Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 27, 1959

Baby Given Away by Unwed Mother     Yesterday was Thanksgiving but the girl who wandered timidly into my office wasn't giving thanks.     Her green eyes were rimmed with red as she sat down.     "The lady in the bar on Vermont told me maybe it would help if I went to the newspapers," she said.     The she introduced herself.  Her name was Mary.     She was short and skinny and looked a lot younger than the 26 years she admitted to.     "I don't know if you can," she continued.  "Maybe it's just silly for me to come here."     Reporters have a stock line about, "Well, if there's anything we can do, we'll certainly try."  I gave it to her.     She accepted it.     Then, the formalities over, she told me:     "I gave my baby away and I want it back."     "Gave it away?"     "I did," she repeated.  "I really didn't want to, but people kept telling me it was better.  They said it would be brought up better, with a good education.     "You see," she added.  "I wasn't brought up too good.  I guess that's what they figured."     "Who did you give it to?" I asked.     "To the adoption people." Mary stared at the floor, hiding her wet eyes, showing only the brown roots of her bleached hair.  "The county, I guess it was."     "They told you it would be better to give your baby away?" I asked.     "No, they didn't say that."  She shook her head.     "Other people said it.  The adoption people said I could have my baby, but I was afraid.  You see, I didn't have any job.  I should have asked my mother if I could have gone and lived with them, but she didn't know about my baby.  She's in the East.     "But my stepfather.  He's so funny.  He wouldn't want any babies around." Baby Born Out of Wedlock     I asked how long the baby'd been gone.     "I signed the papers in August.  They kept talking to me every week -- the adoption bureau.  They were asking me every week to make up my mind so finally I said I'd give them my baby."     In vigorous self-consciousness, the girl rubbed the back of her neck.     "I never been married," she continued.  "I don't even know where the father is."     "But you know who he is?"     "No.  I went with a lot of sailors.  You see, at the time, I was living in San Diego."     She sat silently for a minute, still rubbing her neck.     "But I pray a lot," she began again, hopefully.  "I don't really go to church on Sundays.  I should but I don't have any good clothes to wear.  I go in the afternoons sometimes when nobody's there.     "Now, I been praying every day."     "Did you ever see your baby?" I asked.     "Only one time, last July.  Right after it was born."     The baby was "it," always "it."     She added, "I don't even remember what it looks like now.  I don't know if I'd know it if I saw it."     "Was it a boy or girl?"  I asked.     The girl looked at me strangely.     "It was a boy-baby," she answered, almost in anger.  "But what difference does that make?  It was my baby."     For the first time since she sat down, she looked me in the eye.     "You can't help me, can you?" she said.  "It's too late, isn't it?"     Then she left.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 26, 1959

Nothing So Dread as He With Fanatic Eye     It's my guess that E.B. (Jet) Simrell -- the 46-year-old ex-market owner who surrendered to the FBI yesterday after having threatened the lives of seven judges -- figures he's got one big card to play in his crusade against the "un-feminine, all-powerful American woman."     And it's my opinion that he's sadly wrong.     If Simrell carries out his plan to "fast until death to win unanimous approval of the truths for which I fight," he might win himself a little public pity.     But that's all.     Long ago, he lost sight of the objectives of his fight.  And with them, he lost everything, including, possibly, his sanity.     The strange part of his story is that he was an intelligent, if badly disturbed man.     Many of his criticisms, much of his analysis of our divorce laws and the ills of our society made sense.  And he could argue with logic on the issues.      In fact, in February of 1957, he appeared on a TV show of mine and debated the position of women in America.  He made enough sense then to cause a flood of letters in support of his arguments.  Most of the response, surprisingly, was from women.     But that was nearly three years ago.     That was before he pulled the warped, possibly psychopathic, "I killed three kids and their mother" stunt which sent police on a Code 3 chase to his home to find three kid goats and their nanny spread across a bed, their throats slit.     That was before he wrote the judges and three other court officials that they were on his list, marked for death.     Somehow, in his obsessed mind, publicity -- any kind of publicity -- was the key to success of his crusade.     "I needed to attract public attention," he wrote me apologetically after the goat episode.  "I wanted to shock the public into thinking strongly about the seriousness of out national problem of divorce and its tremendously devastating effects."     Shortly before his death-threat letters, he wrote me again, stating that he planned to "shock" the public into listening to him.     "I must injure no one, physically, and must stay within the law, or reasonably so," he said.     After his threats, he became a wanted man.  The FBI spread the net. Doesn't Make Sense   But in spite of this, he sent me a third letter.  This one, however, didn't make much sense.  His arguments became lost in his vitriol.     Then, yesterday morning came Letter No. 4, announcing his intention to surrender and to "fast until death" unless society changed its ways and conformed to Jet Simrell.     He was true to his word on his surrender.     I have little doubt that he'll try to starve himself to death, too.     It's a sad, sad story of a man who drove himself berserk.  We're lucky, I guess, that nobody else got hurt.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 25, 1959

Vice President Richard Nixon will be grand marshal of the Rose Parade! There Must Be Some Kind Answer to This     (News item) Mrs. Carol Carpenter, 19, was arraigned in Los Angeles Municipal Court yesterday on felony child-desertion charges . . .     Today, I took a one-lesson course on How to Turn a Law-Abiding Citizen Into a Criminal.     I talked with Mrs. Carpenter.  What I learned, I'll pass on to you.     Then, if you will, judge the woman.  Judge the law.  And judge the morality of the society which has branded her a criminal.     As background to the case, I'll tell you that Carol Carpenter and her husband, Daniel, were married four years ago, while he was in the Army.  She was a month short of 16 at the time.  He was 18.     Daniel Carpenter got his Army discharge in November, 1957.  Following it, he worked as a meat-cutter and store clerk in New York and Missouri, until he came to Los Angeles last June.     He came alone, found a job, saved money, rented a home and then sent for his wife and children, David, 2, and Debra, 1.  They arrived in August.      By that time he had found a better job.  He worked six days a week as a machinist, and frequently spent Sundays working at a car wash.     Two months ago, Kim, their third child, was born.  And a week later, Carpenter was laid off because of the steel strike.  Their savings were meager, and they disappeared rapidly.     Carpenter looked for a job without success.  Then he committed a stupid act.  When the kids had gone hungry for two days, and after he and his wife had been turned down by the few charities they thought to contact, he rifled a pay-phone.      He was caught and jailed.     Then Carol Carpenter -- with three infant children -- was alone.     The rent was due.  The landlady told her to get out.  She did.  She sought help where she could.  A girl friend let Carol and the three children stay with her a few days -- until that landlady complained, too.     She called ministers, the Bureau of Public Assistance, charity groups, even the police.     She asked one police officer, "What am I going to do?"      He answered, sarcastically, "What do you want me to do?"     Catholic charities came up once with money for a week's rent and a few days' groceries. Then she managed to borrow a dollar or two for more milk.     But a week ago Monday, she was again without money or food.     On Tuesday, she went back to Catholic Charities.  This time, they wouldn't help her.  She was referred to the Alhambra public assistance office, which referred her to the El Monte public assistance office, which sent her back to Alhambra.     She spent all day Wednesday in the Alhambra office, but no one heard her case.  She called some welfare agencies and charities.  No luck.     Thursday she went to the East Los Angeles public assistance office, which volunteered to sent her back to Missouri. Knowing the red tape she'd have to unravel there before getting food for her children, she declined the trip.     She called Juvenile Hall, asked if they could care for her children until she could find a job.  The answer was no.  Only if the children were abandoned would Juvenile Hall take them.     Then she went to visit her husband in jail.  She told him that she was going to abandon the children.  They were sick with colds.  They hadn't eaten in three days.     "I knew they were starved," she told me today, "because I was starved myself."     She mentioned that she didn't think her husband believed her.     "I told him, 'What do you want?  Your children being fed or three dead children?"     "I didn't know how much of a crime it was," she added to me, "but I didn't care if I went to jail if it would keep them from dying." With Two Borrowed Dimes     Then Carol Carpenter took her three infant children into a church and left them there.  From a phone nearby, with two borrowed dimes, she called Juvenile Hall and the church's priest to tell what she'd done.  She wanted her children back, she said, but she couldn't see them starve.     For this act, Carol Carpenter may go to prison.     I don't understand it.  And more and more, I'm confused by the meaning of the word "charity."  I always took it to mean, in important part at least, emergency help at the moment it's needed.     If three kids who haven't eaten in three days don't qualify as an emergency, who -- I'd like to know -- does?

