Doin' Time for The Heep!
Brother and Sister Heepsters,
I wonder what the bandwidth for this mail list was like prior to my rejoining last week! Whew!!
Since revealing my crooked past has proven to be cathartic for me, I must further purge my troubled soul of even more suppressed guilt! I would rather be sharing this particular moment in the company of all of you and Ken Hensley in an intimate atmosphere, lights down low, perhaps quaffing a glass of nice dry red wine as I relate a documented, comically tragic event of the early Heep years. And now as I slip into character as an unshaven, dishelved old man with a gruff South side Chicago demeanor, here's the tale:
Awright you mugs! It's true! I done time. HARD time! In the ol' Allegheny County joint in Pittsburgh. You know. The ol' Bastille where they caged ya like an animal an' fed ya swill! An' it wuz all 'cuz 'a Heep! Yeah, THAT Heep! Remember Ken? It wuz you an' the gang dat sprung me!
[Fade back in time to March 1, 1972 Place: Youngstown, Ohio]
This marked my second official month with Uriah Heep and we had just fininshed performing in Youngstown. Del Roll, Mel Baister, Gary McPike (the Road Manager at that time) and I were planning our logistics for the next leg of the tour. We were to play Winnipeg March 2, Calgary March 3, Edmonton March 4, and Vancouver March 5 (all in Canada), which required that we fly all equipment for those dates. I've told the story before about how Del and I chose to rent a large truck for each tour in order to reduce risk of airline damage or inability to get all 35 equipment cases (2 1/2 tons) of gear onto an airplane and reliably get it to the next gig.
This leg of the U.S. tour required that we store the rented equipment truck at the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania airport while we flew the next four days. At the end of the Canada leg, Del or I would return to Pittsburgh to get the truck, drive it 288 miles to Detroit and clear the equipment through Canadian Customs, and then truck 195 miles to the next venue in Columbus, Ohio. Simple enough!
The week prior found the band performing in the South including Columbia, South Carolina where I believe our troubles first began. Fraternizing with fans before and after concerts often provided members of the band gratuities, some of which are considered illegal to possess. Smoked, sniffed, or swallowed, I talked to each member of the group prior to leaving Pittsburgh for Canada and suggested that I discretely put any appropriate items in the equipment truck prior to our leaving so as not to create a potentially embarrassing situation when clearing Canadian Customs enroute to Winnepeg. This item attended to and all of our equipment checked into the airline by five Skycaps, I took the truck out to the long term parking area of the airport, locked the back with the best padlock available, and headed back to the terminal for our flight.
We had an extremely narrow window in which to clear customs in Winnepeg, get the equipment to the venue and set up. We arrived sometime after 5:00 pm and were scheduled to perform around 8:30pm. This was as close as things could possibly be cut. And now the "fit would hit the Shan" (phrase changed to protect me from further litigation!).
Customs had found an envelope from the Holiday Inn in Columbia, South Carolina containing a chunk of hash (ish) and now had the entire group including the band, Del, me, Mel Baister, and Gary McPike, the Road Manager. Gary took an authoritative stance challenging the officials over their authority to conduct such a search, questioning whether the stuff could have been planted by THEM!, and generally proceeding to inflame the situation even more. We were asked as a group who put the material in the equipment case. The case in question was a large case on rollers that Del and I used for microphone and instrument cords. It was always open and just offstage for easy access. Anyone could have put the envelope in there during any of our earlier performances.
Being threatened with arresting ALL of us at that time on charges of conspiracy, Gary boldly and dramatically stepped forward, arms outstretched in a "cuff me" posture and said something to the effect of "If you must have a sacrificial lamb, take ME!" Del and I looked at each other with an "Oh Boy!" expression, not saying a word. The band looked at each other with the same expression. We all looked at each other with that expression! Satisfied that they had a body, they took the martyred McPike off and released the rest of us and the equipment, mainly because of the pleadings of the now-frantic concert promoter. It was now close to 9:00 pm and we wanted to get the performance over with.
