Bionic Six

Mug-o'-the-week

2008-01-16T00:18:00.000-05:00

Welcome to our new semi-regular feature, Mug-o'-the-week. This space is brought to by the Miami-Dade Corrections homepage, whose Inmate Search function makes for hours of fun.

Mug-o'-the-week will endeavor to bring you the mugshot of one particularly dastardly offender currently enjoying the hospitality at one of Miami-Dade's five correctional facilities.

I want to be clear about the intent of this feature; MOTW is intended for purely entertainment purposes. We will not be publishing a picture of some poor schmoe who got pulled in for disorderly conduct during an acid freakout and can't keep his tongue in his mouth (because God knows we've all been there), just as won't be featuring some unfortunate hobo just because his wild, street-worn features will get laughs. We will only feature felons who have significant histories, and we are primarily looking for interesting backstories. We don't want burgulars who get caught in the act, we want burgulars that try to parachute out of third story apartment buildings into the waiting arms of police. Shit like that. This is South Florida, ladies and gentleman, anything less than the weirdest and most depraved simply will not do.

So, all that having been said, I would like to introduce you to the seminal member of the MOTW club:

BETANCO, ALVARO ALEXANDER

I think I own that same shirt. Fashion sense aside, Betanco is being held without bail on 32 charges, mostly stemming from burgulary and auto theft charges. So how was this 22-year old criminal mastermind, who was allowed to post bond and jumped it not once, twice, or three times, but eight times altogether, finally caught? Well, the case info is vague, as case info often is, but it has something to do with defrauding a pawn shop. I've always said, don't mess with pawn shop guys. They pack heat and do not play.

Marital miss

2008-01-15T20:17:00.000-05:00

As if people needed more obstacles to ending their unhappy marriages. These days when someone realizes they made a mistake by signing a legal contract that binds their credit and belongings to a person they don't really like, just because of a religious tradition and the desire to wear white and black and be the center of attention at a party in front of their friends, the legal and financial impact is enough to generally ruin one, if not both, of their lives for years to come.

Well, if you've gotten a divorce lately in Dade County you better check that credit score, because you may not actually be divorced:

COUNTY EMPLOYEE ARRESTED FOR FACILITATING “QUICKIE DIVORCE” SCHEME

(MIAMI, January 15, 2008) – Olga L. Avila, 46, a resident of Miami-Dade County and a 16 year employee of the Miami-Dade County Clerk of the Courts, was arrested today as a result of an investigation by the Office of the Inspector General (OIG) and the Miami-Dade State Attorney’s Office. Acting on information provided by Mr. Harvey Ruvin, Clerk of the Eleventh Judicial Circuit Courts, the OIG began an investigation into Avila, who held the position of Courtroom Clerk I, and who was running a “quickie divorce” scheme to make some money on the side.

According to an arrest warrant signed by a circuit court judge, Avila promised to provide unrepresented litigants a quick divorce for a cash fee of $670. Avila’s scheme involved falsifying and fraudulently notarizing documents, as well as using her access and friends at the Miami-Dade County Courts to expedite the divorce proceedings. Unknowingly relying on falsely sworn pleadings, judges ordered the final dissolution of marriages. Some of the parties, believing they were divorced, entered into new marriages. Avila has been terminated from her employment, and charged by this arrest with a total of 52 felony counts.

Fifty-two felony counts with bond amounts of $1,000 each equals $52,000, or 77.6 Quickie Divorces at the rate Avila was charging. And in my opinion, she should have to pay every penny. The right to learn an expensive lesson after making a stupid financial decision should be everyone's God-given right, and anyone that interferes with that right should be punished to the full extent of the law.

Suited for mass consumption

2008-01-13T05:01:00.000-05:00

My morning wasn't a morning at all, but an extension of a sleepless night filled with restlessness and tooth pain. I'm relatively sure I have a vicious cavity eating its way through the back of my molar and into the roof of my mouth, with a reckless abandon that feels at times like it could split my mandible in twain. For morning to come there first has to have been night. All that happened tonight, for me, after spending hours staring into a pillow, is that the sun came up. No new day, no fresh start, just fatigue and a Saturday G.A. shift.

http://www.miamiherald.com/news/breaking_dade/story/376973.html
Morning or not, I left for work early today around eight. As I drove east on Calle Ocho from Coral Gables I passed the Versailles Cafe, a venerable Little Havana establishment at which my assignment was to take place later in the morning at 11 a.m. I couldn't help but notice that the local Cuban community, three hours prior, were already setting up for the counter-protest. I stopped and spoke to a man named Miguel who was all business. He threaded cable from speakers to mixers and back to bullhorns, all powered by one Bridgestone car battery. He was not outspoken or controversial in his views of the impending San Francisco protesters who at 11 would descend on unfriendly terrain to deliver an anti-Bush veiled message of pro-Cuba, pro-Castro, pro-Venezuala socialism. His demeanor was more businesslike, as though it was just another day in the exile community's struggle to prevent a memory loss that could result in the general populace forgetting what led to the current state of Cuba, as well as their own state of existence. Miguel, as he spoke with me while wiring speakers, struck me more as a soldier with more important things to do while being asked by some imbedded journalist, "Why are you doing this, and what exactly do you hope to accomplish?" as he prepped the rally.

