise between a pool and a hose. It’s also possible to sit by the water park and still see the kids playing on the jungle gym or swinging on the swing set. Every play area is within sight of the other play areas.

   The only potential drawback is the street. While there’s plenty of green space separating the play areas from the road, on one side there’s no barrier between the park and the street.

 

McGuffey  

Location: Off Second Street, NW

How big: 0.61 acres

How old: 1974/31 years

Grade: B+

Overall: The best thing about McGuffey Park? Location, location, location. It’s right Downtown and thus heavily trafficked by the Downtown community—little kids, big kids and adults alike. The next best thing about the park is its intimate feel.

   While it has a lot going for it in theory, the equipment is out of date, with significant amounts of chipped paint and graffiti on the jungle gym. Moreover, the lack of a sidewalk at the Second Street entrance, coupled with a stone wall that drops off the edge of the park and into the road, poses safety concerns in terms of accessibility.

   The North Downtown community, however, recognizes the park’s problems and is currently working with the City to renovate it within two years.

 

Tonsler  

Location: Corner of Fifth Street SW and Cherry Avenue

How big: 3.74 acres

How old: 1948/57 years old

Grade: C

Overall: There’s no doubt the Tonsler play structure strikes an impressive pose. The large structure is unlike the cookie cutter, off-the-assembly-line mold of the structures at Meade, Washington, Rives and Pen parks; it’s a wooden castle that just goes on and on and on. But while the design may be unique, it offers plenty of nooks and crannies for monkey business, too. There are plentiful small spaces into which a guardian can’t see. For the less trusting (or the more neurotic mommies and daddies), this could pose a problem.

   Another Tonsler issue is that the basketball courts are located right by busy Cherry Avenue. If a kid’s basketball rolls into the street, there’s no solid barrier to stop her from running out in traffic to retrieve it.

   There is, however, a nice rec center at the center of the park that has bathrooms…and air-conditioning.

 

Pen  

Location: Off Park Street/Rio Road

How big: 266 acres

How old: 1970/35 years old

Grade: A

Overall: It’s the general consensus around town that Pen Park is the queen bee of the City park system. She’s like a resort: There’s golf, tennis, even walking trails. Only the polo grounds are missing.

   Just like the rest of it, the playground is perfect. The views of the hills that serve as the park’s backdrop are absolutely pastoral and the jungle gym is like new. The structure is split down the middle so that half serves the big kids and half serves the babies. Both halves have slides, tunnels, monkey bars and a swing set; the scales of the activities vary simply based on their target age demographics.

   The three benches provided for the mommies, daddies, nannies, etc. are strategically placed underneath three trees at the edge of the playground so that while the kids might be baking in the sun, parents can enjoy the shade.

 

Forest Hills  

Location: Forest Hills Avenue

How big: 7.35 acres

How old: 1955/50 years old

Grade: B

Overall: “Hills” is the operative word in “Forest Hills.” Tucked into a little valley between hills, the play area is well shielded from the street. Large, old trees add to the pleasant setting and offer up a plethora of shade. The expansive, open green spaces also provide lots of room to run and play.

   The play equipment is fine, but not quite the caliber of its surroundings. The swing sets are rusty and situated in relation to the benches such that a guardian would have a difficult time watching one kid swing and another kid slide. The playground equipment includes monkey bars, a nothing-but-the-basics jungle gym, a mini-merry-go-round, and a couple other climbing apparatuses. Half of the equipment is old, with rust and chipped paint; half is new and A-O.K.

   As with other parks with a water feature, the pool here is the main attraction.

 

Jordan  

Location: Sixth Street SE

How big: 3.10 acres

How old: 1971/34 years old

Grade: C

Overall: Situated at the dead end of Sixth Street across from the Sunrise Trailer Park, Jordan Park needs maintenance. While there’s plenty of play equipment—two mini-playgrounds, one for the little kids and one for the older kids, plus a basketball court between the two—graffiti on the basketball courts and the older kids’ jungle gym gives the park an all-round run-down aura. Moreover, the graffiti doesn’t exactly offer the kids wholesome advice to live by. More trash than average doesn’t add to Jordan’s appeal, either. The dearth of trashcans probably contributes to this problem.

