Matt Weinstock, Nov. 21, 1959

Car Troubles     Two years ago, Bob Joseph bought a two-cylinder French Panhard, which has positively no area in front for a license plate.  He has been driving it with only the rear plate.     On consecutive days recently he received two citations.  A new law went into effect in October requiring cars to have both plates, and it is being enforced.  He explained ineffectively to the officers that the dealer sold him the car with only one plate.     He went to the Traffic Fines Bureau at 810 Wall St., where a courteous marshal showed him the nice new law and advised him to go to the Motor Vehicle Department at 35th and Hope Sts. and get new plates.     He did, then asked where he could put the one in front.  The man there saw no possibility and directed him to the Highway Patrol at 4th and Vermont.     There he retold his sad tale.  An officer circled the car, looking for a spot to put the front plate.  When he came up with nothing Bob asked, "What do you suggest?"      "Sell it," the officer said. ::     UNDERGRADUATE ENTHUSIASM for today's game is about even.  First SC students swiped a UCLA air horn, which was returned.  Then UCLA students put a blue paint coating on Tommy Trojan, the SC statue.  Then four SC students put a red paint job on UCLA's Founder's Rock but were caught swiping two banners.  An SC student policing group has curtailed their privileges. ::     THIN MARGIN When getting on a bus that     is packed The avoirdupois I long     have lacked Is then a  joy, a thing     of merit, As past the fatter forms     I ferret.     --DELLA SKELLETT ::     IT IS traditional and inevitable that reporters, who write the news stories, and copy readers, who edit and put heads on them, should quibble.  Reporters contend copy readers destroy their lilting prose.  Copy readers accuse reporters of slaughtering the language.  They went at it again the other day.     A rewrite man turned in a  story about a W 8th St. liquor store holdup in which a case of Scotch was stolen.  The reporter, obviously a naive fellow, identified it as "Hague and Hague" instead of Haig and Haig.     A surly copy reader asked him, "Are you sure it wasn't a case of Holland gin?" ::     IN HIS latest Desert Rat Scrap Book, all about good Injuns, Harry Oliver tells of a party of tourists visiting some Indian ruins in a desolate section of Arizona.  To get to them they had to leave their cars and walk.     En route, a woman exclaimed, "Gracious, I forgot to lock the car!"     "Don't worry," the Indian guide said, "there isn't a white man within 50 miles." ::     IT MAY BE comforting to know that the Health Department is watching over you, even if you don't care.     Bob Martin received a notice the other day that his dog Concho had been quarantined for 14 days as a rabies suspect.  Puzzled, he phoned County health and asked why.  "Because he bit you," he was told.     Then Bob remembered.  Six weeks ago the dog playfully bit or scratched him on the leg.  About a week ago the sore looked infected and Bob stopped at Hollywood Receiving Hospital, where a doc put a bandage on it.  He also turned in a dog-bite report which went to Central, then to County health, then to Burbank, where Bob lives, and boom -- quarantine for Concho.     Meanwhile, the wound was healed. ::     FOOTNOTES -- It was a big week for bird watching.  In addition to the usual sparrows, towhees, blue-jays, juncoes and flickers, four stately quail, a long absent thrush, the first robin of fall and a yellow-breasted number tentatively identified as a MacGillivray's warbler visited the back yard.  That's what it states in Ernest Sheldon Booth's "Birds of the West" -- MacGillivray's warbler . . . Councilman Ransom Callicott, chatting with a friend about car mileage, remarked, "Five gallons of gas is just a light lunch for my car."

Wife Divorces ‘Girlish’ Army Officer

“When a Feller Needs a Friend,” by Clare Briggs

Nov. 21, 1919: Lucille Howell seeks a divorce from her husband, an Army captain who likes to wear a girdle. "You know I always wanted a form like yours. You just wait until I accomplish the development that I want to. I tell you, honey, you will have quite a girl for your hubby,” Capt. Clarence Howell wrote. Capt. Howell appealed to the head of the Daughters of the American Revolution to arrange a reconciliation, but the attempt failed.  In one letter, Mrs. Howell called her husband a “sissy.” "He replied that if he got the figure he wanted, he did not see that it called for mean things on his wife's part," The Times said.

Finds ‘Husband’ Is Woman

Dr. Alice Bush of Oakland sues for divorce, charging that her husband, R.K. Morgan, failed to disclose something rather important.

