Heart still racing
Sunday, October 8, 2006
ST. CLAIRSVILLE, Ohio -- In the twilight, his heart aches the most.
In the empty hours between supper and sleep, when the 2,600 inmates
return to their bunks at Belmont Correctional Institution, Walter
Case Jr., hair now gray at the temples, feels a stirring in his
bones. An electrical surge of adrenaline pulses through his hands,
his body; he's driving again at the harness track.
It's a high-watt night when things were so blissfully right. He is
the natural in the sulky, the man who drove 10,000 horses faster than
God intended, the charming winner with million-dollar hands.
His body still doesn't know.
It's been 2 years, 3 months and 16 days since Case, 45, was jailed
for stabbing his wife with a steak knife on a warm Ohio evening -- a
final act in a decades-long tragedy that began in a trailer park in
Lewiston.
Case left Maine and reached the top of the world in his hardscrabble
sport before substance abuse, depression and finally a single act of
crazed rage sent him here. Nadine Case recovered after a short
hospital stay. Walter Case went to Belmont to serve a five-year
sentence.
Within the walls of the drab one-story, cement-block compound, Case
dreams of returning to the track, of recovering his life, of moving
on from his mistakes.
He is a slip of a man today, the color in his face drained by the
monotony of his days. His trim waist is cinched in navy-blue pants,
and he wears a dusty blue button-down shirt bearing a badge with his
photo and inmate ID, No. 480465.
He counts his time in months, but his body fails to understand what
has happened.
Every night Case's body returns him to the track, to harness racing,
to the only thing life ever offered that he seemed comfortable doing.
"Casey," as he's known, won 11,028 races over his 26-year career, and
had the kind of natural talent that in baseball or football -- any
less obscure sport -- would earn a lifetime of adulation. Some say he
could have been the best.
Instead, from track to track, from one problem to the next, Case
spiraled further away.
Saturday nights are the worst.
"That was always my biggest night," said Case, seated at a wooden
table in a small office in the prison's administrative building. He
sits up straighter and his hands begin to move.
"It was always a thrill to walk into the paddock at 6, 6:30 to get
ready for the races. The rush would start to come through. ... Still,
to this day, even though I haven't raced in three years, every night
at 7 I start to get this adrenaline rush. It's about an hour until my
body realizes, you know what, you're not racing tonight. My body
doesn't know we're done."
TOUGH EARLY LESSONS
Walter Case Sr., who died a year ago while his son was in prison, was
a well-known horse owner and trainer.
He raised his family in a mobile home, some 100 feet from the old
Lewiston Raceway, which was razed years ago for an office park that
houses an off-track betting parlor and family-style restaurant.
Case's oldest of four children was alongside him, jogging horses in
the cart by the time he was 7. Walter Case Jr.'s talent was already
glimmering, a love beginning to bloom.
"You could just see he had a gift," said his sister, Kelly Case,
today a rugged horsewoman with 747 race wins of her own. "The way he
sat in the bike. You could just see it."
The Case siblings speak fondly about their youth but don't share many
details. Case admits his father was an alcoholic.
Some horsemen allude to a difficult upbringing for the Case children,
but say they were good people.
Janet Tuttle, a childhood friend of Case's and one of the few humans
he has ever trusted, said life was hard at the track for every family.
"We were racetrack trash. Gypsies," said Tuttle, a weathered woman
who runs a horse rescue farm in Lisbon Falls. "It was tough. The
horses had to be fed first. That was your livelihood."
Early on, Case spent significant time alone, and sometimes seemed
awkward and lonely. He struggled in school. And like his father, he
wasn't much of a talker.
He had little confidence, even as a kid, said Tuttle. "Somebody
missed the boat with Casey," she said. "He was looking for love,
acceptance in all the wrong places."
Although he was uncomfortable around people, horses brought out a
different side.
"I was very comfortable with them. At ease," said Case. "People told
me I had a good set of hands, light hands. People were telling me I
had a future. I knew that's what I was going to do."
'LIKE A DUCK TAKES TO WATER'
In late July 1977, Case entered his first race at the Bangor Fair. He
was 16.
He drove a cheap horse, a $500 claimer and got the undesirable eight-
hole position. He finished second to last.