   While the older kids’ playground is nestled at the shady, far corner of the park, the little kids’ playground is right by the side of the road without a solid barrier. In short, the setting isn’t so scenic.

 

Fifeville  

Location: Intersection of Grove, Spring and Roy streets

How big: 0.66 acres

How old: 1949/56

Grade: D

Overall: Compare Fifeville Park to its North Down-town counterpart, McGuffey, and McGuffey looks downright luxurious. Situated right on the street, separated from traffic by a chain-link fence, Fifeville Park has an undeniably cramped feel. Not only is it right on the street, but there’s no sidewalk by the street entrance (though I grant you it’s a quiet street.)

   The equipment is shabby at best. The pieces include a small jungle gym, swing set, merry-go-round and bouncy rides. So, there’s not much to choose from and chipped paint is the norm.

 

Northeast  

Location: Corner of Sheridan Avenue and Calhoun Street

How big: 4.8 acres

How old: 1975/30 years old

Grade: B

Overall: Built into a shady hillside, Northeast is quiet and pleasant. There’s play equipment—jungle gyms and swings—for the big kids and the babies, all of which is in beautiful condition. There’s also a wooden bridge over a grassy gully that provides a pleasant nature area for both children and adults. The basketball courts, however, could use some attention: the backboards are shedding paint chips.

   The drawback of the park is that it’s located on the corner of two streets and that that corner is a blind turn for motorists who tend to whiz around it faster than they should.

 

Rives  

Location: Rives Street, between Monticello
and Florence roads

How big: 4.302 acres

How old: 1952/53 years old

Grade: B+

Overall: Rives Park is weird because it has two jungle gyms, but both appear to be aimed at the same age group—neither big kids, nor little kids. Both structures have medium-height slides, medium-height ledges. Everything is just “medium.” The structures are probably too big for the little babies and too boring for the bigger kids. It also has swings, bouncy rides and diggers. All the equipment is in ship-shape.

   The best thing about the park is the abundant seating for parents and guardians. Fourteen benches line both mini-playgrounds, and while trees are planted around the play areas, they haven’t matured enough to offer much shade yet. One day, though, there will be as much shade as there is seating.

 

Greenleaf  

Location: On Rose Hill Drive at Greenleaf Lane

How big: 14 acres

How old: 1952/53 years old

Grade: C

Overall: Tucked away behind Rose Hill Drive, Greenleaf Park’s first impressions are hunky dory. The trees are big, beautiful, and leafy; it’s off the street and secluded, even idyllic at first. But then, what’s that sound? That whooooosh through the trees? Oh, that’s 250, isn’t it? While Greenleaf may have a pretty face, it backs right up onto the Bypass and the sounds of whizzing traffic greatly detract from a relaxing park-going experience. There’s only a chain-link fence and a shallow wall of trees protecting the park and obscuring the highway.

   That said, there’s a good selection of play equipment both for the big kids and for the babies. It’s about half old equipment and half new. The new pieces are in good condition but, predictably, the older stuff is showing its age. In particular, there’s a turtle-shaped climbing structure for the little kids with paint so chipped it may as well not be painted at all.

 

McIntire East  

Location: 250 Bypass across from the Covenant School

How big: 55 acres

How old: 1926/79 years old

Grade: D

Overall: If a symphony of traffic makes Greenleaf Park less than what it could be, then McIntire East is a lost cause altogether. Located about 20 feet from the scenic 250 Bypass, the park makes no attempt to hide its backdrop with landscaping or a solid wall. So, cars set the stage and the sour scent of gasoline wafts through the air of this entirely disheartening playground experience.

   The play equipment is old and worn. There’s a swing set, four bouncy rides, and a jungle gym covered in chipped paint, slides and tunnels. The wading pool below is probably the highlight, but even that’s grubby.

 

McIntire West  

Location: Off 250 Bypass

How big: 80 acres

How old: 1926/79 years old

Grade: B-

Overall: While located off the Bypass, the playground at McIntire West is far enough down the park access road that the sounds of the highway don’t intrude too rudely on the park’s peace and quiet.

