Publisher's Notebook

This is one of those stories that leaves you wondering if it’s really true. If it turns out to be an urban legend, I’ll update.

It takes place in Sweden, with an account from The Local, a website that posts Swedish news in English.

Professor at a university in northern Sweden comes home, tired from a long day. He dumps his backpack containing all his stuff (wallet, keys, laptop computer) in a stairwell and goes to the building’s laundry room.

A few minutes later, he comes back and the backpack is missing. He wails and goes the cops for help. Shortly thereafter, he returns to the stairwell, only to find the backpack is back.

Except for his laptop, which is gone. He admitted to a local Swedish paper that he was bad at backing up the computer. All his research was tØast.

Fast forward a week. A mysterious envelope arrives in the mail, containing a USB memory stick that had been taken with the computer. On it, the thief had copied all the professor’s personal files and documents.

“I am very happy,” he told the newspaper. “This story makes me feel hope for humanity.”

Call it compassionate criminality. Ah, a thief with a heart of gold. You can practicality hear the screenplay being written on this one as we speak.

Things must be different in Sweden. In 1990, my house was broken into and the thief stole my camera holding film containing once-in-a-lifetime snaps of my children with their grandfather. I’m sad to say I never got one of those mysterious envelopes.

Before joining this newspaper in 1988, I practiced law in Southwest Virginia for about three years. Like many rookie lawyers, I got a lot of court-appointed criminal work. 

I handled a jury trial for one of my court-appointed clients not long before I moved to Richmond. Bristol Circuit Judge Butch Flannagan called me into his office with word that another lawyer in town was having a “difference of opinion” with the client and he was relieving that guy of the privilege. My number had come up. The trial was set in two weeks.

The charge: writing a bad check, a big one, to Sears. I met with the client, whom I’ll call Mary (not her real name). Mary said that she and her identical twin sister Sherry (not her real name, either) often switched identities and pretended to be each other. Sherry, she was adamant, was the one who wrote the check to Sears, using her – Mary’s – rubber checkbook.

Sometimes you go with all you have, so I worked up the Evil Twin Sister Defense. I subpoenaed Sherry and started getting ready, hoping to leave the jury wondering whodunnit.

On the day of trial, George Warren, the commonwealth’s attorney, got the security guard from Sears on the stand; he said, yep, there she is (Mary), she’s the one who I saw write the check and hand it to the salesclerk. This was bad. I couldn’t shake him from his story. This was bad, too.

Mary got on the stand and said Sherry did it. This was possibly good. George couldn’t shake her from her story. This was possibly good, too.

I called Sherry. Sherry was indeed Mary’s identical twin, but, um, Sherry had been sick and had had surgery and weighed about 50 pounds less than Mary, who was, at 6 feet and 200 pounds, a big gal. This was bad. Sherry admitted she and Mary sometimes swapped identities, but no, she did not write that check to Sears. This was as good as I had, given the in-court ID by the security guard.

The jury heads out. And stays out. This was good. And stays out. Hmm. Finally, after about an hour, the jury comes back. They found Mary guilty on the bad-check charge. This was bad. The sentence was a couple of years, which the judge said could run concurrent to some other time she was serving. This was good, if you were Mary.

My enduring memory of Mary, and I promise this is true: After one of our interviews in the jail, the deputy came to take her back to her cell. As she shuffled out, Mary sang Whitney Houston softly to herself, “Where do broken hearts go?” I couldn’t answer that one.

Got a good war story? I’d like to hear it and share it. Send me a note at paul.fletcher@valawyersmedia.com. The best entry will win a nifty prize.

Retired Campbell County Circuit Judge Sam Johnston first told me his melon-balls story about 15 years ago. He tells it to me practically every time I see him because he knows I laugh at it every time (and I’m not just being polite).

Here’s how it goes:

The judge was a guest at a sheriff’s association dinner some years ago. He was seated with two deputies.

The waiter brought the fruit appetizer to the table – each person got a bowl with a nice colorful array of carefully scooped-out melon balls – green honeydew, orange cantaloupe and red watermelon.

The judge grabbed his and began eating with gusto (people who know Sam Johnston know he approaches most things with gusto).

The two deputies were motionless, looking at the bowls with curiosity mixed with distrust. The judge noticed and said, “What’s wrong, boys?”

One pointed a finger at the bowl and said, “What’s that?”

“Why, these are melon balls,” Johnston replied. “The green is honeydew, the red is watermelon and the orange is cantaloupe.”

“Damn, I didn’t know they growed that small!” replied one deputy.

The other added, “Yeah. I bet they’re a real bear to peel!”