By 10:00, I had had been at 1 Herald Plaza for an hour, walking some green interns and clerks through the day-to-days and putting the finishing touches on A-Matter for my impending assignment. Even then, I could barely keep my eyes open.

An hour later, I was navigating the back streets of Little Havana south of Flagler and north of eighth street to a little parking lot I know about that is unencumbered by traffic and has an easy escape route, which would later be useful.

I didn't have any more than five minutes of tape when the group CodePink made its way through more than 500 Cubans. I was supposed to record them engaging the community, record them trying to convince these people that one of their heroes was a butcher, a terrorist, despite the fact that he has been cleared of those charges several times.

It's important that I disclose, at this point, that despite the fact that there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of Cuban Quinoneses, I am not one of them. My family hails from the mountains just north of Playa de Ponce in Puerto Rico, and only recently became Angli-cized in the last century. Prior to that, we were Taino, some of the last in existence. My long face, strong chin, straight hair, my eyes are a dead giveaway that I have little European Spanish blood in me and more Carribean tribal characteristics in my genes. My point is that I have, I feel, a healthy detachment from local Cuban issues, enough to at least report on them responsibly. This politically charged issue is important to cover impartially and honestly, and my paper has received criticism for its past attempts at this endeavor. Caveat emptor.

Meanwhile, back at the rally, the Cubans in front of Versailles made it known in no uncertain terms that CodePink's agenda-driven message was not welcome in Little Havana. For the most part everyone in attendance kept their cool in a situation where they were obviously being provoked, but a few supporters stormed the group's pink and red jury-rigged float, grabbing at the billboard that featured exile-hero Luis Posada Carriles' mug shot. My limp and tired body was thrust forward by the group's advance on the San Francisco hippies. There I was, in the midst of what felt like a thousand people surging toward the street, and it was all I could do to negotiate my camera and my cafe con leche, concentrating on keeping my crisp white dress shirt stainless.

It bears noting that both groups were somewhat in the wrong. First, the handful of Cuban supporters that had rushed the float only gave a platform to the members of the group who would later label them as right wing fanatics trying to inhibit free speech. As planned, the group used the media spotlight (which later at Downtown Miami Police Department was basically me, a freelancer, and a guy from Univision) to cast a negative light on the exile community, which is pretty much what they'd planned to do on this trip. If you fight someone, you inherently acknowledge them as your enemy, and in this case it seems that these aging hippies didn't warrant that kind of attention. The exile community has counted some real heavyweights amongst its enemies, from Fidel to Raul to LBJ to Steven Speilberg, and these old house frau's seem less than worthy of that acknowledgment. The exiles are better than that.

The flower children themselves are even more to blame, though. I can't help but be haunted by Laura Villainos' rhetorical question to me, when she asked who was paying this CodePink's salaries, anyway? What did they stand to gain by coming into a community where they had to know their message was not welcome? When I arrived at the follow-up protest, held on the steps of the downtown Miami Police Department, I couldn't help but notice the heat, pomp and circumstance of the rhetoric being spewn by CodePink was dialed up a few degrees when my Miami Herald press badge was noticed.

"This is the worst police department I've ever seen in the most fascist place I've ever been in the whole country!" screamed one CodePink supporter, half at a commanding officer and half at a nearby television camera. All full of sound and fury, anger that was very clearly scripted and suited for mass consumption. "Look at me."

I was involved in drama, music, and screen productions for a long time before I became a journalist, and I know when I'm seeing something that's been rehearsed. To quote a lieutenant on the scene, What did these people really think would happen? Also, while the Cuban locals had obtained permits, CodePink had not done so.

Later, despite being near exhaustion and maybe a danger to other drivers when I left the Herald, I still found it difficult to sleep when I got home. I couldn't help but ponder whether my story had been swayed by personal opinions. Was my 15 inch piece on the rallies objective? I thought about Santiago Portal, a Cuban man in his 70s who I had interviewed, who reminded me in his speech and actions, the way he used his hands to convey points, the way he'd toss the occassional English phrase in with his casual Spanish, of my own departed abuelo. The people on the Versailles side of the road were identical to the people I'd grown up around, identical to my family, in their words and mannerisms. The way Santiago put his arm on my shoulder reminded me of my dad and uncles, the way that Latino men will look you in your eyes, face to face, and speak frankly with you when they know you need help or advice.