But he was hooked. He dropped out of school to work for Warren
Strout, a touted horse trainer with 25 standardbreds in his stable.
"Walter took to driving like a duck takes to water," said Strout,
85. "He was a natural. He had a very capable hand rhythm. He seemed
to know how to talk them through the range."
When Case's family relocated to Greene, he couldn't bear to leave the
track and moved in with his grandmother.
Seven months later, on Feb. 16, 1978, Case won for the first time
behind HollyRood Singer, a horse he bought with his last $300. He
beat his idol, Lee Fitch, by a neck at Lewiston Raceway.
By 20 he'd racked up 1,000 wins, an incredible accomplishment for a
young driver, and realized it was time to go. Maine was the minor
leagues of his business.
Case left for Monticello, N.Y., in April 1983 with his sweetheart,
Cathy, whom he would later marry, have two boys with, and divorce. He
was 22.
"I'd never really left Maine. To go from there to New York, the big
lights, was a little frightening at first," said Case. "But
Monticello was a good steppingstone between Maine and the big time."
A QUICK RISE, A QUICK FALL
In New York, his talented hands put him on the map.
Within a year Case was racing at the Meadowlands -- the Yankee
Stadium of harness racing -- creating a name for himself as a driver.
His career careened upward: 2,000 wins, 3,000 wins, 4,000 wins. He
smiled in the winner's circle and signed autographs in the grandstand.
But off the track, for reasons he's still not sure of today, he began
to struggle. Case's steel blue eyes are alarmingly calm as he
describes how drugs and alcohol nestled into his life.
He took his first drink at 14 and experimented with cocaine when he
arrived in New York.
"It was a big thing back then," he said. "At first (the alcohol and
drug use) was social, then it turned out to be two, three times a
week. I started calling in sick."
He reached a point where he'd start on a case of beer in the morning.
By the night's races, his substance abuse started affecting his
performances and raising flags.
"It started to show its effects at the Meadowlands," said Case. "You
go up against top-notch drivers not 100 percent mentally prepared?
They'll chew you up. I was just another driver there."
He also began piling up penalties for kicking -- an offense in
harness racing less harsh than it sounds, yet nonetheless illegal.
When a driver removes his foot from the stirrup and brushes it
against the horse, it's called a kicking violation. Case was famous
for the move -- it prompts the horse ever so slightly. He was also
famous for the fines and suspensions that came with it.
This baffled harness racing followers because Case had proven he
could win without kicking. Case says he kicked out of habit and just
couldn't shake it.
By this point Case needed a fresh start. He floundered for some time,
going from Chicago to Maine before landing at New York's Yonkers
Raceway. Along the way he tried facing his problems and did a stint
in rehab in 1991.
Meanwhile, no matter where he went, no matter what problems plagued
his personal life, he kept on winning.
"That's why people can't understand how I got to this point I'm at,"
said Case, folding his arms, sinking back into his chair. "How could
I lose focus in my personal life like this when I'm just a totally
different person on the track?"
In 1992, Case won 843 races, a world record at the time that broke
the mark held by Herve Filion, a storied Canadian driver now in his
60s and one of the few drivers who rivaled Case's talent.
Case was on his way to real greatness.
But the next few years were full of real problems.
His marriage was beginning to break down. His boys were growing up
while he was away on the road. He struggled with developing real
friends. And he continued to turn to drugs and alcohol, testing
positive for cocaine at the track on numerous occasions and
collecting successive DUIs.
In 1996, after another failed drug test, Yonkers officials suspended
Case for 13 months. He returned to Maine, intent on getting back on
his feet and turning his life around.
A COLD WELCOME HOME
He found refuge with Don Richards, one of Maine's most respected
trainers, who took him in and gave him a job training horses at his
stable in Cumberland.
"My wife wasn't very excited about it and I knew I'd take some flak,"
said Richards, 72. "A lot of people thought if he got a license in
Maine they'd be out of jobs. And when he left they breathed a sigh of
relief."
Roger Smith Jr. was a racing judge at the time and recalls the stir
Case's arrival caused.
"A lot of the top drivers are up here and now Casey lands on the
scene and of course they're all taking shots at him," said Smith.
And Case gave them reason, partly because even in Maine, his kicking
problems continued.
