Kill For Me (29 page)

In Pinellas County, the criminal court complex is connected to the Pinellas County Jail. There’s a canal on the left side bordering the jail complex. There is a large, flat parking lot on the other side and a rectangular-roofed building to the right of the parking lot, which is the sally port and booking area, where inmates and prisoners are keyed into the system. There’s also a wooded area to the north of the building. All day long, cops, law enforcement of all types, prosecutors, and defense attorneys are in and out of the building. With protocols and safety procedures in place—and fish-eyed lenses in the corners of the parking garage, inside and out—to transport, load, and unload convicts going to court and being housed in the jail, there’s a mild bit of complacency in the air, smelling of the idea that no one can escape from such a protected, monitored facility.

ASA Fred Schaub finished lunch by 1:00
P.M
. on April 16, 2004, and stepped out of his car into the parking lot of the Pinellas County court complex. To Schaub’s surprise, he heard the faint wisps of what sounded like a team of helicopters heading into a war zone. That
whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
of air being pumped by blades of steel.

Schaub crooked his neck, looked overhead, and saw a helicopter
whoosh
by the complex at a low level.

“What in the heck?” the prosecutor said out loud to himself.

Something was going on. This was highly unusual.

Adjusting his ears after the
whoosh-whoosh
came and went, Schaub heard sirens go off, horns blaring, static-filled radios squawking, babbling words he could not decipher. Next, as Schaub got closer to the building’s entrance, he saw sheriff’s cars screeching out of the parking lot at high speed.

People were filing out of the building.

It was somewhat orderly chaos.

Bailiffs and sheriff’s deputies ran through the parking lot; everyone looked to be amazed, in shock, all of them on their way somewhere.

Was the building coming down? A bomb threat? Terrorists?

“What’s going on?” Schaub yelled to someone.

“Some guy just escaped.”

Schaub made it to the door of the building. Before going in, he looked over toward the creek, a swampy area to the west. Sheriffs were roaming the banks, shining flashlights, looking through the underbrush into the scummy water.

Startled by this, Schaub asked someone inside the building what in God’s name was going on.
Who
had escaped?

“This guy…Tim Humphries,” Schaub was told.

The ASA’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, my goodness,” Schaub said aloud. “Humphrey?”

It was true. Humphrey, the last person on earth Schaub would have fingered for a brazen escape attempt, was on the loose. Free. The last time anyone had seen him, Humphrey was headed for that swampy area on the other side of the parking lot. He was handcuffed in front. On foot. Running.

Schaub didn’t even know that Humphrey was being transported to the Pinellas County Jail on that particular day. There had been no word or warning.

The earliest fears were that Humphrey had set the entire scenario up—as opposed to escaping because an opportunity arose—and had someone waiting for him with a car.

While asking himself how in the hell an accused first-degree murder suspect could possibly escape from custody, Schaub needed to get into his office and get on the phone.

Tobe White held on to a subtle reassurance—if by only a thread—of knowing that Humphrey was behind bars. Save for an escape or him being bonded out (both of which Tobe considered highly unlikely), she felt safe from his threats. The chances that Humphrey had convinced someone on the outside to track her down and do something, as those messages had claimed, were slim. Humphrey had no money. With the charges of murder hanging over Humphrey’s head, was there anyone who wanted to be connected with the guy in any way? Was someone going to go out on a limb for him, number one, without a hefty payday? Or, number two, with the chance of cops watching Tobe as if she were a high-profile political figure?

Probably not.

Humphrey’s MO over the course of his life had become: Anybody who posed a problem, threat, or an obstacle to his freedom in any way must be eliminated. Sandee was going to put him in prison. He had convinced Ashley to kill her. Tobe had turned on him. He was threatening to have her killed, too. Now, when Humphrey found out that Ashley had also taken a 180-degree turn, well, there was only one thing left for him to do: get to her before she could testify.

But how?

Humphrey initiated a letter-writing campaign to entice anybody he had ever known to jump back on his side and donate money so he could get out of prison and fight for his innocence. He wrote to old girlfriends. Former friends. Old prison buddies. He asked for cash, jewelry, any assets whatsoever that could help him. He even wrote to Ashley, asking her how she could do such a thing. What about their plan? The endgame they had talked about?

Yet, Humphrey had pointed out in not so many words, there was a price to pay for betrayal. Heck, Ashley knew that from her time together with Tobe. Humphrey was fine, as long as you curried favor. Once you crossed him, forget it.

On the day Humphrey escaped, Tobe was poolside at her house with a new friend. It was the first date she’d had in quite some time. Years, actually. They were talking and laughing and having a good time.

Inside, on the counter, a beeper that Ski and Davenport had given to Tobe was buzzing itself around in circles, next to her cell phone, which was ringing off the hook. Tobe wanted some quiet time with her date outside. No interruptions. No calls. No problems. She had left everything inside.

Now, however, Tobe was having herself a grand ole time, but Humphrey, who was looking to pay her back for turning on him, was on the run—and she knew nothing about it.