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 24, 1959

Face It; Aren't You Just a Mite Rigged?     Sit down.     No.  Better yet, lie down.  Or is it lay down?     Anyway, get prone.  Tuck a pillow under your head if it'll help relieve that nervous tension which undoubtedly has been building up within you all day.     All set?  Nice and comfy?  You've got my column in front of you, extended at arm's length?     Good.  Now I can tell you.     Today, I'm going to discuss the TV quiz scandals.     You undoubtedly thought that they were passe by now.  That, of course, is part of your trouble.  Too flighty.     Along comes payola and your attention is diverted.     All you're interested in now is if your favorite disc jockey was getting a few bucks under the turntable for trying to make a roll and rock hit out of that old ditty, "Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life."     I could write a story.  I could tell you that Madame Curie was rigged, and you wouldn't care.  If Van Doren can be rigged, why couldn't Madame Curie?  That's what you'd answer me.     And now we're getting close to my point.       My point is that you've pushed this whole messy affair back deep, deep into your subconscious before you've had a chance to carefully analyze (which is, I grant you, a split infinitive) its implications.     In other words, what I'm probing into is: "The TV quiz show scandals and YOU!"     Do you know exactly where you stand now that we've all been told by the TV quiz show moguls that the riggings were a natural byproduct of the decadent, deceptive day in which we live?     If you don't, be thankful you're here.     I have with me a test which will show to what degree you have decayed morally.     Please --not for my sake, but for your own -- answer the questions truthfully.  If you don't you'll just rot a little more.     1- When you do crossword puzzles while driving home on the Hollywood Freeway in the evening, do you turn to Page 8, Part III, for the answer to "Tibetan oxen," and then write it in, giving yourself full credit?     2- On departing from a cocktail party, do you tell the hostess that you had a wonderful time, even though you know, down deep, that the Martinis were watered?     3- If you give a seven-year-old newsboy a dollar for a newspaper and he gives you $1.10 in change, do you pocket the profit, pat him on the head, and walk away with a feeling of accomplishment?     4- Do you save last year's Christmas gift boxes with Bullock's labels on them to package gifts which you bought at the 5-and-10 this year? So, You Got Defects     Now, tally up your answers.     If you have one "yes" answer, you're morally defective.  But only a little bit.  Don't let it worry you.  Cut the test out. Try it again six months from now.     If you have more than one "yes" answer, you're a moral thief.     You know it.  I know it.     And that's what I like about you.  You're not afraid to own up to it.     Now, if you'll excuse me, get off the couch.  My head hurts and I want to lie down myself.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 21, 1959

Mash Notes and Comment     "Mr. Paul Coates, dear friend:     "About 2 1/2 months ago you called me at 12 a.m. and asked me if I could tell you who was President in 1875.     "I didn't know and I didn't win the stove.  I'm not too sorry because I don't like stoves.     "You told me, however, that I would get some prize but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was.  So far I haven't got anything from you.     "My neighbors claim that I never heard from you, so please answer this to straighten things out." (signed) Mrs. Theresa Herron, Glen Ellen, Calif.    --It wasn't me who called you at 12 a.m.  I know who was President in 1875. ::     "Dear Paul,     "I feel silly writing this letter, but the boss is out and I've got nothing else to do so why not?     "I'm a secretary with a problem.  A funny problem, maybe, but it's beginning to get to me.  It's about -  you suggested it -- my BOSS.     "He's one of these practical jokers.  Tacks on my chair.  That kind of thing.     "One time he pinned a sign on the back of my coat and I didn't discover it until I got back to my apartment.  It said, 'Danger Explosives,' and boy did he get a kick out of razzing me on that one. Between the Cheese and Ham     "I've been putting up with this for about two years now, so the other day when he sent me out for his sandwich, I decided to get even.  I typed on a little slip of paper, 'Help! I'm locked in the icebox,' and stuck it in his sandwich between the cheese and the ham.      "From my desk I can watch him eating, and I kept waiting for him to find it to watch his expression, but he didn't.  He ate it!     "Everyday for  a week I kept putting the same note in but the jerk kept eating them.  Finally, I wrote it on a piece of cardboard to be sure that he'd find it.     "He ate that one, too!     "Now I can't help laughing when he's eating and he keeps calling out to me what am I laughing about?  