Smith recalls an exchange with Case at a hearing after Maine
suspended his license for kicking not long after his arrival.
"I said, 'before we start the hearing Mr. Case, let me ask you a
simple question,' " Smith recalls. "I said, 'What other driver in
Maine is gonna outdrive you?' He said 'No one.' I said, 'How about on
a national basis?' He said, 'Probably nobody.' I said, 'Let me ask
you another one. Why would you bring yourself down to the level of
others who can't even compete with you?' He looked down and
said, 'You know judge, you're right.'
"I told him I was against giving him a license, and if he ever pulls
it again I'd bring it all the way to the Supreme Court. From that day
forward I never had a problem with him when he was racing in my
jurisdiction."
Case remained in Maine and worked at Richards' stable every morning
for five or six months that year before moving on again.
Smith still struggles with the choices Case has made.
"It's really tragic because God gave him a gift," said Smith. "I
never saw another driver, other than maybe Herve (Filion) in his day.
Casey just had a sense. It was unbelievable what he could do with a
horse. Just amazing."
Richards feels similarly.
"It's a sad thing," he said. "I like Walter. I don't like some of the
things he did. Some will say, why waste print on that son of a bitch?
But there will be a lot quite interested.
"I'm sure if Walter Case appeared next week at Scarborough Downs, the
attendance would increase. That's the way it is."
BACK ON THE SPIRAL
By 1998, Case was back in New York -- now at Vernon Downs.
That year, proudly clean and sober, he shattered the yearly wins
record of 853 with an eye-popping figure: 1,076 wins.
His gift was knowing how to keep a tired horse alive. To find
something in each animal, read it and know how to make the horse
react.
"I instilled a lot of confidence in a horse," said Case, his posture
lifting with every recalled racing story. "I kept him confident. Kept
them feeling they were always better than what they might be."
But Case couldn't do that for himself.
At this point he started spiraling downward at a faster pace than
ever and retreated further into himself and alcohol.
He and his wife, Cathy, had decided to divorce. (Cathy Case did not
return phone calls to be interviewed for this story.)
He rarely spoke to anyone. He turned down dinner offers after the
races. If someone seemed to get too close, he'd stop taking their
calls. He couldn't name a friend.
"I never let anybody get really close to me," said Case, his voice
quieting. "I never hung out with anybody and that irked people. I
think people mistook me for arrogant, cold-hearted, however you want
to put it. I just held a lot of things inside. I always put up a
facade to keep people out."
AND THEN, THE BOTTOM
Owners who paid him to drive didn't care how he behaved off the track
as long as he kept winning. And Case still did win with frequency.
But eventually New York and New Jersey tired of Case's antics -- the
nights he wouldn't show, the continued kicking violations, his
substance abuse -- and he was forced to look elsewhere.
Owners at Northfield Park in Ohio wooed Case to their track. His
talent and checkered reputation could glimmer like dollar signs. And
their instincts proved right. In 1999, his first year there, Case won
10 races on one card -- a feat that had never been accomplished.
Soon Case met Nadine, a young, attractive horse groomer, nearly 20
years his junior. After about a year they married on a kind of a
whim, said Case, on a trip to Las Vegas for an award ceremony.
Case admits things moved quickly, and his reservations turned out to
be valid. The relationship did not go well.
In short order the two decided to separate.
And by 2003, Case's career in Ohio also came to a screeching halt. He
had accumulated 178 days of suspensions, most of them for kicking,
and was forced to surrender his license.
He pleaded with the Ohio Racing Commission to have it reinstated but
was denied.
Case's sister, Kelly, welcomed her brother to Rockingham Park in New
Hampshire, where she and her husband, David Ingraham, raced and ran a
stable.
There were signs Case was about to hit bottom. Kelly Case said her
brother was very depressed and not acting like himself. Looking back,
she believes he should have been on antidepressants.
But what was about to transpire was beyond anyone's expectation.
THE DAY IT HAPPENED
When Case returned to Ohio in 2004, he was in despair, believing his
estranged wife had used him and was unfaithful.
On June 22, the day of the stabbing, Case recalls he had been awake
for four straight days, drinking and high on Oxycontin. He was losing
control.
His career was in shambles. Another marriage was ending.
