First Chapter of Murder of A Post Office Manager
Chapter One
THE RENDEZVOUS
(November 18, 1998)
Prosecutor: Was the defendant home at the time of the murder?
Witness: No.
Prosecutor: How do you know this?
Witness: We called him three times and got his answering machine.
James Newton spent the last day of his life the way he spent every day – flexing his muscles as the man in charge of the midnight shift at the Plant. He was more than a boss at a large postal facility, he was the king of the midnight shift, also known as Tour One. His empire included three buildings, the Plant, the Building on Big Beaver (the BOBB) and the Stephenson Highway Operation (the SHO). Machines that sorted mail rapidly and efficiently filled these buildings. Machines that gave Newton the best production numbers in the state of Michigan.
Newton arrived shortly after midnight and sat back in his plush executive chair. A round of phone calls to his subordinates prepared him for his 1:00 meeting with Elliott Drummond.
Technically, Drummond was Newton’s equal; they both had the title of MDO (Manager, Distribution Operations). But as the elderly Drummond made his way into Newton’s office, dragging his left leg, the power relationship was clear.
“We’re going to start a new sick leave policy,” Newton told Drummond. “Three absences in 90 days and you get discipline. I’m sending a memo to all the supervisors.”
“Okay with me.”
“Show me today’s sick call list.”
Drummond handed Newton the list. “Jim, you know who called in sick today? Paul Farley.”
Farley was a steward whose confrontations with Newton were legendary. As was his temper. Farley mocked Newton in the union newspaper, calling him “Fig Newton” and distorting the facts in his libelous articles. The latest one was called “Fig Newton Must Go.” Newton had been making his life hell ever since.
“Elliott, did you ever notice how ugly Farley is? I mean, with that ridiculous mustache, the unruly hair, the pasty complexion, the bald spot in back of his head? How can anyone stand to look at him?”
“I don’t know.”
“But of course, it’s the ugliness of his soul that’s most important. We’re going to step up the pressure on Farley when he comes back to work.”
“We’re already disrupting his union time,” Drummond said. “What else do you plan to do?”
“Elliott, you don’t want to know.”
At 1:30 (or 0150 in postal lingo) Angela Roberts knocked on the door, interrupting the MDOs’ conversation. Angela was a steward who stood firmly behind her coworkers, but didn’t disrespect management like Farley did. She drove a hard bargain, even when she compromised. She kept her cool and was intelligent. Newton didn’t know a black girl could be that intelligent. But today Newton had the upper hand.
“You owe five people back pay on my overtime grievance,” Angela said.
“Don’t waste your breath and don’t waste my time. You’re not getting back pay on your grievance. Send it to Step Two.”
Angela spoke slowly as she wrote “Don’t waste your breath and don’t waste my time. You’re not getting back pay, send it to Step Two.” She added, “That’s going in my Step Two appeal.”
After Angela walked out, Newton told Drummond, “I’ve talked to the manager who’s handling the Step 2. He’s denying it. It’ll take years for them to get their money.”
Newton walked through the automation area. He loved the sound of the Optical Character Readers (OCRs) and Delivery Bar Code Sorters (DBCSs). Years ago you’d walk through the building and hear people’s voices. Now the dominant sound was the whoosh-whoosh of mail being drawn into the machines and the clackety-clackety-clack of mail rushing through and landing in bins along the side of the machine. The feeder and sweeper were too far away from each other to talk – as long as they were doing their job. On those occasions when his numbers fell, it was because of lazy employees, the union that defended them, and the wimpy supervisors who were afraid to confront them. Newton stared at a young man who was supposed to be sweeping OCR #3; the employee cut short his conversation and scurried to the other end of the machine.
Back in his office, Newton looked in the mirror behind his desk. Others might call him a little overweight at 5’ 7” and 190 pounds. But in the mirror Newton saw a man who was solidly built. At the age of 50 he still had a full head of brown hair, carefully combed to one side, a little bit long but very neat. His tan skin and long hair added to his youthful appearance; he could easily be mistaken for 40. With his almost baby face features, your first impression would be of a pleasant, mild-mannered guy. But his dark eyes could look right through you; he could intimidate his foes and get what he wanted most of the time. It was his personality and good looks that attracted the women.
Or, one woman in particular. Stacey Kline was a supervisor at the 110 belt. In her mid-thirties, she worked out three times a week, and you could see the results. She had straight blond hair down almost to her shoulders, sparkling blue eyes, smooth skin, and a figure like a model.
