Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Journalism 104C
1
email him with fun ideas for Thanksgiving pranks "Oh my God! That's
not turkey!" at kenmc@ucdavis.edu.
> >These are columns, but they're also mini-profiles! Check 'em out!
>
>
> DREAMING ABOUT CALLING THE SHOTS Origin STEPHEN MAGAGNINI Publication =
> Date 12/15/1989 Page SC1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text SOME KIDS DREAM of becoming president or =
> finding a cure for cancer. The realists become personal injury lawyers,
>=
> or dentists, or life insurance salesmen.
>
> Then there are those, like Neil Reilly, who walk alone, motivated by =
> strange forces only they understand.
>
> Neil Reilly is an NBA referee-wanna-be. Some people toss dwarfs for a =
> living; Reilly wants to toss 7-footers who get out of line. He plans to
>=
> call his autobiography "T!" for technical foul, the most emphatic =
> statement a ref can make.
>
> Neil's got zeal. Every night you can find him in the bathroom, =
> practicing his "mechanics" - gestures for traveling violations, charging
>=
> calls, center jump toss, etc. - in front of the mirror. "It's paid off,"
>=
> he says. Last summer he went to referee camp.
>
> Referees are on a par with gravediggers - it's a dirty job, but =
> somebody's got to do it. When was the last time you told a gravedigger,
>=
> "Nice work"?
>
> "You've got to have an ego capable of withstanding punishment," says =
> Reilly. "It's like being a SMUD board member - you get pounded week =
> after week by somebody, no matter what you do."
>
> A referee is a masochist with a whistle. After Reilly's idol, NBA ref =
> Earl Strom, cost the Los Angeles Clippers a game when he missed a =
> 3-pointer at the buzzer, millions of TV viewers saw replays of Earl's =
> blunder. The blown call took one second, but the boos will last a =
> lifetime.
>
> Reilly, 22, has officiated 600 basketball games in three years, while =
> working toward his teaching credential at Sac State. He's worked his way
>=
> up from elbow-filled rec league games to high school ball. He hopes to =
> be working college hoops within two years, and calling fouls in the NBA
>=
> by the time he's 30.
>
> If, of course, he lives that long. Refs take more abuse than cops who =
> stop Zsa Zsa.
2
>
> A female fan came up to Reilly after a game, dropped four pennies on his
>=
> shoes and said, "Here - this is what we think you're worth." Another fan
>=
> remarked, "If I had a penny for every bad call you made I could buy New
>=
> York." A third called Reilly the most pathetic referee he'd ever seen. =
> And those were the nice fans. "Their team lost - by 12 - and of course =
> it was my fault," says Reilly. "I love it! I'm a cheap psychiatrist. If
>=
> they want to scream and holler at me for an hour and a half without =
> having to pay for it, then nooo problem. It's fun to scream at refs."
>
> When I played JV basketball in Brooklyn, the refs had black belts in =
> karate. Even that couldn't save them. One night, we played Eron Prep, =
> the JV equivalent of the Oakland Raiders. You get kicked out of three =
> schools, you wind up at Eron. They had guys on their JV with full =
> beards. I drove for a layup and got punched in the stomach.
>
> At one point, the ref called three technicals in a row against Eron =
> Prep. When he turned his back to give me the ball, one of their players
>=
> yelled an obscenity at the ref. The ref wheeled around and threw the guy
>=
> out of the game. The only problem was, he threw out the wrong guy, who =
> went berserk. After the game, the Eron Prep team chased the ref into the
>=
> subway station with a crowbar. I hate to think what would have happened
>=
> if they'd lost the game.
> TUESDAY NIGHT, Neil reffed the freshman and JV games between the Elk =
> Grove Thundering Herd and the Tokay Tigers of Lodi. After making $30 =
> running around for four hours with a whistle in his mouth, Neil went to
>=
> the Kings-Warriors game.