Conversely, CodePink was harder for me to identify with. They were an obviously staged series of dramatic events. They came to the city under the guise of open dialogue, but after the "disappointing experience" in Little Havana it was hard to ignore that they were essentailly happy with the sensational outcome. I thought about this as I banged out a foot of personality-bereft copy. I thought of clever ways to include the obvious part of the story, the fact that these were muckrakers, racontuers, clearly driven by an agenda. I thought of ways to include these facts into the story, and then I had to come to peace with letting them go. The fact remains that an interjection like that can be perceived as opinion, and opinion is anathema to reporters in the United States. To a journalist, having an opinion is like being a politician with a dead girl or a live boy in your bed: If you have one, you better get rid of it quick and make it seem as though you never had one.

And awaaa-ay we go...

2008-01-10T04:01:00.000-05:00

Earlier today Pat Riley made it clear to me that he has no intentions whatsoever of resigning from his position as the wayward Miami Heat's head coach. While he spoke these words I couldn't help but detect a measure of desperation in his eyes, the kind of gaze one wears when they wish they were anywhere other than where they are at that moment.

Similarly, a job was posted yesterday where I work - The Miami Herald - for a correspondent to go for a temporary assignment in a treacherous part of the world as part of our parent company's strategy international strategy. The posting was sent out via mass email, as are most job postings, to give equal chance at the spot between the grizzled old vets, the hungry rookies, and everyone in between.

Today I applied. I don't really fall into any of those categories.

In the five story, $55 million building that houses the majority of the Miami Herald's operations, I probably make the least amount of money on a per-hour basis than anyone, including the guys serving the grub in the cafeteria.

Not that I'm bitter. I'm a journalist, I quite literally can't afford to be bitter. I use the word "journalist", when describing myself, in the loosest sense of the term.

What is it I do exactly? I set up the sin in the Sports pages. Ever wonder who won the fourth race at the Calder race track,or how much Jacksonville is giving up to New England next week? Ever need to know if that 5-4-6-3 quinela ticket you have in your pocket is worth more than the beer spilled on it? Wanna know if LeBron James earned you that fantasy dollar, or if North Carolina covered? Ever need a number for a relaxing "full release massage"? If so, you read my work every single day. In the meat of the D-section I put my degree in Business Management from UNLV to work, coding up agate and compiling results and stats.

But I can't complain. I was 3 1/2 years through business school before I realized I didn't want to be a salesman, a manager, or a sales manager. I was a year out of school the first time I published a real article in a magazine called Liberty Watch, saw my name in glossy print for the first time, and decided I wanted to be a journalist. I was a much sicker, less grounded individual than I am today. I lived in a world of sin that would make my scoreboard page blush.

Oh, did I mention I was living in Vegas at the time? And did I mention I was a whole lot more pale in a place a whole lot more sunny? One needs to see the sun once in a while to get some color, and not the kind of sunshine that surprises and assaults you as you step out of the Spearmint Rhino and stumble onto Industrial Road at eight a.m.

Which brings me back to today, to this year, to me working my ass off for $10.20 an hour and getting less and less for it. To me, pounding out stats and standings and results, busting my hump on the weekend as a GA (general assignment) reporter, hoping to prove myself worthy as the writer I know I am and the reporter I want to be, begging to be taken off the shit-shift from 5pm to 1am on the sports desk for a full-time shot at the highest profile $30,000 a year job one can hold -- City desk reporter in Miami, Florida, where the weird never sleeps unless it's behind the wheel of a stolen car and there is no such thing as a slow news day.

So here I am, happier than I've ever been yet discontented, in love with a beautiful woman and a scruffy dog yet contemplating a stint in a hell hole that rhymes with my-back just to get off this detail, as successful as I've ever been yet earning less than I have since I was 18.

I'm reminded of Riley, swearing he wouldn't rather be anywhere else, and I have to wonder, "If my life is this good and I want to do something else for a while, how must it feel to coach the (second) worst team in the NBA?"

I'll cut off my background at this point, for I am a firm believer that if you leave everything in, you're left with nothing. The idea of this blog is hazy still, I've taken some stabs at the format but I'm going to work hard at this one, really make it work. I'm gonna link, post, network, include multimedia, the works. If I were to give a certain topic for concentration, it would immediately limit me, and that's not what I want.

Welcome to my world.