Stacey’s tour ended at 0500. Wednesday was the day Stacey’s husband went to his job early, leaving their Bloomfield Hills home at 5:00. Harold Kline used to supervise at the Post Office and then had gone successfully into the business world. He earned $90,000 a year, worked 60 hours a week, had a beautiful home and a lovely wife. He had everything he wanted, but he didn’t have a life.
Stacey and Jim Newton met for breakfast shortly after five every Wednesday. Newton’s shift didn’t end until 0850, but nobody would question his absence. Drummond would assume Newton went to the BOBB or the SHO. He’d still be home at the usual time so his wife wouldn’t suspect a thing either.
Newton would arrive home late when Harold Kline was out of town on a business trip. That’s when Newton and Stacey did a lot more than breakfast together. He would tell his wife he had to take care of a minor crisis at work. Mrs. Newton understood that her husband was dedicated and conscientious, while the other MDO was old and useless.
Newton’s musings were pleasantly interrupted at 0300 when Stacey Kline dropped by his office. She wore a low cut blouse underneath a sweater. “I’m glad you denied that overtime grievance,” she said as she unbuttoned the top button of her sweater.
“I’ve already made a phone call, it’ll be denied at Step Two,” he said, as Stacey unbuttoned two more buttons.
“Here are the clock rings you need,” she said as she slowly leaned over to lay the stack of papers on his desk. Newton’s pulse quickened as he watched this beautiful, sexy woman. Stacey then buttoned her sweater, said “See you later, boss, you know today is Wednesday” and headed back to the workroom floor.
He was thinking about her for the next two hours. He never thought about his wife like that anymore. Of course there were other well built ladies in the Plant. But there was something about the sparkle in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, even the crispness of her speech that excited him. And of course, she was loyal to him. Yes, she would make an excellent MDO when old man Drummond retired. Newton would see to it that she got the job.
Newton walked out to the dock to watch the 0500 dispatch. It was a sight to behold. Mail rolling out to 20 different truck stalls, workers loading the trucks headed to communities throughout Oakland and Macomb counties, delivering every letter with a 480 or 483 zip code, everything running like clockwork. All because of Newton’s management skill.
After 0500 you could feel the building exhale. Oh, there was still more work to be done: clerks with scheme knowledge sorting Troy, Royal Oak, Birmingham, Rochester and Warren mail down to the carrier, and DBCSs placing mail in the order the carriers walk their routes. But the 0500 dispatch was the hectic one. Today it was finished early. And that was fine with Newton, because it was time for a delicious breakfast.
The Chef’s Hat Diner, a 24 hour place on Rochester Road, had a private back room with a separate entrance. Stacey ate there every Wednesday. When Newton had suggested a weekly breakfast back in May, Stacey knew the perfect place. They had their routine. Stacey came in the front door and chatted briefly with Fred Stone, who ran the diner. Newton came in the back entrance five minutes later. The slight risk of being seen together just added to the excitement for Newton. But they were confident nobody knew of their arrangement.
Stacey entered the diner and waited for Fred to finish serving a couple of groggy, middle-aged men in business attire. He spotted her and said “Hi sweetie! What’s up with you?”
“I think I’m getting a promotion soon. I expect it’ll be some time next year.”
“I’m sure you deserve it honey.”
Meanwhile, Newton parked his Cadillac in the Chef’s Hat parking lot. He pressed the button for his remote car alarm. The car chirped twice. With a satisfied smile he turned toward the diner, his feet crunching on the gravel. Newton was almost to the door when he heard a loud crack and felt a sudden blaze of pain in the back of his head. He stumbled forward. Two more bullets struck him in the back. He felt no more pain and heard no more sounds as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground a few feet from the diner’s door.
Stacey and Fred went out the back door together. She nearly fainted at the sight of blood flowing from Newton’s head.
Fred helped her to a chair in the back room and called 911. Then he sat down with Stacey, in the chair Newton usually occupied.
“It must’ve been Farley,” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Paul Farley. He hates Jimmy, and he wasn’t at work today. We’ve got to nail his ass! Let me get his number from the Plant, I’ll bet he’s not home.”
She called Farley’s number, then asked Fred to do the same. Ten minutes later the police called the same number. “You’ve reached 881-1730. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
By 6:30 the police were gone. Stacey rested her head on the table and quietly sobbed. Fred was serving the breakfast crowd in the front. She was hardly aware of the dishes’ clatter and the customers’ chatter. Her mind was focused on a nightmarish image – Newton’s lifeless body next to a red puddle. Her anger at Farley was pushed aside by an overwhelming sense of despair. Her mentor, her boss, her lover was gone. James Newton was dead.
