Inside, there’d be Sinatra or jazz playing on the speakers. In those final years - when most but not all of the clan were still speaking - family and close friends would gather at his big white house atop a cliff in Spokane, Washington, driving through wrought-iron gates adorned with gold-leaf M’s. You knew him as Uncle Bill, your friend, your husband, or Dad.īill Mize loved to host parties, and Christmas get-togethers took pride of place on the social calendar. You had joined the ranks of a scheme that a federal prosecutor would one day say operated like a criminal organization and that a judge would call a “tragedy,” sucking in dozens of accomplices and millions in profits before it all went sideways, though some part of you had expected that, too.Īt the head of it all: His legal name was William Mize IV. You’d hoped that your injury would go like Mize wanted - registering on a CT scan, or justifying stitches, or nabbing a referral for a procedure - reaping a mammoth insurance payout. Could you blame the responders for believing?Īt some point, you might reflect on the craziest part. You were swigging from a glass bottle that chipped your tooth. You were driving a Sebring convertible down an industrial stretch in Las Vegas when you dropped a CD on the floorboard and, reaching down, sideswiped a Mercedes. Cops - sometimes at the scene, sometimes at the hospital - would pull out their collision reports. You’d feel like such scum as you were strapped to the stretcher, the responders comforting you as you wasted their time. The first responders would see a totaled car of crash victims bruised, bloodied, whimpering, seemingly in shock or barely conscious. You’d ask quietly if everyone was okay, tap your scrapes to conjure fresh blood as sirens started their tiny, far-off scream. Then you’d sit in the eerie silence, listening to the drip of oil. The at-fault actor would climb into the driver’s seat of the car Mize had left crumpled behind, ready to take the blame. Mize would hop in a third car with a getaway driver and vanish. Your wounds already throbbed, and you feared that the crash would go off-script to do further damage: steel warping unexpectedly, glass slicing something vital, a seatbelt rupturing a spleen.Īfter the impact, after the cars had spun and screeched to a stop, after you realized you were rattled but alive, Mize or another person would rush to the window to collect helmets and braces and pee bottles and burner phones. Mize would hit the accelerator, speeding toward you at 40, even 50 mph - you packed in with the others, your girlfriend or cousin or best man, like bowling pins. Your dread would be coursing now - fear about what’s to come, whether you’d pull this off. He’d get into the “at fault” car, headlights glaring through the darkness down the road. Men typically wouldn’t get any protection: too wimpy, in Mize’s view. Inside the “victim” car, women could clamp on a neck brace, a helmet. Spill a bottle of your urine on your pants like you’d blacked out. Pop aspirin so your blood would stream faster. You’d chug a Red Bull to spike your blood pressure. For concussions or a busted knee, he’d smack you with a liquor bottle, a brick, a frying pan. Scuff up the wound with sandpaper, gripe if you didn’t bleed enough. He’d gash your brow with a razor or box cutter. Mize hurt you one at a time, pulling tools from a briefcase, cold and businesslike.
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