A ticket to Paradise Lost

By DAN HILLEN

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 28, 2000

Our story so far: The six Lottery winners hid the $13-million winning ticket on the Windy Oaks campground sign until they figured out how best to handle things. At Johnny Bartolli's suggestion, they turned to his attorney, Harry Hill, for guidance. But, now, Johnny was dead, and the police were sniffing around the Windy Oaks for clues.

Chapter four

Edith squirmed in her seat. The deputies had separated her from her sister as soon as they had walked into the sheriff's office, where the four campground neighbors were being questioned about the deaths of Paulie and Johnny.

She did not like to be separated from Ada and she surely did not like the two detectives wanting to know everything about her life at the campground. She wished Ada was with her, as always.

Edith knew she mustn't tell about the lottery winning and she knew she had to stay calm. Still, all these questions, often the same ones, over and over. And these guys looking at each other after she'd told them why she and Ada shared the same small trailer, the same small bedroom, the double bed. She wanted to go home to Windy Oaks.

In the next room, Ada was faring much better.

"Yeah, sure," she told her interrogators, "we've all been good friends all these years. Why would any of us want to hurt each other? We've known each other forever, it seems.

"Paulie always was a nice, helpful guy even if he'd drink a bit much sometimes," she continued. "And Johnny? A real generous man, he was. Always ready to pull out a $20 bill for you if you needed help. No, I have no idea why anyone would harm either Paulie or Johnny."

Gus and Jake were sitting in the outside corridor, under the watchful eye of the sergeant at the front desk.

No talking, they'd been told, but Jake couldn't resist.

Nudging Gus, he mumbled, "It's taking long. Sure hope the girls don't talk about the ticket."

"What was that?" the sergeant asked. "I thought I'd told you guys not to be yakking."

Jake felt like a schoolboy and he didn't like it. Without looking at Gus, he suddenly stood up and said, "Well, we want our lawyer here."

The sergeant eyed him over half-glasses. "You realize that's gonna take time, don't you? It's gonna take much longer before you're outta here."

He paused to let the message sink in. "But if you and your friend insist. Who's your lawyer and what's the phone number?"

Jake, flustered by the challenge, looked at Gus, "We don't want to be bullied around, now do we? What's the guy's name, this lawyer friend Johnny talked about? Hill, wasn't it? Harry Hill."

The sergeant sighed. "Yeah, we know Harry. Got his number right here. He's probably still sleeping. This lawyer request applies to the ladies as well, I take it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Gus replied. "Go ahead and tell them. And call that lawyer for us, please."

When Harry Hill graduated from Duquesne Law School, he knew two things for certain. First, he would pass not only the bar exam in Pennsylvania but he would rush down to Florida and pass the bar there as well, while all that legal learnedness was still fresh in his mind.

He realized that he'd need to stay and work in Pittsburgh, but he always longed for the good life in the Sunshine State. As soon as he made his pile of money, he'd head south to the Jacksonville beaches, Orlando, Key West, perhaps. Hang out with Jimmy Buffett.

The second thing he knew for sure was that he'd not only repay the private trust that had given him the scholarship for college and law school, he'd set up one of those trusts himself and name it the sole beneficiary in the will he'd just learned to craft.

The years that followed were packed with work. Clerking at a big corporate law firm, then the vice president in charge of legal affairs at one of the client companies had taken a liking to him and his sharp mind. Soon enough, he'd been elected partner, the youngest among the 35 attorneys that owned the growing legal giant.

Those early years had been great! The success, the money, the waiters that knew him by name, always calling him Mr. Hill; the girls that visited his bachelor pad downtown.

The marriage had been a huge mistake, though. She didn't really care for him, just for a big house and the social whirl, playing hostess at catered parties. She did not want any children, just unencumbered trips to Europe instead of Florida.

Three years later, he was free of her and back to his old lifestyle -- and growing loneliness.

The second disaster had been his transition from workaholic to alcoholic. It had crept upon him slowly enough -- he didn't see anything wrong with that fourth glass of wine at dinner or the nightcap that he couldn't do without. Ah, he could handle it, could stop any time he wanted.

In hindsight, it had been a gradual but definite slide. The first arrest for a DUI had prompted a confrontation with the senior partner and a trip to a treatment center. By the time he'd finished his fifth rehab, he was called in and offered a good price for his partnership. He realized he was being asked to leave and he reluctantly accepted.

Forced to make a new beginning, he'd sold the apartment, bought a used Caddy and drifted south. He met new people, always being evasive about his background and always staying at motels where no one asked questions.

Shortly after Christmas 1994, he arrived in Florida to make yet another new start. He found the peace and quiet of Citrus County, the quaint comfort of Inverness.

He had been too young to remember that it was Citrus County where his grandparents had taken him as a youngster so many summers ago. When he came upon the Windy Oaks campground one day while driving around the county, it looked vaguely familiar. Then he connected the dots: This was the same park that his grandparents had stayed at all those years ago.

Harry pulled into the dusty parking lot and, like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to the tired looking campground bar. The big lug behind the bar, pouring drinks (one for the customer, one for himself) looked familiar, too. It couldn't be the same Jimbo Hobbs he had spent so many summers with, fishing and launching parking lot rocks with sling-shots, could it?

Sorry, Jimbo said, I have trouble remembering what I had for dinner yesterday. I can't remember much about kids who were in here 30 years ago.

Johnny Bartolli had been at the bar that day, and he had struck up a conversation with the lawyer. In due time, they became regular drinking buddies and Johnny had asked Harry to handle his will and other papers for him.

Then, one day, Johnny phoned. They had to meet, he said. He and his friends believed they'd won the Lottery and needed legal advice.

Harry met with them and urged them to rent a lockbox at a bank to stash the ticket and later the checks, and discussed the pros and cons of taking the money all at once or in monthly installments.

He typed out a simple agreement in which all six friends swore to jointly claim the prize, splitting the proceeds evenly. All signed the original, none wanted a copy. Waving away questions about his fee, he'd promised them to research ways in which they would avoid paying the taxes that were sure to otherwise claim a large part of the windfall.

He offered to do the legal work on the purchase of the campground, then admonished them to stay together, and to not mention the win to anyone.

Then came the first call from one of the lottery winners: Paulie Starr and Johnny Bartolli were both dead. And, then, the second call, this one from the police: The other four friends were in custody and they wanted him to represent them.

"Custody?" he thought, as he struggled to knot his tie. "What had those people been up to? Had they done as he told them? Had they fought, after all?"

About the author

Born on the isle of Java in the then-Dutch East Indies, Daniel Hillen, 67, was educated in the Netherlands and the United States. Making a career in corporate communications with a multinational aluminum company, Hillen worked in South America, Europe and the United States. Upon early retirement in 1989, Dan and his wife, Helen, built a stilt home near Mason Creek in Old Homosassa. They enjoy travel, boating, fishing and exploring the Nature Coast.

A ticket to Paradise Lost:

Chapter Two Chapter Three

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