>
> Others come to watch Wayman Tisdale or Chris Mullin; Neil's first words
>=
> are, "Joey Crawford's reffing tonight! Look at that change-of-possession
>=
> pull! It's like a strike-three call." When Crawford twirls his hands to
>=
> indicate traveling, Neil exclaims, "Sweet." When Crawford lifts his foot
>=
> for emphasis on a charging call, Reilly goes wild. "He's flashy - he's =
> not a robot."
>
> What was this guy talking about? I've seen flashier toll collectors. =
> When the paunchy Crawford runs the court like a penguin, Neil beams, =
> "I'm bow-legged, too. Look at him! Does he look like a physical =
> specimen?"
>
> I asked Neil why ref when you can work the complaint desk at a =
> department store the day after Christmas, or wait tables at a lousy =
> restaurant?
>
> "I get a high from refereeing," he says. "My adrenalin's pumping along =
> with the players'. I love being in the heat of battle. I feast on it. I
>=
> get depressed if I go a week without refereeing."
>
3
> In basketball, as in life, you need referees. "You have to have us," =
> says Neil. "There's no way around it."
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> -------------
> PASSIONATE POET HAS CACHE FOR CASH Origin Stephen Magagnini Publication
>=
> Date 6/25/1990 Page B5 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text THERE'S THIS GUY, B.L. Kennedy, and does he =
> have a deal for you.
>
> It's his one-of-a-kind collection of Sacramento literature. He's got a =
> signed copy of Raymond Carver's first published poem. He figures it's =
> worth maybe two, three thousand bucks. He's got poetry magazines he's =
> published himself. He's got tapes and posters from practically every =
> poetry reading in recent Sacramento history.
>
> He'll let you have the whole shooting match for 10 grand. Too much? Do I
>=
> hear $8,500? How about $7,000? He'd never part with it, except that he's
>=
> going to the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colo., to howl with Allen =
> Ginsberg, and that costs $12,500 and he needs the money.. . .
>
> Other people talk; B.L. Kennedy "foamanates." He doesn't recite poetry,
>=
> he fulminates. He's 66 inches of gut-roaring terror. He has oyster eyes
>=
> and a banshee's hair. He's a Morlock with a five-o'clock shadow, =
> regurgitated from the subterranean depths of Fort Apache, the Bronx. =
> Kennedy, 37 come Halloween, had open heart surgery in 1984, but he's got
>=
> a tungsten spirit and a hustler's soul and he's cheated death more than
>=
> once.
>
> Kennedy's almost sold his collection a dozen times. He swears a guy in =
> New York wanted to buy it, but by the time Bari got there, the guy had =
> died. A few weeks ago, Kennedy thought he had it sold to the Sacramento
>=
> Library, which is spending $1.25 million to expand and refurbish its =
> Sacramento Room.
>
> A team of experts spent two hours at Kennedy's downtown digs. Deputy =
> Library Director Judy Renzema, who headed the team, said, "We were all =
> very impressed by what we saw . . . probably more impressive than Mr. =
> Kennedy's collection was the man himself. He is so passionate."
>
> His is a passion born of deprivation. When he was 6 years old, living in
>=
> a Bronx basement, he wrote his first poem, "The Flying Saucer": "I saw a
>=
> flying saucer, it came down from the sky, it landed in Central Park and
>=
> I asked myself why." Poetry reached into him and made him feel things =
> his family couldn't.
>
> At 9, he sold his comic book collection and bought a $19 typewriter. "My
>=
4
> mother took it in her hands and smashed it against the pavement. My =
> mother hated books. God, did she ever. She was functionally illiterate.
>=
> She couldn't read the newspaper. If I was found with books I would get =
> beat up by my brother, who's a cop in New York. When I sent him my first
>=
> book of poetry to make peace, he tossed it in the fireplace, didn't even
>=
> look at it. To him poets are faggots. He's getting his now - he was just
>=
> transferred to 9th Avenue and 47th Street with all the hookers and =
> junkies."