   The playground itself is modest. Crammed into a small space by the bathrooms, there’s a set of parallel bars, a wooden tunnel, monkey bars, baby swings, and a jungle gym with a slide and tic-tac-toe. Not only is there not much to choose from, but the equipment that is there is ratty. The metal handles of many of the pieces are rusty and there’s plenty of chipped paint.

   It’s likely that the main appeal is the playfields and picnic structures, where there is plenty of open space.

 

Albemarle County

Darden Towe

Location: Route 20N off Route 250E

How big: 110 acres

How old: 1990/15 years

Grade: B+

Overall: The thing to remember about Darden Towe is that the playing fields are the main idea. That said, it’s got a playground and it ain’t half bad. The park’s general setting is quiet and green, getting this outdoor experience off on the right foot. The play equipment itself does the job, too: tire swing, slide and wooden jungle gym with monkey bars.

   Though wooden and therefore splinter-prone, the jungle gym is in remarkably good condition, with no graffiti or noticeably rough edges. Unfortunately, there’s little shade by the play area. There is, however, plenty of room to sit and fan oneself: a beautiful stone wall surrounding the playground makes a convenient bench.

 

Mint Springs 

Location: Off Route 684 in Crozet

How big: 514 acres

How old: 1972/33 years

Grade: B+

Overall: Nestled between mountains and a lake, Mint Springs’ setting is breathtaking. Views don’t get much better than this, so the backdrop makes up for a lot of what the playground itself lacks. The only real piece of play equipment is a large jungle gym that comes complete with slides, monkey bars and tunnels. There are no swings, however, for the little ones that like the wind in their hair. Should kids take a shine to the jungle gym, there are only two benches for the parents, so it could be a squeeze.

   The swimming area is just across the way, providing entertainment galore. You have to pay to get in, but it’s worth it.

 

Dorrier  

Location: Off W. Main Street in Scottsville

How big: 2 acres

How old: 1993/12 years

Grade: C

Overall: Located in the center of Scottsville, the Dorrier playground is sandwiched between two parking lots. Charming. To make matters worse, there’s no shade and the seating options are dismal: no benches adjacent to the play area. One can, however, find solace from the heat and a place to rest one’s feet under the picnic shelter, set back a bit from the play area, and thus not optimally located to keep an eye on the little ones and relax at the same time.

   The playground equipment is to the point. There’s one jungle gym divided into halves—half for the babies and half for the big kids. It’s got big and little slides and swings, along with the usual monkey bars.

   The Scottsville Farmer’s Market is just across the way, so if the playground isn’t making the grade, some of the cookies and cakes the Scottsville vendors hawk every day might brighten the mood.

 

Chris Greene

Location: Out Airport Road

How big: 184 acres

How old: 1971/34 years

Grade: C

Overall: The fact that the Chris Green playground is hidden back in the woods has both pluses and minuses. On the one hand, when sweating out the dog days of summer, plenty o’ shade is welcome. On the other hand, the playground is so shady that there is literally no sun shining down on it. Moreover, the playground is not located within comfortable walking distance to the swimming area so it does not work as a supplement to the swimming area (see Mint Springs).

   As for the play equipment itself, it’s old, weathered and there’s not a lot to choose from. There’s a wood play structure with a short slide, ramp, bridge, two baby swings and a rusty beam to hang from. Plus you have to pay to get in. So if the playground is all you’re after (which, granted, is unlikely), it’s not worth the charge at the gate.

 

Simpson

Location: Off Porters Road in Scottsville

How big: 13.6 acres

How old: 2004/1 year

Grade: B+

Overall: This place is a little “Twilight Zone.” Drive off into the middle of nowhere for miles and, all of a sudden, a brand new playground materializes by the side of the backcountry road. Benjamin Franklin Yancey Elementary School across the street puts the playground into context, but it’s still a surprise.

   This park, while it may not have a lot of shade or seating, is pristine. The jungle gym is brightly colored, with slides, a climbing wall, stepping stones, monkey bars and more. Plus there are swings, basketball courts, tennis courts and a mini-water park with showers to cool off the kids after a thousand trips down the hot slides.