Nov. 15, 1909: The lynchings in Cairo, Ill., are endorsed from the pulpit and in the press.  Saying that lawlessness was common in the area where a woman was killed, the Rev. George M. Babcock of Church of the Redeemer, Episcopalian, says: “This defiance of law and order made the lynchings necessary to secure justice.” F.A. Thielecke, editor of the Cairo Bulletin, says: “Cairo’s disgrace is not the mob, but the conditions that made the mob necessary.”

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 13, 1959

Hucksters of Horror Tell How to Succeed     I listened in on a trilogy of success stories this week.     They were about three local-boys-who-made-good.  Their ages averaged 25.  Each was married, with two to four children.  None had any special educational advantages.  In fact, two never finished high school.     Yet, today, they're earning between $25,000 and $50,000 a year apiece.  Tax free.     They live in good neighborhoods, drive good cars, wear good clothes.  Their neighbors respect them, and apparently the police do, too.  Because none of them has so much as one arrest to mar his record.     This, to them, is vital.    Because if they were picked up, booked or even known, it would probably mean the end of their very flourishing businesses.     They are, by trade, heroin dealers.  They're the dope racket's middlemen.     They buy a few ounces of H at a time, cut it, and sell it to pushers at a fantastic profit.     Strangely, I'm told that the men don't even know each other.       Less strange is the fact that none of them has ever taken a fix.  They -- like most dealers -- are in the game strictly for the big dollar.  Yet they all admitted, in the fantastic interviews which I heard, that in the table of organization of their trade they were strictly lower income bracket salesmen.     How I heard the interviews, or who conducted them, I can't say.  Obviously and unfortunately, the interviewees didn't risk jeopardizing their freedom.  They would never have opened their mouths unless they were positive that what they said couldn't be used against them.     The stories, if true -- and, under the circumstances, I have every reason to believe them -- serve as a fantastic indictment against the system we have of policing narcotics out of our society.       The fact that each has been operating for so long (from 2 1/2 to 5 years each) without once being molested by a law enforcement agency;  the fact that they are men of not especially high intelligence or cunning;  the fact that each just kind of "stumbled" into the business;  and the very fact that they're so cocky that they  would permit the interviews -- it all totals up to one helluva shocking commentary on the efficiency, or the sincerity, of society's so-called  drive to rid itself of a major evil.     I wonder out loud how these men can possibly still be operating today.     Most of the strikingly similar stories they told dealt with the facility of their operations, and the minimum risks involved in buying and selling their product.  Getting it here or just across the border was equally simple, they said.     And even if they were caught, they added, they'd only get three or four years in prison under existing law.  After all, they'd be first offenders.     The ratio between profit and penalty made the risk worth taking, easily.     "I'd still get out of the joint a young man -- and a rich one," one dealer explained.     All talked about "retirement."  None lived too ostentatiously.  That wouldn't be smart.  Each had a front "occupation," although none worked.  Each mentioned that probably, some day, he'd take his fat bundle of savings and go into some legitimate business.     One said:  "If they'd passed the Dills' Bill (a bill killed in committee by the state legislature this which would have stiffened narcotics penalties considerably), I think I'd have gotten out right then."     But he added that the "void" left by him would be filled quickly -- high jail penalties or not -- so long as there was so much money to be made so easily. One Must Be Ethical    Pulling out, all agreed, would be easy, just so long as they played it level with their business connections when they left.  Just so long as there was no heat immediately afterwards -- anything to point the finger at them  as informers.     In my days of reporting, I've talked to a lot of addicts and peddlers.  They were small men, emotional, confused, hating themselves for what heroin made them do.     But never before had I heard the cold businessman, who shrugs off his participation in the most vicious of all rackets with the rationalization, "If I wasn't dealing it out, somebody else would be."     It was a lesson.