Then I get hysterical.  Naturally, I can't tell him because he's eaten so many notes now if he gets sick he'd blame me. Time for a Change     "I think I better start job hunting.  Every time I look at him I break out in giggles.      "Incidentally, I type 60 words a minute, take Gregg shorthand like a whiz and have a VERY presentable appearance.  If your secretary is worn out, why not give me a call????" (signed) Mitzi, L.A.     --I would, Mitzi, but cardboard repeats on me. ::     (Press Release) "Ask and ye shall receive!!!     "Ira Cook, KMPC's genial disc jockey, found out that there is more to this saying than meets the eye.      "Last week Cook lamented on the air that one of the toughest chores he is faced with daily is finding a pen to sign the KMPC log.     "He asked his listeners to send him a pen if they might have  a spare around their desks.     "To his amazement, Ira received more than 1,500 pens since his request.     "Largest shipment of more than 200 came from Standard Brands, Inc.     "Ira is wondering now if he asked for  a trip to the moon whether one of his listeners would come up with it." (signed) Publicity Dept.,KMPC, Hollywood.    --I can't swing the moon, Ira, but I'll give you bus fare out of town.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 20, 1959

Drama in Housewife's Life Is Fraught With     I've come to the labored conclusion that housewives lead more interesting lives than career girls.     This, I've done without benefit of polls or surveys.  In fact, I've even ignored those subtle inferences in the Kinsey report.     It's strictly my own, personal conclusion.  I reached it myself.     I'm probably dead wrong, but, the way I see it, it's better to come up with a wrong conclusion than to just sit around and come up with no conclusion at all.     You know the old saying, idle minds gather no moss.     But I digress.     My conclusion (which in case you got here late, is that housewives lead more interesting lives than career girls) is based on years of observation as a professional journalist.      We journalists come in frequent contact with both groups.  It's part of our job.  It's as much a detail of our routine as sharpening our pencils every night before closing our roll-top desks, or picking the brown crust off our paste pots every morning.     My conclusion is that, over the long run, housewives come up with more interesting stories than career girls.     A career girl, for example, has never called me up with an exclusive about a cat stuck in a tree.  Yet, some housewives witness this thrilling news event practically daily.     And take hoses that burrow themselves into the ground.  Tipsters on those stories are invariably housewives.     I could go on, but I'm tiered of the subject.      Instead, I'll tell you what's been happening, over a period of 10 years, to an Inglewood housewife who contacted me with her story the other day.     I'm not using her real name.  She requested that I omit it because it would be embarrassing to her.  Actually, it could ruin her reputation.  You know how neighbors gossip and build these things out of proportion.     To protect her identity, I'll call her Mrs. Small.  (Which is a good clue.  In fact, it's about as close  to her real name as I can get without blurting it out.)     On a brisk November morning 10 years ago, Mrs. Small stepped outside her front door to pick up the morning's mail and found, among the usual trash one finds in one's mailbox, a copy of Household magazine.      She had never subscribed to the magazine; yet it was addressed to her name.  She made no inquiry that month, but after receiving the December and January issues, she sat down and wrote the magazine a letter stating that she had never subscribed to it, and had no intention of paying for it.     No answer came.  Just the magazine, regularly, every month.     After a year, she wrote another letter.  Still no answer.     Two years passed.  The magazine kept coming.  She wrote a third letter.  Again, she received no reply.     She waited two more years after that for the magazine to stop, but it didn't.  So she dispatched Letter No. 4, reiterating that she never subscribed.     Still, no answer.     But Household came as regularly as the gas bill.  Five years, six, seven, eight, nine.  Long before, she had decided that it was pointless to write any more protests.     Then, on Jan. 21 of this year, she received a letter from Curtis Circulation Co., which handles the Saturday Evening Post, Ladies' Home Journal and other magazines. The Suspense Is Terrific     "Dear Reader," it began.  "As you probably know, Household magazine ceased publication with the November issue.  By special arrangement with the publisher and as a service to you, we have agreed to fill out the unexpired portion of your subscription with a Curtis magazine . . . "     Given the choice of four magazines, Mrs. Small didn't hesitate.  She selected the Ladies' Home Journal.     Just last month -- nine months after she sent in the card -- she received her first copy.  And she notes by the addressograph slip on the cover that her "subscription" will finally run out in July of 1960.     Find me a career girl with a story to top that one and I'll eat my battered felt hat.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 19, 1959