 Perched on a wooden stool by the front door and holding a microphone with one hand, Conley Jones belts out “Better Man” to a tinny, digitized arrangement with angst enough to make Eddie Vedder proud. With his free hand, he casually checks IDs as those in search of Baja Bean’s Tuesday night special—$3 margaritas and hours of karaoke—file in. Jones doesn’t drink. Instead, a 32-ounce pitcher of Mountain Dew sits within arm’s length.

 At 9pm on this Tuesday night, the motley assortment of karaoke regulars—college students, middle-aged singles, older couples, 20something hipsters—are settling in at the bar, at the booths, at the wooden tables, ordering drinks and flipping through one of the two-dozen 231-page songbooks scattered about. They ponder what this evening’s selection holds in store.

 A typical karaoke conversation:

 “Oh, that would be a good one!” Out of the upwards of 10,000 song choices in the Thunder Music tome, Girl A’s finger lands on Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield.”

 “Mmmm, I don’t know. Can you do the dance?” asks Girl B.

 “What about something by The Cure? I love The Cure.” There’s no time for debate as the pages flip forward to the “C’s.”

 The success of a karaoke song depends on how a karaoke hopeful interprets the following: her own vocal abilities, the singability of her selection and what the audience wants. Ideally, the singer can carry a tune (this rarely happens), the song does not push her abilities to the breaking point (literally) and (whether she knows it or not) the audience wants to hear that song. Over the years, says Stacie Hatch, who manages Baja Bean, certain karaoke favorites have surfaced at the restaurant: “Sweet Caroline,” “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and any number by Madonna.

 On this evening, which is shaping up to be as amped up and predictable as any other karaoke night during the past three years, waiters in red-and-white baseball-style shirts run to and fro carrying margaritas in plastic beer cups to thirsty regulars. Tuesdays are Baja’s most profitable weekday night by far. Each server can expect to pocket around $200.

 Karaoke came to Baja three years ago when Charles Davis, a regular at the Corner restaurant, slipped the name Steve Miller to the then manager. Miller is a legendary karaoke jockey (who happens to share a name with a ’70s rock legend). Within a few months of Miller joining the Tuesday night routine, Baja had to hire extra servers, a doorman and a second bartender. Mountain Dew-drinking Jones, who had been singing karaoke for five years, began as Miller’s apprentice in summer 2003.

 Tonight, Miller sits ensconced at the front booth, nursing his fourth Red Bull of the day and chain-smoking Kool Menthols.

 “Got to keep myself young,” he chuckles morbidly, an unlighted Kool bouncing between his lips. “I’m afraid if I quit I’ll die. My body won’t be able to take the shock.”

 A big guy with a gray beard and cherubic cheeks, Miller looks like Kenny Rogers times two. His left forearm sports a cobra tattoo that he did himself with a needle and thread when he was 15. His eardrums are shot from 20 years on the job at Thunder Music, his Madison-based DJ and KJ business that he launched in 1985, so he has to lean toward anyone who speaks to him.

 “Steve has been partying since before any of us were born,” says his protégé Jones. “He knows the construct of the perfect party and he makes it go wherever he is.”

 “I’ve been drug around a little bit,” Miller admits, laughing. “I been drug around a lot.”

 “You been drugged a lot,” quips Jones.

 As another ID gets shoved under his nose at door duty, Jones launches into James Taylor’s “Steamroller.” At the beginning of karaoke night at Baja, Jones sings a lot as the paying patrons warm up to the task with more mixed drinks. (Sign on the wall at Baja: “TEQUILA Have you hugged your toilet today?”)

 “How many people’s toenails are painted in here?” Jones asks, trying to break the ice.

 The ladies scream.

 “How many people’s toenails are painted red?”

 More screaming.

 “How many people’s toenails are painted pink?”

 Still more screaming.

 He breaks into a blues tune (“Well, I’m a cement mixer, a churning urn of burning funk…”) and then…

 “Charles! Let’s bring Charles to the microphone!” That’s Miller shouting out from his booth overstuffed with folders of music discs and cigarette butts, giving the evening its official opening.

 

Karaoke is a great democratizer. Boss and janitor are equally susceptible to either glory or ridicule before the microphone. Karaoke raises to the level of public embarrassment that most private of self-aggrandizements: singing into a hairbrush in front of your bedroom mirror.