Matt Weinstock, Oct. 19, 1959

Desert Beachcomber       After a long time, I crossed orbits again the other day with Peter O'Crotty, writer, beachcomber and enthusiastic fugitive from civilization.  Pete, a fun-loving, charming gentleman to whom crazy things are always happening -- with his help, it must be added -- disappeared into the desert below Tucson about five years ago.     The last I heard he had built a adobe house and announced he was holing up in it until the world came to its senses.  He calls his place Rancho Despoblado, which means deserted spot or wilderness.     What was Pete, a man with a talent for being happy though broke, doing back in L.A. in of all places, a luxurious bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel?     Well, when he bought the first 200 acres for his house he found it was inadequate for the needs of his one cow, which died.  So he kept buying land and he wound up with 67 square miles of desert.  Makes nice running room for his horse and the rattlesnakes, which abound there.     ONE DAY NOT LONG AGO a man came out to his place with a magnet or something and informed Pete his land was loaded with iron ore.  This was no world-shaking discovery, as iron ore deep in the desert, even Pete knows, is about as worthless as anything you can think of.     However, this man and his associates thought otherwise and a deal was made whereby they plan to develop it.  They also have some television interests in which Pete, who once wrote  a screenplay for Howard Hughes, is participating.     With his new wealth Pete promptly bought a new car and put in a 40-foot swimming pool.  The car comes in handy when he gets the impulse to go fishing in the Gulf of California, about 70 miles away, and where, by the way, tequila is only 90 cents a quart.     The pool is fine except that rattlers like to curl up on the filter.  This presents quite a problem.  There's the danger of shattering the tile if you shoot them.  So his sons coax the snakes out of the pool, then dispatch them.  In fact, his boy Mike presented Pete with a silver-plated rattle off a four-footer as  a birthday gift.     "THE FUNNY thing is that I'm still a beachcomber -- a desert beachcomber," Pete said.  "I find all sorts of shells on my place.  It used to be the bottom of the ocean, you know."     Pete could hardly wait to finish his business here to get back to his desert hideaway.  But he's beginning to wonder about his Rancho Despoblado.     "It's even getting too civilized there," he said sadly.  "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if one of these days someone will be subdividing the Grand Canyon."   ::       A LADY WHO lives in a modern home in South Bel-Air phoned a professional window washer and asked if he could come over and clean her windows.     After she explained the nature of the job he said, "I'll have to send a man out for a consultation."     "Consultation?" she asked.  "What for?"     "Well," he replied, "we have men who wash big windows and men who wash small windows."      "You better send a man who has at least a Ph.D.," she said.  "I've got 86 windows to clean, all sizes."   ::       WHEN A doctor told Al Diaz he'd have to reduce Al said, "I'm not overweight, doc, I'm underheight" . . . And Marge, 13, summed up the situation for everyone when she was taken to a doctor for treatment of a sore throat.  "If it's going to hurt," she said nervously, "tell me now so I'll faint before I feel it."   ::       AT RANDOM -- The scene in TV Westerns that irks a gal named Vallette is the one where the hero says to a listless, bereaved friend, "You've got to snap out of it, Joe, she wouldn't want it this way."  At which Joe says, "Thanks, Mac, I'll be all right now" . . . Jack Perkins thinks the networks should televise Charles Van Doren's appearance before the congressional committee investigating quiz show rigging.  Should have as big a rating, he figures, as the original show.

UCLA Fires Angela Davis; Meet Halo Harry

Sept. 24, 1969: Johnny Hart on the new incivility. The late Ken Reich interviews Angela Davis. Reich writes: Angela Davis, 25, says her role in the "struggle for black liberation" had marked her as a special target for the University of California regents. She accused them of "fascist encroachment" on her rights. "As a black woman, my politics and political affiliation are bound up with and flow from participation in my people's struggle for liberation, and with the fight of oppressed people all over the world against American imperialism," she says. Rex Harrison and Richard Burton play two hairdressers who live together in "Staircase." No, it's not on Netflix. Sept. 26, 1969: Charles Champlin reviews "Staircase," saying that Harrison and Burton do a credible job of portraying two gays.

Before the Rally Monkey there was  Halo Harry. The Angels didn't have many fans in 1969 but they did have a cheerleader of sorts, a regular guy who got fed up with his fellow fans acting as if they were in a library. "I just got sick and tired of watching everyone just sit there," Jay Freese told The Times' Dave Distel. So one day he started wearing a straw hat with a halo attached by a wire. I remember seeing Harry at the Big A, walking through the ballpark trying to get people to clap or cheer, anything. He certainly wasn't an in your face cheerleader, threatening your manhood because you didn't want to help him start The Wave. I hate those guys. Distel pointed out that Harry seemed to have a winning effect on the team, just as today's Angels broadcasters love to trumpet the Rally Monkey's impact. He certainly wasn't improving the attendance. A day after the story appeared, the Angels played their final home game in front of only 5,728 people. --Keith Thursby