Saga of a Guy Who Flipped From Poky     "I walk alone," the voice on the phone told me, more as an apology than as a boast.  "With me, it's habit.  I guess I never learned any other way."     The voice was a man's and a drawl.  It continued:  "Funny I should be calling somebody like you for help after all these years of going it alone."     The time was about 3:45, yesterday afternoon.     "What do you need?" I asked.     "I need-" he started, and stopped.  "Is this phone tapped?"     "No."     "You won't trace it, or call anybody, until I'm through talking?"     "No."     "I'll trust you," the man said.  Then, for a long minute, he said nothing.  Finally, he began again.  "I just flipped.  That's the only way to explain it."     "Explain what?"      "Why I broke out of jail.  It was about eight o'clock, after dinner, and I was just sitting there on my bunk and I started thinking about my kid.  I just flipped."     Now the conversation was coming easy.      "He's three, and I got this weird idea that he's run out in the street and be hit by a car.  Silly things.  Things like that were going through my mind."     "How did you escape?" I asked.     "Domestic troubles," he continued, ignoring the question.  "When my wife came to visit me, I told her to get a divorce.  It would be better for the kid -- and now we've got another one, a baby girl -- if he never remembered me.     "That's what I told her.  I told her I was no good.  That's what happens to me sometimes.  I get off on a negative kick."     "What were you doing time for?" I said.     There was a sigh.  "This'll get you.  Robbery, second degree.  They gave ma  a year.  With good time, I could have been out in March.  So I ran away.     "I ran straight home and saw the kid.  I was afraid he would have forgotten me, but he didn't.  I wasn't there thirty minutes when he turned to his mother and said, 'This is Daddy.' " The caller continued to unwind.  He was 33, he said.  He'd had one felony conviction for first degree robbery.  He got five-to-life for it.  He came out in April of '55, and not too long afterwards, he married.      "I got a good job.  I worked," he said.  "I thought everything was going to be all right.  Then I goofed.     "It was my fault.  It's been my fault all along.  Like this escape.  They trusted me, made me a trusty.  So I took off."     I asked him from where.     "Montrose substation.  My kid -- he talks real good now.  When I saw him the last time, he barely talked."     "What's your name?" I asked.     He answered without a hesitation.  "Elias Smith.  Elias like the Biblical Elias.  Elias Smith Jr."     "What are you going to do?"     This time, he paused.  "I wish I knew what they're going to do with me."     "You're ready to go back?" I pressed him slightly.     "It's one-to-ten years for escape," he sighed.  "When I left my wife last Monday, I told her I'd turn myself in.  I promised.  And she said she'd wait for me.  That was all I wanted to hear.     "I started to turn myself in, but I got confused.  Now it's Wednesday and I'm still confused.  You're not tracing this call, are you?" he asked again. He Got Confused         "No," I assured him.     "All right," he said doubtfully.  He told me where he was calling from.  "Now," he added, "two favors.  You call them for me, would you?  And give me 10 minutes for  a cup of coffee."     I waited 10 minutes, then called.     Half an hour later, a sheriff's deputy called me back to report that Elias Smith Jr. was a man of his word.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 18, 1959

As Senators Write to Indignant Taxpayers     While we're all gathered here together, in this smoke-filled room, I'd like to say a few words in behalf of politicians.     They are our friends.  Behind that stodgy facade that they put up, they've all got hearts as big as Daddy Warbucks'.     And what they do, they do in our best interests.     I am prepared, I might add, to give you an example.     You remember, a couple of months ago, when Sen. Everett Dirksen of Illinois drafted a resolution calling for a government expenditure of $200,000 to permit himself and his 99 colleagues to fly to Waikiki to welcome Hawaii into our union of states?     The resolution was drawn up shortly after Alaska, which is cold, slipped quietly into the union.  And it was met, I'm told, with some resounding cheers in the upper house before it was drowned out by a chorus of taxpayer screams.     Well, now, at last, I can tell you the story behind the proposal.  I have it from an indignant taxpayer who was among those who wrote their protests  to Washington.     