 And if that doesn’t explain its appeal, consider this: Whether it’s karaoke at Baja Bean, Wild Wing Cafe, High Street Steak and Grill, Club Rio or Peking Chinese Restaurant, once you’ve been to one karaoke night, you’ve pretty much been to them all. Sure, places differ. Musical tastes differ. Audience participation and enthusiasm varies. There may be a jovial host at one place (Baja) and a veritable help-yourself karaoke buffet (Peking Chinese Restaurant) across town. Regardless, every karaoke evening unfolds predictably. Get beer, choose song, sign up for song, wait to sing song, sing song, sign up for another song. Repeat until amusement wears off. For some, that takes a couple hours. For others, such as Miller and Jones, it’s been years and the joys of karaoke have yet to age.

 “Christina, let’s get Christina on up here!” Miller bellows in the same game-show host voice for every new singer.

 A giggling college girl with two friends in tow timidly approaches the microphone as a recorded track sounding suspiciously like Celine Dion’s cover of Eric Carmen’s “All By Myself” sounds throughout the room.

 “When I was young, I never needed anyone…”

 Arm in arm, they mumble the lyrics, cringing on the especially out-of-tune notes before doubling over in laughter. The din of conversation swarms the restaurant. The girls don’t notice. By the end of the song, they’re singing at the top of their lungs, though not exactly in unison.

 “All by myself, don’t want to live…”

 The song gradually fades into silence and the group of students taking up two tables from which Christina and Co. emerged stand up to cheer on their ambassadors. The rest of the audience sits nonplussed. Performances like this are a dime a dozen and the regulars tend not to waste their time paying attention. On a scale of 1-10, the veterans probably would have rated this performance about a 3.

 True karaoke devotees tend to be more serious about their craft. They’re not looking for love in all the wrong places like the Baja party girls. They often have songs or artists they specialize in and it’s not unusual for them to have greater musical aspirations.

 For example, among the regulars, Ian Mitchell is the white guy with a knack for early ’90s rap. Charles Davis prefers early ’80s pop like Tom Petty and The Cars. Laura Shareck belts out Alanis Morissette and Joan Osborne on a weekly basis. And then there’s doorman/KJ protégé and incredible mimic Jones who can sing Tracy Chapman like the woman herself, but whose standbys run more to Aerosmith, Bon Jovi and Nirvana.

 In fact, Jones and his wife, Bianca, who is also a karaoke regular, devote much of their non-karaoke time to their band Laden Angel. They see karaoke as a way of building vocal endurance and range for the love of the band.

 “I want to do the whole rock star bit one day,” Jones says, explaining his karaoke habit.

 And the Joneses aren’t the only ones with rock ’n’ roll dreams. Sitting alone at his usual spot at the bar, 38-year-old Charles Davis, the Tom Petty guy, has been in many local bands over the years. His current group, Luxury Liner, plays what he describes as “mellow pop rock.” Summing up his motivations for singing karaoke week after week, he looks into his pint and bobs his head up and down. “It’s fun,” he shrugs.

 

On September 30, 2004, two weeks before the Nobel Prizes were awarded in Stockholm, Sweden, the Ig Nobel Awards were doled out to their deserving recipients at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Among the winners, which included a researcher who investigated the scientific validity of the Five-Second Rule, and cited for “providing an entirely new way for people to learn to tolerate each other,” was Daisuke Inoue of Hyogo, Japan, the Henry Ford of karaoke. A former drummer and amateur inventor, Inoue created the karaoke box in 1970 for a client who couldn’t endure a business trip without Inoue’s musical talents. So, Inoue recorded a tape of his drumming to send with his client. He also sent a little machine, with microphone attached, on which to play the tape. Success.

 Following the triumph of this endeavor, Inoue set out to conquer the country with his karaoke box. He made many special tapes and started renting his karaoke machines out to local bars in Kobe. Sadly, he never patented his idea and so never earned the billions the karaoke phenomenon was destined to generate. The only karaoke-related patent Inoue owns is for a poison that keeps cockroaches away from karaoke boxes.