THE RENDEZVOUS
(November 18, 1998)
Prosecutor: Was the defendant home at the time of the murder?
Witness: No.
Prosecutor: How do you know this?
Witness: We called him three times and got his answering machine.
James Newton spent the last day of his life the way he spent every day – flexing his muscles as the man in charge of the midnight shift at the Plant. He was more than a boss at a large postal facility, he was the king of the midnight shift, also known as Tour One. His empire included three buildings, the Plant, the Building on Big Beaver (the BOBB) and the Stephenson Highway Operation (the SHO). Machines that sorted mail rapidly and efficiently filled these buildings. Machines that gave Newton the best production numbers in the state of Michigan.
Newton arrived shortly after midnight and sat back in his plush executive chair. A round of phone calls to his subordinates prepared him for his 1:00 meeting with Elliott Drummond.
Technically, Drummond was Newton’s equal; they both had the title of MDO (Manager, Distribution Operations). But as the elderly Drummond made his way into Newton’s office, dragging his left leg, the power relationship was clear.
“We’re going to start a new sick leave policy,” Newton told Drummond. “Three absences in 90 days and you get discipline. I’m sending a memo to all the supervisors.”
“Okay with me.”
“Show me today’s sick call list.”
Drummond handed Newton the list. “Jim, you know who called in sick today? Paul Farley.”
Farley was a steward whose confrontations with Newton were legendary. As was his temper. Farley mocked Newton in the union newspaper, calling him “Fig Newton” and distorting the facts in his libelous articles. The latest one was called “Fig Newton Must Go.” Newton had been making his life hell ever since.
“Elliott, did you ever notice how ugly Farley is? I mean, with that ridiculous mustache, the unruly hair, the pasty complexion, the bald spot in back of his head? How can anyone stand to look at him?”
“I don’t know.”
“But of course, it’s the ugliness of his soul that’s most important. We’re going to step up the pressure on Farley when he comes back to work.”
“We’re already disrupting his union time,” Drummond said. “What else do you plan to do?”
“Elliott, you don’t want to know.”
At 1:30 (or 0150 in postal lingo) Angela Roberts knocked on the door, interrupting the MDOs’ conversation. Angela was a steward who stood firmly behind her coworkers, but didn’t disrespect management like Farley did. She drove a hard bargain, even when she compromised. She kept her cool and was intelligent. Newton didn’t know a black girl could be that intelligent. But today Newton had the upper hand.
“You owe five people back pay on my overtime grievance,” Angela said.
“Don’t waste your breath and don’t waste my time. You’re not getting back pay on your grievance. Send it to Step Two.”
Angela spoke slowly as she wrote “Don’t waste your breath and don’t waste my time. You’re not getting back pay, send it to Step Two.” She added, “That’s going in my Step Two appeal.”
After Angela walked out, Newton told Drummond, “I’ve talked to the manager who’s handling the Step 2. He’s denying it. It’ll take years for them to get their money.”
Newton walked through the automation area. He loved the sound of the Optical Character Readers (OCRs) and Delivery Bar Code Sorters (DBCSs). Years ago you’d walk through the building and hear people’s voices. Now the dominant sound was the whoosh-whoosh of mail being drawn into the machines and the clackety-clackety-clack of mail rushing through and landing in bins along the side of the machine. The feeder and sweeper were too far away from each other to talk – as long as they were doing their job. On those occasions when his numbers fell, it was because of lazy employees, the union that defended them, and the wimpy supervisors who were afraid to confront them. Newton stared at a young man who was supposed to be sweeping OCR #3; the employee cut short his conversation and scurried to the other end of the machine.
Back in his office, Newton looked in the mirror behind his desk. Others might call him a little overweight at 5’ 7” and 190 pounds. But in the mirror Newton saw a man who was solidly built. At the age of 50 he still had a full head of brown hair, carefully combed to one side, a little bit long but very neat. His tan skin and long hair added to his youthful appearance; he could easily be mistaken for 40. With his almost baby face features, your first impression would be of a pleasant, mild-mannered guy. But his dark eyes could look right through you; he could intimidate his foes and get what he wanted most of the time. It was his personality and good looks that attracted the women.
Or, one woman in particular. Stacey Kline was a supervisor at the 110 belt. In her mid-thirties, she worked out three times a week, and you could see the results. She had straight blond hair down almost to her shoulders, sparkling blue eyes, smooth skin, and a figure like a model.