He wrote to Sen. Dirksen, Clair Engle and Thomas Kuchel.     Dirksen replied, in part:     "Nothing delighted me so much as to observe in every section of the country that a proposal to have the entire Senate attend the Hawaiian inaugural ceremonies at public expense struck so deeply into the hearts of people and offended their basic feeling with respect to governmental extravagance and the need for economy.     "I should point out that when the question was asked of me by the press, I said that I presumed every senator 'wanted' to go to Hawaii, but as you well know, 'wanting' to go and 'getting' to go is quite another matter . . .     "I reaffirm, however, my delight that there is an aroused feeling in the country with respect to spending.      "As for the record, I take some real pride in the record which the Republican minority made in the Senate in resisting huge authorizations for the expenditure of money and heavy appropriations.     "This aggressive effort on the part of the minority plus the determination of the president to hold the budget line plus the clear evidence of public interest all joined to give us a good record in this field."     I would have suspected that the junket was a Democratic plot if I hadn't seen Sen. Engle's answer, too:     "Thank you for your letter regarding the proposal of Sen. Dirksen . . .     "I agree that this suggestion is ridiculous; and if it had come to a vote, you may be sure that I would have voted against it.  It is not improper to send a small delegation . . . on this great occasion;  but to send the entire delegation is, of course, preposterous."     California's Republican senator, Tom Kuchel, had still another explanation:     "I fully agree with you that it would be an abuse of the public trust and a flagrant waste of public funds for either branch of the Congress to arrange a so-called junket for its entire membership . . .     "It is unfortunate that a jocular remark about a possible trip to Hawaii was misunderstood and subsequently treated seriously by a certain segment of the press . . .     "You may rest assured that I would never be a party to such an extravagance." Statesmanlike Stuff     So now we know.  Either:     1 -- Sen. Dirksen -- who's been battling those spendthrift Democrats for years --  was just testing us taxpayers to see if we were alert;     2 -- If those spendthrift Republicans had gotten it to the floor, the Democrats would have voted it down; or:         3 -- It was just a big joke.    I get the feeling that if the indignant taxpayer taxpayer had written 97 more letters to our elected representatives, all would have expressed violent opposition to such a prodigal scheme, no matter what they might have said before.     It's like I told you at the start.  Politicians are our friends.  Especially if we're watching them.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov, 17, 1959

Poet in the Poky Has Samson Sort of Woes     Jerry Baker, the promising young coffee-house poet, appeared in my office yesterday afternoon, shortly after being released from Lincoln Heights jail.     He sat down, gazed fondly at an open pack of cigarettes on my desk, and informed me, "You smoke my brand."     I offered him one.  He took it, thanking me.     "I'm here," he said, "because I'm told you're a fair man.  You have  a good reputation.  You come very highly recommended."     Borrowing a match, he lit his cigarette.     "In fact," he continued, "not one, but two of my cellmates recommended you as the man to see."     "About what?" I asked.     Baker frowned.  "About my hair, but I'm getting to that.  I hitchhiked here, you see.  I made money by reading my poetry in coffee houses along the way.  Cleveland, Houston.  I'm from Brooklyn.  That's in New York."     "I'm from back East myself," I told him.  "I've heard of it."     "Good," he replied.  "Now, last Wednesday I was hitchhiking on Sunset on my way to the Unicorn.  I had my wood flute and my poetry with me, when the two policemen came along in a patrol car.     "At first, I thought they were going to let me go because I only had one foot in the street.  The other foot was legal.  On the sidewalk.  But they ran a make on me and discovered there was this warrant out from the last time I was here.  A year and a half ago.  For hitchhiking on the freeway.      "So," Baker shrugged, "they arrested me.  It was all fair and legal.  They were very nice about it.  They even asked me to recite some of my poems, but I didn't because -- you know, they bugged me.     "Later on, " he added, "I did play a few notes on my flute for the jailer.  Anyway, it was $25 or five days, and not having the $25, I took the five days."     "You mentioned," I interrupted, "something about your hair."     "Yes," he sighed.  "Look at it."     It was sort of a dark blond, trimly out, parted on the left.     "I see it," I said.      Baker jumped to his feet.  "No you don't!" he shouted.  "They cut it off this morning.  All the hair I'd been growing since June.      "And for good measure," he added, collapsing back into his chair, "they stole my goatee."     "Who?" I demanded.  "Who did?"     "Who else?" he cried:  "The cops.  At five o'clock this morning, this cop grabbed me out of my cell and said, 'We're going to the barbershop, sonny.'     "I said, 'No.  I want my hair.  You can't have it.'     "When we got to the barbershop, I grabbed the door and wouldn't let go, so he got me in an arm lock.  I kept protesting.  I guess I tore his shirt, so he bounced my head on the floor."     Having to relive the experience obviously was an ordeal for the poet.  He grabbed another one of my cigarettes.      "This policeman put me in the barber chair," he continued, "and the barber told me, 'Sit still and I'll give you a nice, clean haircut.  You wiggle and I ain't guaranteeing nothing.'     "I sat still and let them violate every civil right I was born with.  When the barber finished, the policeman told him, 'The goatee.  That goes, too.'  And it did." I Got a Naked Chin     Baker stood up again. "It was my personality," he sighed.  "They took my whole personality.  I'd be ashamed to go into a coffee house now.  I'd feel self-conscious."     "What are you going to do now?" I asked.     "What can I do?" he snapped.  "Nothing! Until I grow my hair back.     "Then," he added, "I'm going to blow this town.  You know?  It bugs me."

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 16, 1959

Search for Better Brand of Justice     Erle Stanley Gardner, you either like or dislike.     He's easy to categorize.     If you don't like him, he's a troublemaker, a rebel who gets his kicks by destroying the public's illusions concerning the integrity and intelligence of our district attorneys and police.     As author of more than 100 Perry Mason mystery novels, he's continually belittling these public servants.  His man Mason always shows them up.     As a private citizen, Gardner founded the now-famous Court of Last Resort, which, in freeing dozens of innocent men from prison, has proved in fact that our system of justice isn't infallible.     (And when you prove, time after time, that certain prosecutors and police ruined innocent men's lives in their over-zealousness, you're not about to win any popularity contests about law enforcement officials.)     If you like Gardner, he's the champion of the underdog, unafraid to step on anybody's toes.      The other day, however, I sat down with Gardner for a talk -- and walked away an hour later with a new definition of the man.     "Frankly," he told me, launching into one of his favorite subjects, "the basic problem facing law enforcement today is one of public relations.     "People get fed up seeing law enforcement authorities, and particularly prosecutors, take technical advantage of the laws.  Laws," he explained, "with usually severe penalties, enacted to curb a usual serious crime situation -- but they apply them to much lesser situations."     Gardner cited the Mann White Slavery Act.     "Years ago," he said, "people became fed up with the pimps and panderers who seduced young girls and forced them into prostitution.     "They passed the Mann Act.     "What happened after that was that a couple of young men took some women, who were ready, willing and able, on a train from Sacramento to Reno.  It was the type of weekend trip that is indulged in by young people from time to time and place to place everywhere -- with the single exception that they crossed a state line.     "To the extent that the people had in mind when they passed the law, there was no white slavery involved, but a prosecuting attorney promptly arrested them as white slavers."     Gardner also mentioned  a case in which an ordinary auto theft by a bunch of winos on a New Year's Eve was tortured into a kidnapping because the car's owner was passed out drunk on the back seat.     Gardner's dislike of "eager beaver" prosecutors -- D.A.'s who measure their personal success by number of convictions rather than whether they feel justice was done- is passionate.     But he's equally firm in his defense of district attorneys who try to live their role as representatives of the people with honor.     "I know one district attorney who committed political suicide by refusing to prosecute a man he felt was innocent," he said.     "Unless we give law enforcement authorities better tools with which to work," he said, "their hands are tied.  They're licked before they start. Element of Distrust     "Yet the legislatures won't give them the tools because they distrust what law enforcement will do with those tools.     "We need new laws to cope with modern conditions, but the people don't trust the prosecutors to apply them properly.     "The fundamental problem today," Erle Stanley Gardner concluded, "is how the people themselves feel toward prosecutors and toward police."     Gardner is neither a rebel nor a champion of the underdog.  He's merely a man in search of a better brand of "justice for all."