Freed U.S. Troops Describe Enemy Torture; Dodgers Lose to Mets

Sept. 3, 1969: Ho Chi Minh is gravely ill -- in fact, he's dead ... the Massachusetts Supreme Court postpones an inquest in the death of Mary Jo Kopechne ... searchers in the Holy Land find the wallet and passport of Dr. James A. Pike, former Episcopal bishop of California ... and a nondupe by Noel Greenwood! A Navy pilot and a Navy postal clerk freed by the North Vietnamese describe being tortured. The men told about "prisoners kept in cages, of men hung in straps, of others whose fingernails were removed. They described solitary confinement and poor medical treatment." "Are broken bones and solitary confinement humane? Navy Lt. Robert F. Frishman of Long Beach asked. "Is sitting on a hot stool in a hot room with no sleep with mosquitoes biting you until you make a lousy statement humane? I know what it's like. In two days your feet swell up and then it moves up your legs until they are numb. Weather and your physical condition are the determining factors on how long you can last. Some can go on for 150 hours. Others pass out from heat exhaustion in 48."

"The Italian Job" starts today! Ranch hand Beverly Chandler "is cute as all get-out and as strong as a heifer." By a woman writer! "Marriage doesn't hold much for me yet, because I don't lack for excitement around here. But mom says I'll be married to a rancher someday and I suppose I will," Chandler says.

One panel that will never appear in the legacy version of "Dennis the Menace."

Willie Davis hit his way into the Dodger record book, batting safely in 30 consecutive games. That broke the Dodger record set in 1916 by Zach Wheat, who was 81 in 1969 and had sent Davis a good-luck telegram. It also was one game closer to the National League record of 37 games by Tommy Holmes of the Braves in 1945. The Times didn't even mention Joe DiMaggio's 56-game streak. Davis didn't get a hit with the game on the line and the Dodgers lost to the Mets, 5-4. "I got my hit at the wrong time," he said. The Dodgers' center fielder came up in 1960 and was with the team through 1973. He went to Montreal in a trade for reliever Mike Marshall, then bounced to Texas, St. Louis and finally the Angels. As for Wheat, he told the Dodgers' Red Patterson that his streak should have reached 41 games but he "was robbed of a hit by the first-base umpire. I still remember it." Being on the Dodgers meant there was more than baseball--you could be on TV! Here's a '60s classic with Willie Davis watching Mr. Ed's tryout at Dodger Stadium. :: During his playing days, O.J. Simpson also received star treatment in the papers. The Buffalo Bills' rookie was heading back to L.A. to play the Rams and said all the right things during an interview with Mal Florence. " 'I'm really looking forward to it,' said Simpson, making no effort to conceal his enthusiasm. 'In fact everyone on the Buffalo team is looking forward to it. War Memorial Stadium is OK, but there's nothing like the Coliseum. It's synonymous with football. I know I won't have much time there but I still hope to see my friends and get over to USC and visit with the team." It's hard to find profiles of Simpson from this era that don't include his comments about his plans after football. "Someday when I retire, I want to come back to L.A. and be just another USC alum--taking in those football games at the Coliseum on Saturday afternoons." --Keith Thursby

Deputies Raid Spahn Movie Ranch; Booed by Fans, Wills Hits Grand Slam

Aug. 17, 1969: I suppose we at the Daily Mirror HQ should be talking about "Amerika" and how the military-industrial complex sucks the blood of the Woodstock Nation. But we're not. The only thing up against the wall here are the filing cabinets. Coming up in October: The Moratorium peace march! South African golfer Gary Player is pelted with ice by civil rights protesters at the PGA championship ... and the Fire Department has fewer blacks than it did in 1956.

"Frykowski [fixing the original error] and Miss Folger were involved with strange people. She was interested in witchcraft, Black Masses, that sort of thing, and she and Frykowsky would go to weird, kinky places." At left, an odd juxtaposition: Dial Torgerson's "tick tock" story on the Manson killings next to the arrests of a group of people "living like animals" at George Spahn's Movie Ranch.

Nancy becomes a stalker.

"Somehow the business details were worked out and the Ash Grove not only survived but became the biggest and busiest showplace for folk music in America." "...the artist does not have to stand up on the stage and look at the audience, as in a nightclub, and ask himself how he can please those people out there. He can reach deep within his soul to find his deepest values and, hopefully, bring the audience along with him."