The band went to the hotel to change and Del and I rode in an old Chevy flat bed truck with no heater and the passenger's door window missing. This was part of the convoy of trucks provided by the promoter to transport the equipment to the venue. Things could hardly get worse. The weather was overcast and 26 degrees below Zero. What a ride! Arriving at the venue, I found that the electrical panel was inadequate for full stage power. The promoter was ready to self-destruct! Since Mel was now in charge (as assistant Road Manager) we had a quick Pow-wow and I proposed that we use only half of the normal equipment i.e. one equipment stack for each for Mick, Gary, and Ken instead of the customary two. Mel got word to the band at the hotel and it was agreed. We were so dazed at the circumstances that all judgement was lost. Had this occured anywhere else or any other time, we'd have blown the gig out.
The set didn't begin until maybe 2:30 am and it was astounding that still half of the original audience was still there. But the less-than-inspired performance only fueled boos and anger by those hardy fans who had expected so much more. This was maybe the worst performance ever! But we did it.
Del and I had everything packed and back at the airport by 8:30 am, having had no sleep, and getting up energy to set up for that evening's performance in Calgary. Gary McPike re-joined us a day or two later; I don't know how his arrest was resolved, but I was soon to have my OWN encounter.
When we finished the Sunday March 5 performance in Vancouver, British Columbia I opted to return to San Francisco to pick up some needed test equipment and spare parts, strings, etc. The equipment was to fly back to Windsor, Ontario and be cleared back through U.S. Customs at the border in Detroit. Del and I flipped a coin to see who would pick up the truck at the Pittsburgh Airport, and I won. I arranged to meet Del at Detroit on Tuesday March 7, and then travel to Columbus, Ohio for the next gig.
I arrived from San Francisco at Pittsburgh at 9:15 am Tuesday March 7, picked up my luggage and went out to the parking area to get the truck. I was going to open the back of the truck to insure that our few spare cases were there and to put my suitcase in but then realized I didn't have the key! Del had it. Oh, well! I didn't HAVE to get in there, so I placed my suitcase in the cab along with my briefcase.
As I pulled up to the parking booth, the attendant collected the parking fee and said "Wait a minute." I sat there for maybe four minutes patiently waiting and contemplating the drive to Detroit. "O.K." he said and I pulled out and onto the freeway back toward Pittsburgh.
About 5 miles from the airport I looked into the rear view mirror and saw maybe 6 or 7 marked police cars with lights and sirens blaring and an entourage of maybe 5 or 6 unmarked vehicles including a station wagon. I pulled over on a narrow shoulder thinking I was going to be ticketed for something. Instead, three uniformed officers came running up from the rear of the truck with guns drawn.
I froze! The passenger door opended up and the command "Don't move!" was shouted. My briefcase was grabbed from beside me and I was ordered to get out, hands above my head. This was like the movies, only different. This was real! I was escorted to the rear of the truck and asked by one of the uniforms if I had a key for the back. I told him that the key was in Windsor with Del and I was only transporting the truck to Detroit. Convinced that I was telling the truth, they threw me up against the truck, kicked my legs out from beneath me, handcuffed me, dragged me back up and lovingly threw me into the back of one of the cruisers for a few days of entertainment at one of Pittsburgh's largest accomodations! All of this was being filmed for the 5:00 news by the occupants of the station wagon that was part of the welcoming committee.
From the outside, the Allegheny County Jail in downtown Pittsburgh would look like any other turn-of-the-century edifice to a county's wealth- maybe 9 stories tall, large marble or limestone columns, Greek Corinthian influenced design. It could have easily been mistaken for a library... from the OUTSIDE. Once through the front doors, though, the visitor (or resident-to-be) was to behold a cavernous interior ringed on each floor by balconey-connected offices and rooms.
Occupying the center of this huge expanse was a cube of human cages perhaps 6 stories high and several hundred feet square. These cells afforded no privacy except for the partition between each. Ladder-like stairs connected each level of the cage structure, with guard stations at the head of each.
After my "abduction" from the side of the road just on the other side of the river and Pitt Tunnel, I was taken to one of the lower level rooms of the "Bastille" for booking. The charges were open, but "possesion of narcotics" was enough. The booking officer grabbed my arm and started to tear the long sleeve of my knit shirt while asking me "You got any tracks?", referring to needle marks. Appalled, I pulled back my arm. "I'll roll the sleeve up. Don't ruin the shirt!" Perhaps the tone of my voice caught him off-guard. Instead of acting with belligerant authority, he allowed me to roll the sleeve up. Satisfied that I was "clean", I was escorted to an adjacent office. I was asked once again by a detective if I had the key to the back of the truck. I replied "No!", again telling him that the key was in Canada where I was to meet with the band. He asked me if I wished to be present while they opened the back of the now-impounded E-Z Haul truck. I replied "No!".