When Nadine stopped by their Streetsboro home that day, they began
arguing immediately.
"I hadn't see her for about four days, She came back, packed up her
clothes and said 'I'm moving out. I want a divorce.' This and that,"
said Case.
Case is uncomfortable as he explains what happened. His face reddens
and he looks downward, avoiding eye contact.
"I think she knew I was going off, not the deep end, but was having
some problems," said Case. "I had lost my career in racing for the
time being, was drinking a lot. She knew how to push my buttons. One
night she didn't come home at all. I just remember blacking out. I
grabbed a knife. I tried to poke her in the butt.
"The knife was small like this," said Case, holding his pointer
fingers about 4 inches apart. "I got her just above the belt. My
intentions were never really to hurt her. My intentions were to scare
her. Still, it's not like me to ever do something like that."
He said the incident is a blur to him.
"Only thing I remember is she stumbled, I was chasing her, I tried to
get her in the rear end and missed. Next thing I know I'm waking up
with a felonious assault charge. I thank God she was all right."
Patrolman Andrew Suvada responded to the call.
"I remember most of it. We'd been there before," said Suvada. "They
were in an argument and I think she was leaving him at the time. He
started pushing and shoving and ended up stabbing her. ... She was
bleeding pretty good."
Case recognizes how awful his actions were. "I feel ashamed and
terrible for doing what I did to her. I've never been a violent
person. I never picked up a gun or knife in my life until that point.
It's something I've got to live with for the rest of my life."
LIVING AND HOPING
Now he spends his time following the rituals of Belmont.
His day begins at 5 a.m. Head count is at 6 and breakfast is 6:45.
He runs around a dirt track for exercise, mills around the courtyard.
At noon he eats lunch. Afternoons are spent working at the prison
library, lending out videotapes.
Dinner is at 5, followed by more empty hours.
"It's definitely my toughest time at night," said Case. "You know
they're bringing them into the gate. My system revs up and my mind
will wander out there thinking about the races. I had an opportunity
to drive some great horses."
Case says he is drug-free. He says he's been offered drugs at Belmont
but hasn't accepted. Attending 12-step meetings helps him keep on
track.
His hobbies are limited. He has a subscription to Hoof Beats
magazine. He calls his teenaged boys collect back in Lisbon Falls.
"They know I've really screwed up. Their dad's got a lot of problems
but they don't hate me, thank God," said Case. "They accept my calls.
I am fortunate for that."
He dreams of driving again.
But that's unlikely, with a felony conviction. Still, friends in
Maine hope he's given a chance.
"If he's done his time, I think somebody ought to cut him some slack.
It's all he's done his whole life," said Tuttle. "What he done to
Nadine wasn't right, but some people do deserve a second chance. I'm
sure people will shoot me down for that, but he's paid dearly.
"Not racing the rest of his life? That's a death sentence."
Case has 20 months left in his sentence. When it's over he hopes
something -- anything remotely positive -- can come from his
experience, perhaps that others can learn from his mistakes.
"Look at what drugs and alcohol did to me," said Case. "Look at what
I had. Look where it can take you. I thought I was bulletproof out
there. I'm a perfect example of what can happen when you keep
drinking and doing drugs and messing up. You can lose a lot. I could
have killed someone out there. I could be dead, too."
He sees how much he sacrificed, the level of greatness he could have
attained.
"How many races could I have won if I didn't have suspensions?" asked
Case. "I think I could have won 20,000. But it would have meant more
to me if I was a better husband and father. Both of those things I've
failed, too."
THE DREAM, THE REALITY
The interview over, Case turns, lights a cigarette and strides
purposefully away.
There are flowers in the prison yard, bunches of black-eyed Susans
stretching toward the sun, dahlias in red and purple. The yard has
emptied and there is little sound, except for the distant song of
birds and a truck lumbering by on the adjacent hillside road.
It's almost time for roll call and Case has to be back at his bunk.
The inmates will count off, a procedure to assure no one's missing.
By evening he will be haunted again by the track. He'll be driving
one of the winners, reading the animal, his hands making all the
right moves.
Then he'll be reminded of where he really is, of what has happened,
of all that has gone wrong.
And he'll dream of getting one more chance.
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