Maury Wills returned to Canada for the first time since leaving the Expos so he could return to the Dodgers. There were plenty of boos to go around, almost all of them directed toward Wills, who in the long run didn't let it bother him. ""It's as if the fans here thought I played poorly because I wanted to be traded and now I'm playing good because I was traded," Wills told The Times' Ross Newhan. "Unfortunately I'm not that good of a player to do one thing one day and another thing the next. I also have too much pride." There was plenty to be proud about against the Expos. Wills singled twice, scored two runs and stole a base in the Dodgers' 9-2 victory in the first game of the series. Then he hit the first grand slam of his career in a 9-3 victory. Gene Mauch, the Montreal manager and future Angel manager, had an interesting perspective on Wills' short stay with the Expos: "When Maury first came to us from Pittsburgh the fans expected him to be perfect. They booed him when he wasn't and he became tense. Then he tried to meet it with indifference and that certainly isn't Maury Wills." --Keith Thursby

Paul V. Coates -- Confidential File, Aug. 7, 1959

Confidential File This May Make You Really Flip Fedora One of the more humiliating aspects of my personality is that I am hopelessly under the influence of advertising slogans. The persuasive power of Madison Avenue guides my destiny and shatters my ego. And that's the way it's been since my tenderest years. I felt, for example, that I suffered from the creeping darkness of 5 O'clock Shadow years before I was even ready for my first shave. When research scientists at the Listerine Laboratories announced to the world that they had discovered a brand new social disease called Halitosis, it suddenly dawned on me that girls were always friendly at first but when the evening was over they never asked me for another date. I am uncomfortably aware that my collars and cuffs have Tattle Tale gray. And, when dishpan hands came on the market, I was the first to get them. I also accepted with a shrug the paranoidal knowledge that Even My Best Friends Won't Tell Me. And, believe me, I've known what it's like to plod through life convinced that you're Only Half Safe. These challenges to my inner peace have never been particularly pleasant to live with. But at least in the past, the same ads which destroyed my sense of security offered to build it up again, if I'd pop for a bar of soap, a detergent, a gargle of an adequate little deodorant. Now, however, the Svengalis of Madison Avenue have smacked me with a social stigma without a remedy. By way of a press release from a huckster named Russell Birdwell, I have just learned that I belong in the ranks of those delicate young men whom we may discreetly refer to as "odd." And, brother, that's a problem you don't correct with One-A-Day tablets. Birdwell, who, I assume, is currently being paid a fat fee to promote the hat industry, found himself a pliable psychologist and, after a brief consultation, issued the following statement to the nation's press: "A noted Dallas (Tex.) psychologist flew into town yesterday and made the observation: 'Men who go bareheaded consciously or unconsciously are betraying feminine instincts.' " 'The hat,' said Dr. Charles F. Mayer, Ph.D., J.D., 'is the symbol of masculinity. The man who voluntarily abandons that symbol is telling all who want to see that, in effect, he doesn't want to be a man. " 'The king wears a crown. The warrior wears a helmet. The Indian chief of the past wore the feather headdress. " ' Now, without knowing what he is doing, the man who goes hatless makes clear that he doesn't want to be a king, a warrior, a chieftain -- or even a man.' "A world traveler who has visited the haunts of the aberrated throughout the United States and much of Europe, Dr. Mayer noted that male homosexuals (sissies) everywhere tended to go bareheaded. "The Greeks had a word for it,' Dr. Mayer said. 'Anandros. Effeminate. When I see a hatless man, I instinctively wonder whether he is anandros. Too often, he is.' " Can't All Be Prize Fighters You can see my predicament. I don't even own a hat. I've gone bareheaded for years in the belief that it staved off baldness. Now this Ph.D. who haunts the dens of the aberrated comes along and claims that isn't the reason I don't wear a hat. I don't wear a hat because I'm a (sissy). As far as I'm concerned, that does it! When they try to con me into buying a Stetson by attacking my very manhood, they go too far. And if that Dr. Mayer is looking for a real brannigan, let him just try calling me "anandros" to my face. I'll scratch his eyes out.