I was then escorted to an induction area where I was instructed to strip all clothing, walk through a foot bath, and then shower. I was issued an orange jumpsuit with "prisoner" emblazoned on the back, and then escorted to a cell on the third level of the cell tier. I don't recall much about my cell mate, other than he was in his early Thirties and was in for vehicular manslaughter and Driving Under the Influence (DUI). He was somewhat of a jailhouse lawyer, freely dispensing his interpretation of law to several other inmates during the day when larger groups of prisoners were released to the "dayroom".
The fear and confusion was at once almost blinding, and my head felt like it would burst from the stress and sense of helplessness. My Weekly Planner containing all addresses and contacts was in my briefcase, which was booked into the Property Room at the time of my booking. Without it, I had no one to call but my previous wife. The next day I was allowed one phone call, which I placed as a collect call to my home in Daly City, California. No answer! I asked the guard if I could place the call again later. He didn't answer as he escorted me back to the dayroom area to rejoin the inmate population.
Whatever you may have heard about jailhouse food is NOT exaggerated. It was horrible. Except for the slice of bread and occasional carton of milk or juice, I gave my food to other inmates who hungrily and appreciatively scarfed it up! I get ill just thinking about it, even after all these years.
My second full day of incarceration found me summoned out into the walkway along with several other inmates. We were all to undergo blood testing for narcotics in the Jail Infirmary. I had used some "Mandys" and Drinamyl- prescription English uppers and downers courtesy of Gary and David a number of times in the previous weeks and worried that they may complicate matters even worse, as hard as it was to consider at the time. I had to think of something fast.
We soon arrived at the Nurse's office on the ground level, and I was standing behind maybe 12 other inmates lining up at the entrance, each waiting his turn to have blood drawn. The whole process seemed barbaric, and suddenly I was struck with an idea! As I got up to the nurse assistant and was ordered to roll up my sleeve, I said in an urgent tone of voice "DON'T! I'm a Hemophiliac, a "bleeder". If you hit me with that needle, I could BLEED to death! The assistant and nurse both stared at me in a sense of suprise. They summoned the doctor who was in his office next door. I was taken out of line and told to sit down. The doctor asked "How long have you had this condition?" "Since I was a kid!", I replied. The doctor, nurse, and assistant grouped and whispered among themselves about what to do. The doctor ended the huddle and said to the others as he walked back toward his office "I guess we'll have to send him over to the State Hospital for testing." I was now going to have to deal with potentially a greater crisis if my lie was found out!
I contemplated my next gambit as I was escorted back to the day area. I still had no contact from anyone in the band, my wife, the London Office, or anyone except for the investigating detective. I wondered and worried about how the band was coping with my apparent sudden disappearance. How long would this go on. What could I do?
Coming shortly....Part 3 and closing chapter-
I mentally began to build a house, carefully measuring out the foundation, pouring the concrete, installing the fasteners in the wet cement, measuring and cutting the wood, fitting each piece in place and nailing it, building first the walls, then the floors, then the roof, each component and fastener piece by piece. Surely this could be construed as a form of madness, but it kept my mind focused and away from feelings of melancholy. At least for a while 'til I grew bored.
Just before the noon meal I was summoned by a guard into the walkway. I had a vistor! Not the detective who persitantly ground at me each day for a confession and list of accomplises! But someone else! Hope began to emerge as I walked with the guard to the visitor's area. My mind momentarily flashed back to the lie I perpetrated the day before about having Hemophilia. Was I about to be undone? I panicked for a moment as we walked trying to keep my story credible.
As I was escorted to a chair behind thick glass, I observed a smartly dressed man in a dark suit approach the other side. "Todd Fischer?" he queried. "Yes, Sir." I replied. I'm (his name escapes me and doesn't matter), a lawyer sent by American International Talent in New York. I'm here to get you released." I was overtaken by a sense of total relief. I told him the entire story (less the part about stashing the band's "goodies" in the truck prior to flying to Winnepeg) of course! He asked a few poinant questions and said that the band was in the South and waiting anxiously for me to join them.