Stacey’s tour ended at 0500. Wednesday was the day Stacey’s husband went to his job early, leaving their Bloomfield Hills home at 5:00. Harold Kline used to supervise at the Post Office and then had gone successfully into the business world. He earned $90,000 a year, worked 60 hours a week, had a beautiful home and a lovely wife. He had everything he wanted, but he didn’t have a life.
Stacey and Jim Newton met for breakfast shortly after five every Wednesday. Newton’s shift didn’t end until 0850, but nobody would question his absence. Drummond would assume Newton went to the BOBB or the SHO. He’d still be home at the usual time so his wife wouldn’t suspect a thing either.
Newton would arrive home late when Harold Kline was out of town on a business trip. That’s when Newton and Stacey did a lot more than breakfast together. He would tell his wife he had to take care of a minor crisis at work. Mrs. Newton understood that her husband was dedicated and conscientious, while the other MDO was old and useless.
Newton’s musings were pleasantly interrupted at 0300 when Stacey Kline dropped by his office. She wore a low cut blouse underneath a sweater. “I’m glad you denied that overtime grievance,” she said as she unbuttoned the top button of her sweater.
“I’ve already made a phone call, it’ll be denied at Step Two,” he said, as Stacey unbuttoned two more buttons.
“Here are the clock rings you need,” she said as she slowly leaned over to lay the stack of papers on his desk. Newton’s pulse quickened as he watched this beautiful, sexy woman. Stacey then buttoned her sweater, said “See you later, boss, you know today is Wednesday” and headed back to the workroom floor.
He was thinking about her for the next two hours. He never thought about his wife like that anymore. Of course there were other well built ladies in the Plant. But there was something about the sparkle in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, even the crispness of her speech that excited him. And of course, she was loyal to him. Yes, she would make an excellent MDO when old man Drummond retired. Newton would see to it that she got the job.
Newton walked out to the dock to watch the 0500 dispatch. It was a sight to behold. Mail rolling out to 20 different truck stalls, workers loading the trucks headed to communities throughout Oakland and Macomb counties, delivering every letter with a 480 or 483 zip code, everything running like clockwork. All because of Newton’s management skill.
After 0500 you could feel the building exhale. Oh, there was still more work to be done: clerks with scheme knowledge sorting Troy, Royal Oak, Birmingham, Rochester and Warren mail down to the carrier, and DBCSs placing mail in the order the carriers walk their routes. But the 0500 dispatch was the hectic one. Today it was finished early. And that was fine with Newton, because it was time for a delicious breakfast.
The Chef’s Hat Diner, a 24 hour place on Rochester Road, had a private back room with a separate entrance. Stacey ate there every Wednesday. When Newton had suggested a weekly breakfast back in May, Stacey knew the perfect place. They had their routine. Stacey came in the front door and chatted briefly with Fred Stone, who ran the diner. Newton came in the back entrance five minutes later. The slight risk of being seen together just added to the excitement for Newton. But they were confident nobody knew of their arrangement.
Stacey entered the diner and waited for Fred to finish serving a couple of groggy, middle-aged men in business attire. He spotted her and said “Hi sweetie! What’s up with you?”
“I think I’m getting a promotion soon. I expect it’ll be some time next year.”
“I’m sure you deserve it honey.”
Meanwhile, Newton parked his Cadillac in the Chef’s Hat parking lot. He pressed the button for his remote car alarm. The car chirped twice. With a satisfied smile he turned toward the diner, his feet crunching on the gravel. Newton was almost to the door when he heard a loud crack and felt a sudden blaze of pain in the back of his head. He stumbled forward. Two more bullets struck him in the back. He felt no more pain and heard no more sounds as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground a few feet from the diner’s door.
Stacey and Fred went out the back door together. She nearly fainted at the sight of blood flowing from Newton’s head.
Fred helped her to a chair in the back room and called 911. Then he sat down with Stacey, in the chair Newton usually occupied.
“It must’ve been Farley,” she muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Paul Farley. He hates Jimmy, and he wasn’t at work today. We’ve got to nail his ass! Let me get his number from the Plant, I’ll bet he’s not home.”
She called Farley’s number, then asked Fred to do the same. Ten minutes later the police called the same number. “You’ve reached 881-1730. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
By 6:30 the police were gone. Stacey rested her head on the table and quietly sobbed. Fred was serving the breakfast crowd in the front. She was hardly aware of the dishes’ clatter and the customers’ chatter. Her mind was focused on a nightmarish image – Newton’s lifeless body next to a red puddle. Her anger at Farley was pushed aside by an overwhelming sense of despair. Her mentor, her boss, her lover was gone. James Newton was dead.