 But the Ig Nobles recognize his claim. Inoue’s brief acceptance speech for his Peace Prize was broadcast on National Public Radio: “Once a time, I had the dream to teach people to sing, so I invented the karaoke machine. Now, more than ever [singing] I want to teach the world to sing perfect harmony. You see? [singing] Coca-Cola. Let’s party!”

 

By 10:30pm on the same Tuesday night, it’s raucous enough to please even Inoue at Baja Bean, 60 people crowding the downstairs bar area.

 “John B.! Let’s get John B. up here!” From his booth, reading from the by now hour-long wait list of those signed up to sing, Miller announces the next singer.

 John Baxton, a Web programmer at UVA’s Darden business school and karaoke regular, heads to the mic. This man is as close as Baja karaoke gets to celebrity and a hush falls over the bar as all come to attention for what promises to be a recording contract-caliber performance.

 Laura Shareck and a friend are sitting with their backs to the microphone, but as Baxton emerges from the back of the bar, the girls swivel their chairs around to face front. Baxton’s choice of the evening is the ’80s hair-band classic “Still of the Night.”

 In his neatly pressed polo shirt and khakis, Baxton, who is black, doesn’t seem like the typical Whitesnake fan. But that’s not the point. Holding the mic close to his mouth like a diva, he shuts his eyes and throws his head back on the falsetto notes, sustaining them to their fullest. The man can sing.

 With Baxton channeling David Coverdale with frightening accuracy, Conley Jones, still perched on his stool by the door starts to head bang. He raises his left hand, signing the universal symbol for “hard rock” with his pointer and pinkie. His chin-length hair blurs as his head thrashes up and down.

 “Now I just wanna get close to you and taste your love so sweeeeeeeet,” semi-screeches Baxton. “And I just want to make love to you, feel your body heat, in the still of the night, still of the night, still of the niiiiiiiight!” Baxton brings the song to its crashing close and the cheers are deafening.

 Davis follows Baxton with “Stuck in the Middle With You” and the audience, indifferent again, resumes their conversations. Ian Mitchell follows Davis with “Ice, Ice Baby.” An anonymous trolling brunette gets up from her spot on the stairs and walks toward Mitchell. Soon, she’s shimmying up and down and all around him as he raps: “I’m killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom deadly, when I play a dope melody. Anything less than the best is a felony.” Catching his breath in a musical interlude, he shimmies back.

 Christina and Co.’s karaoke courage increases in proportion to their alcohol intake. It turns out Christina turns 21 tonight.

 “Christina! Let’s get Christina on up here.”

 This time, she and her friends bounce on up to the microphone without a hint of hesitation.

 Seconds later, the bootylicious opening notes of Eve and Gwen Stefani’s “Let Me Blow Ya Mind” sound throughout the bar as Christina and Co. stumble up to a TV monitor to view the lyrics more clearly. Clutching their microphones, they forget to sing, but remember to grind with each other. A group of women, who had been sitting at the bar drinking beer and paying no attention to the karaoke madness in their midst, suddenly jump up and join in the debauchery. Shaking their asses for each other’s amusement, one woman grabs the microphone from Christina and takes over lead vocals as the vice presidential debate heats up on close caption on the TV above the bar.

 That’s the capper to the night, right there. Miller paces outside the bar smoking a cigarette and giving his aching eardrums a break. Jones has moved away from the door to a booth so that he can sit with his wife, his arm around her shoulders. One by one, the karaoke pros, like Baxton and Mitchell, throw on their coats on and head home to rest their vocal cords for next Tuesday night.

Where to go for karaoke
Baja Bean 1327 W. Main St. 293-4507 Tuesdays, 8pm	Charlie’s Bar and Grill 221 Carlton Rd. 977-1970 Wednesdays, 9pm	High Street Steak and Grill 1522 E. High St. 977-5272 Tuesdays, 9pm
Club Rio 1525 E. Rio Rd. 975-3100 Wednesdays, 9pm	Jabberwoky 1517 University Ave. 984-4653 Wednesdays, 10pm	Peking Chinese Restaurant 115 Fourth St. NE 296-6399 Every day, after 3pm
	Wild Wings Café 1935 Arlington Blvd. 977-1882 Thursdays, 9pm