The day was getting short and he said that he doubted that he could get me released before the next day. I assured him that I could make it, and we ended the session. I was then taken back to the investigating detectives office for more interrogation and intimidation. While in the office the detective played back the entire recorded coversation between the attorney and me. Good thing I didn't implicate the band with the drugs. This guy was still fishing and running out of line AND time.
The tolerance, or rather "INtolerance" for drug use in those years and in that particular part of the country has to be considered. I was up for some SERIOUS charges with a liability for some SERIOUS time! But getting out of jail and seeing daylight was my only thought now.
The next day found me anxious and impatient for some word. Lunch time, nothing. My hopes were now dashed and I was again feeling despondent. About 2:00pm I was summoned outside and told I had bail posted. This was odd because I didn't even appear before a Judge or Magistrate for a hearing. And BAIL was set?
After retrieving my personal effects from the property room, I joined the attorney in the entrance area of the jail where he told me where the band was and that I'd have to return to Pittsburgh for trial at some time in the future. I thanked him for his help and got the HELL out of that horrid building!
I had only about $20 in cash since I had used the bulk of my "road float" in acquiring the rental truck and purchasing an extra 40 gallons of gasoline which we kept in Jeep cans in the back of the truck. You see, this was during the time of the first Arab oil embargo and there were areas of the country where NO gasoline could be had at all. So Del and I carried enough fuel for emergencies. The gear that was left in the truck was kept at a police warehouse, and the rental truck had been returned to a local dealer.
I first stopped at a small sandwich shop and bought a slice of pizza and a coke. This immediately filled me up since I had almost nothing else to eat except for 7 slices of bread for the previous four days. I was now faced with a dilemma. I had little money. I had to retrieve the extra gear from the police impound area. I had to contact the band to make arrangements to get money so that I could meet up with them. I had to get there, about 550 miles away.
First, I called the hotel where the band was booked and asked for Mel Baister or Del Roll. They weren't in their rooms. I then asked for Ken hensley's room, and Ken answered. He sounded deliriously happy that I was found and released, since the band had found out about the truck impound several days earlier. But they had no idea about what happened to me until notified by the attorney. I told Ken about my money problem and that I didn't have a credit card with which to rent a car to drive down to meet back up with them. So we devised a plan.
Ken called United Airlines and purchased a $300 round trip ticket for me from Pittsburgh-to-somewhere-and return. I was to pick this ticket up (prepaid) at the downtown Pittsburgh United Airlines office. I would then cash the ticket in and use the money to rejoin the band. He also arranged for a car rental for me with his credit card. This solved the transportation problem and provided me with a means to pick up and transport the band gear still at the police impound yard. After picking up the car, I rushed back to the jail arriving just a few minutes before 5:00pm, which was the deadline. Fortunately, I found a more cooperative class of people at the impound yard office who apparently felt I was a celebrity, being associated with Uriah Heep. I sure wish these folks had worked in the prison kitchen, instead!
I got everything back except the gas and cans. I'm sure those people were commuting on the very same fuel. Besides, I'd have had trouble getting the gas cans into the now-packed car anyway. I went back to the airline office to turn the ticket back in but HORRORS! They would only credit Ken's card back again. No cash refund! I called Ken again and explained the story. He and Mel Baister then went out to a Western Union office and wired me $200 for travel expenses. It was almost 10:00pm before the money arrived, and the clerk tried to give me a check! I think all of my frustations erupted at once in front of this poor, unknowing man! In desperation, he called a supervisor at home who authorized him to pay me from a hidden cash fund in the office.
I was now free, fed, and incredibly anxious to get back to my "family", the band, and all of the usual trials and tribulations that went with the job. I drove through the night through a cold rain, counting each stroke of the wipers... thousands, as I pondered the nightmare of the previous five days. By morning, I was with the band and a glorious, warm welcome from each. We all had breakfast together, another rare gathering of the entire group, where I related the story. We speculated about whether this was tied in with Gary McPike's arrest in Winnepeg, but we could only guess.
I went back to Pittsburgh 7 or 8 months later for trial, only to have all charges dropped for lack of evidence, and since a key witness had died. Bizarre! The only stipulation was that bail be forfeited. I think that was the last money Pittsburgh ever got from ME!