Back at the PPPD, word was just getting around to all those detectives who had worked so tirelessly, day and night, for what was now nine months, to put Humphrey where they thought they did not need to worry about him any longer.

“I was in total disbelief,” Paul Andrews said later. “I have never heard of an escape from custody occurring from our county jail. We had others walk away from work release programs, but nothing like this, in my memory.”

That was only the half of it. As Paul and his PPPD detectives returned from lunch and heard about “an escape at the county jail,” their first reaction was to jump in and help.

Walking into the building, Paul had no idea that it was Humphrey who had escaped. He just assumed some prisoner had run off and would be quickly located, hiding in the bushes, in the parking lot of the building.

“Our unit ate lunch together that day and had just returned when we heard of an escape. I went back to my car to get my portable radio, which I had, unfortunately, forgotten. As I got back to the top of the stairs, my detectives were running [the other way].”

One detective looked at Paul, who was walking toward everyone in the opposite direction. He yelled, “It’s Humphrey!”

Humphrey? Our guy?

“I think that news,” Paul later told me, “that it was our prisoner, from our case, from a jail we all knew to be
extremely
secure, hit us like a ton of bricks. We were unaware of his being transferred from Hillsborough to Pinellas, as it were.”

Paul and his team felt an immediate “obligation to assist in the search, and ultimately to get him back into custody. He was ‘our’ guy and we knew how dangerous he was.

“We needed to let the jail and other personnel know his background, so they knew who they were looking for….

“We also needed to contact Sandra [Pool’s] family and [some of Humphrey’s old girlfriends and his ex-wife, who] had an injunction for protection against him.

“We were very concerned about the witnesses in our case if he was not caught, and certainly for the people who lived in the area where he fled to.”

The schools in the region were locked down almost immediately after word got to them that a dangerous felon was on the loose. The Neighborhood Watch groups in the area were all alerted that an extremely dangerous human being, big and strong, full of rage and anger, who undoubtedly had vengeance on his mind, was at large. Local businesses, those close to the jail, were told to close their doors and stay put.

You’d think it’d be easy to find a guy like Humphrey, but he had seemingly vanished. He was everywhere, but nowhere. Not a soul had seen him. No reports of a man in handcuffs running across the median or the road, or heading into the woods. The guy had taken off out of the garage and had disappeared.

Maybe more important than any of that became: How in the world could a career criminal—with a laundry list of violent charges on his record—escape from such a secure facility? How did it happen? Why wasn’t Humphrey being transported by armed guards? Had Humphrey planned his escape, or was it a crime of opportunity?

The answers would shock the community when the facts later emerged.

Humphrey’s escape plan had started in his head days—maybe even weeks—before that moment when he made his move.

At Hillsborough County Jail in Tampa, where Humphrey was being held pending a bond hearing and arraignment on murder charges, he hooked up with an inmate, Chet Trainor (pseudonym). As Humphrey and Trainor palled around the prison yard, day to day, Humphrey tapped his new friend on the shoulder one afternoon and said, “I need to get out of here and get a gun to help Ashley.”

Trainor had heard all about Ashley and the reasons why Humphrey was behind bars—that is, what Humphrey wanted Trainor to know.

“How so?” Trainor asked.

“I need to get that bitch who put me in here! I want to kill her.” Humphrey was referring to Tobe.

As they walked around the grounds, Humphrey checked out the fence around the perimeter of the jail. He couldn’t really see over it, or what was on the opposite side. He needed to have a good picture of the grounds in his head if he was going to plan an escape.

“Who is she?” Trainor asked.

“She was a business partner of mine. I need to get rid of her.”

A day went by. Then another. During this time, Trainor later told Ski and the FDLE, not a day passed that Humphrey didn’t mention the idea that he needed to get out of prison, even if it meant making a brazen escape attempt.

“God is going to get me out so I can take care of
one
more thing,” Humphrey said. “Then I can clear my conscience with God.” It was early April.

“What will you do then, Tracey?” Trainor asked.

“Head to Costa Rica or Amsterdam. They don’t have extradition laws there.”

As the first week of April came, Trainor and Humphrey ended up cellmates—which was when they really got to talking.

“I need to get out of here,” Humphrey said one night. They were just hanging around their cell. “I cannot go to prison.”

“But how?”

“When they transport me to Pinellas County,” Humphrey said. He stopped there. The plan was still developing in his head.

Trainor and Humphrey started working together as floor maintenance technicians. During the evening hours, their job was to wash and wax all of the floors and furniture. Part of their nightly routine included spraying and wiping down the chairs set up outside near the basketball court. There were several nights, Trainor later said, when he watched out for the guards as Humphrey hoisted himself up on the rim of the basketball hoop, stood on the flimsy metal structure that held the net, and carefully examined the fencing along the perimeter of the jail, implanting a picture of it all in his head.

“He was trying to find a way through the fence so he could get out,” Trainor later told law enforcement. “Part of the plan involved finding, stealing, and concealing wire cutters.”

There were plumbers who often worked inside the jail. Humphrey figured he could snatch a pair of wire cutters from one of them.