Executive's Killing Reveals Double Life

View Larger Map Seco Street, Pasadena, in the vicinity of the killing, via Google maps' street view. George T. Judd lived a model life as far as anyone could tell. He was a respected financial executive, and he and his wife, Margaret, were often listed in The Times' society columns. Judd belonged to the Kiwanis, was active in the Republican Party, supported the Pasadena Playhouse and attended All Saints Episcopal Church. He and his wife raised a son and a daughter in a home on Lagunita Road in an upscale Pasadena neighborhood.  When he was killed in 1948 at the age of 55, Judd was vice president of West Coast Bond and Mortgage Co. and living alone at 840 Seco Street, a new, 2,200-square-foot home near the Rose Bowl. His wife, Margaret, had died in 1945 and another life, one he had been leading all along in great secrecy, took over. We don't know for sure that Judd was gay, although it would explain what happened to him. The Times never addressed the question directly, but left the strong implication that he was. One story said he "had no particular women friends" since his wife's death and quoted Pasadena homicide Detective Lt. Cecil H. Burlingame as saying: "We are not looking for a woman in the case." What we do know is that Judd had a history of being beaten and robbed by men he picked up hitchhiking or in bars, and eventually one of them killed him. The first incident reported in The Times occurred in San Francisco 20 years earlier. As he recovered at University of California Hospital, Judd told police he picked up a stranger who offered him a "headache tablet." The pill made him sick and the stranger beat him and took his car, which police recovered outside the city. In reporting the attack, The Times noted that Judd had gone to a Mill Valley ranch the previous summer after resigning from his job at a Pasadena bank due to health problems. Nothing appeared in the paper for two decades, but homicide detectives learned that he had been beaten by two hitchhikers about 1936 during a trip to San Francisco. The beatings and robberies became more frequent in the year before his death. On Aug. 30, 1947, Judd met two men in a bar and had them drive him home. He told police that one of the men, named Tex, threatened him with a knife and when he ran for help, the men stole his car, which police found wrecked. He also told police he suspected the men of burglarizing his house. Although he never reported anything to authorities, friends told homicide investigators that in the six months before he was killed, Judd had been beaten and robbed several times, with his attackers usually taking his wristwatch.   Two days before his death, Judd contacted a neighbor who was a building contractor to see about getting a shower head replaced. He explained that he let three men spend the night at his house and one of them had broken the fixture. His daughter found him Jan. 29, 1948. She came over in the morning, looked through a window, saw him in bed and assumed he was sleeping. She returned in the afternoon, went in and found him dead. She contacted one of her father's business associates, who called the police.   Although Judd was strangled and stabbed in the neck, and a bloody fork and a carving knife had been left in the kitchen sink, the daughter assumed Judd died of natural causes, "pulled a sheet over her father's body and 'tidied up a bit' while waiting for the doctor," The Times said.    Homicide investigators soon focused on the gritty bars around Hill and 3rd streets in downtown Los Angeles because Judd "often visited resorts below his social status," The Times said. Judd's home was thoroughly checked for fingerprints that might have survived his daughter's cleaning and his friends were fingerprinted to eliminate their prints from the killer's. In October 1948, police arrested a suspect at 6th and Hill streets: a 19-year-old drifter from Yakima, Wash., named Edgar Eugene Bentley. An off-duty detective recognized Bentley from a photo released by Pasadena police based on leads from the downtown bars Judd patronized. A crime scene investigator matched Bentley to fingerprints found on the refrigerator in Judd's home and on a bottle of soda water. According to police, Bentley said: "I met Mr. Judd at the tavern and we went to his home at 840 Seco Drive, Pasadena. We had several drinks. Mr. Judd made a sudden lunge at my throat -- and from then on I can't remember.... I sort of blacked out." Bentley also told police: "I must have done it -- there was nobody else there but me ..." Under questioning, Bentley said he hitchhiked out of Los Angeles the next day. He pawned Judd's wristwatch in New Orleans, then sold the ticket for $5. Within a few days, police traced the watch to a shop whose owner "forgot" to report it. On Jan. 14, 1949, Bentley pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to five years to life at San Quentin. In 1958, he and two companions escaped from a remote prison honor camp at High Rock in Humboldt County. The men held up a bar in Redding, Calif., took $250 and forced 11 people into a washroom. Bentley was captured during a police chase after the men ran a Highway Patrol roadblock in a stolen 1956 Mercury. In 1969, Bentley escaped from the Miramonte Conservation Camp, a minimum security facility east of Fresno, and was captured several hours later. Washington death records list an Edgar E. Bentley who died July 11, 1995, at the age of 65. Judd was survived by his children, mother, sister and half brother. He was cremated at Mountain View Mausoleum in Altadena after funeral services at All Saints. Note: Thanks to Dick Morris for help in research with this post.