As a habit, after jumping up on the basketball hoop and committing the outside perimeter of the jail to memory, Humphrey would jump down, run over to the brick wall nearby, and begin punching the wall with his fist. Trainor later claimed that Humphrey often chanted, with tears streaming down his face, “I need to get out of here…. I cannot go back to prison!”

On April 15, 2004, the night before Humphrey escaped, he stood on that basketball hoop, Trainor recalled, and once again jumped down and punched the wall, crying out, in an utter display of weakness, that he would not be able to do the time.

There was a second plan Humphrey had for escape, which was busted up by prison officials, who had no idea that what they had uncovered was part of Humphrey’s plot to escape.

Humphrey suffered from severe back pain, or so he claimed. So every night when he went down to the infirmary to get his pain medication, he did the classic “hide the pill under the tongue” maneuver. And it worked. He had compiled about twenty pills, Trainor said, which was the amount he needed to initiate the escape. Humphrey was going to take the pills on the night of April 15 during a shift change and induce an overdose. Someone had told Humphrey that security was lax when a prisoner was taken to the local hospital for an emergency, and an escape would be a cinch. How hard would it be for him to overpower a few nurses, a doctor, and a guard outside the door of the room?

It just so happened, however, that the jail conducted a “shakedown” on Wednesday, April 14, 2004, before Humphrey was able to put his plan into action. Several inmates had been caught inhaling paint thinner, so the jail keepers decided to have every cell searched.

Lo and behold, they uncovered Humphrey’s stash of twenty pain pills—and something else. Beside the pills were 150 little packets of sugar that Humphrey had saved. For what, no one knew.

After that, Humphrey talked about the ceiling tiles in the jail. He believed he could work his way out of the jail through the air duct system beyond the tiles, or maybe get onto the roof and get over the fence that way. But when Humphrey pushed a tile up that night and looked above, he realized the drop ceiling was there for aesthetic purposes only. Above the tiles was a concrete roof that no one was getting through without the help of a jackhammer.

Trainor and Humphrey were washing the floors in the visitation area of the jail. Humphrey took a look and noticed the guards were far enough away. He gave the Plexiglas shield between him and a way out a few good kicks to see if he could loosen it. Trainor ran the floor buffer, which was loud to begin with, while Humphrey kicked and kicked, to no avail.

And then the morning came, April 16, 2004, when Humphrey learned that he was being transferred to Pinellas County. A guard had gotten the orders and went to Humphrey’s cell to notify him. Trainor was there. Humphrey had been off working somewhere at the time. When Trainor saw Humphrey later that morning, while they were handing out breakfast trays, he told him.

“No fucking way,” Humphrey said. “I don’t believe you.”

Humphrey went in search of the guard himself, who backed up Trainor.

Later that morning, after Trainor and Humphrey were finished with their showers, back inside their cell, Trainor watched Humphrey shave off his body hair—every last bit of it. Then Humphrey put toilet paper over the only window on the cell door and sat in the middle of the cell on the floor, butt naked, his legs crossed together like Buddha. He had his eyes closed. He was crying. Moving his hands back and forth in front of himself, touching them together.

“What are you doing?” Trainor asked.

Humphrey said it was some sort of karate meditation.

After breakfast Humphrey sat in his cell with Trainor, just waiting for the moment when guards came for him. Timing was crucial. Humphrey had taken fifty of the packets of sugar and emptied them into his morning milk carton and drank the sweet mash. Then took the remaining packets, tore them open, poured them into his mouth, and lay down on his cell bed.

An hour later, a guard showed up. “Get your things together, Humphrey. You’re going to Pinellas County.”

At about two-thirty on the afternoon Humphrey escaped, Trainor was taking a nap in his cell when one of the corrections officers (COs) came by and said, “Hey, you hear about Humphrey’s escape?”

“What?” Trainor was shocked. Humphrey had actually done it. “Holy shit.”

Trainor went out and called his fiancée, Terry (pseudonym).

“It’s all over the news,” she said. “Hold on, I’m getting another call.”

Trainor waited.

A moment later, when Terry got back on the line, she said, “You won’t believe who that was! It was Timmy…but I couldn’t hear him that well. I said, ‘Timmy, what, I cannot hear you?’ He replied, ‘It’s me, you’re breaking up.’ So I hung up on him.”

Trainor was blown away by this. “Call Bob Schock at the state attorney’s office right now, Terry, on the other line. I need to speak with him.”

Terry came back to Trainor’s line and said that Schock wasn’t in the office. Of course not—every available law enforcement person was out searching for Humphrey.

Terry ended up getting someone else at the SAO and told him what was going on, that Humphrey had actually called while she was on the line with Trainor, her fiancé. They asked her to get the number from her caller ID and call them back.

She did.

Trainor, meanwhile, went back to his cell and noticed that all of his personal possessions had been searched through. Then he noticed his address book, which he obsessively kept in a drawer by his bunk, had been looked through and was sitting on top of his radio.

None of this, however, answered the burning question of how Humphrey had managed to escape from custody.

That would come later, when authorities investigated the escape and found out just how many policies and procedures had been overlooked and not implemented.