>
> Like I said, he foamanates.
>
> Kennedy missed large chunks of school with heart disease and asthma. =
> "The hospital was my haven.. . . I could read there and nobody could =
> beat me up."
>
> IN 1976 he came to Sacramento with a woman. She turned out to be a =
> lesbian, but Kennedy stuck around anyway and breathed life into the =
> local art scene, and vice-versa. His Sunday night poetry series at =
> Webber's Books is booked through 1991. Most nights, it's better than TV.
>
> Poetry's kept him alive, and he's trying to return the favor. It's been
>=
> an uphill struggle. Carmichael librarian Gregg Procter says of Kennedy's
>=
> collection, "The second it's severed from him it's going to lose a lot =
> of vitality." Kennedy's offered to make a three-hour video, but that's =
> like seeing Springsteen on video - nothing like the real thing. We ought
>=
> to set up a cage for B.L. Kennedy in the Sacramento Room and let him =
> work the room.
>
> Deputy Library Director Renzema commented, "We already own two of Mr. =
> Kennedy's books, "Eccentric Shadows' and "Transgressing Angels.' To =
> date, one person has borrowed one copy one time. Poetry just doesn't =
> move very rapidly."
>
> Which is a crime, Kennedy froths. "We need our poets more than ever =
> because we're so estranged from our feelings, so removed from truth.. .
>=
> . We need to reconnect. A lot of people are afraid of truth and poets =
> deal primarily in truth."
>
> And besides, he's got this great poetry collection for sale. Truth is, a
>=
> lot of it came from the Sacramento Library in the first place. "Almost =
> my entire collection came from the Friends of the Library used book =
> sale," he caws. "I paid five cents for the Raymond Carver poem. They've
>=
> never been good to their poets in Sacramento."
>
> Maybe we don't need his collection. But we sure as hell need passionate,
>=
> pulsating prophets like B.L. Kennedy.
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
5
> -----------------------
> A MOM TAKES ON THE CRACK DEALERS Origin Stephen Magagnini Publication =
> Date 8/22/1990 Page E1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text LIFE IN the 1990s has come to this: 35 people
>=
> showed up Monday night to learn "How To Close a Crack House for $12."
>
> Ten years ago, there weren't any crack houses. Now the cops figure we've
>=
> got between 150 and 200 crack houses all over Sacramento, known as a =
> great place to raise your kids.
>
> The Chamber of Commerce isn't going to tell you crack-in-the-boxes =
> outnumber Jack-In-The-Boxes. But more and more decent folks are waking =
> up to the sounds of tires screeching, horns honking, and pushers =
> fighting with dissatisfied or desperate customers. Waking up to find =
> their car stereos ripped off, then the cars themselves.
>
> And when you call the cops, you soon find out there's not a lot they can
>=
> do without proof. So you hide behind your double-locked doors and pull =
> your blinds and hope the hubba-heads will go away. They won't.
>
> "How To Close a Crack House for $12." It sounded to good to be true, but
>=
> 35 people showed up anyway at the Colonial Heights Library on Stockton =
> Boulevard to hear Molly Wetzel, a divorced mother of two, tell them how
>=
> she cleaned up her Berkeley neighborhood, armed with nothing more than a
>=
> pen, a phone and an anger that kicked the hell out of fear.
>
> Three summers ago Wetzel, 37, moved into "a lovely three-bedroom home in
>=
> a lovely little mixed neighborhood, a good place to raise kids, the =
> schools were good. . . "
>
> But after a few months, Wetzel noticed a lot more cars and people =
> visiting her block night and day, and it wasn't to admire her vegetable
>=
> garden. The point of interest was a five-unit apartment building with =
> blankets over the windows three doors down.
>
> "I chalked it up to "living in the city,' as long as they didn't bother
>=
> me," said Wetzel. Then hookers started buzzing around the crack house. =
> The johns would send them inside to buy some crack - only they never =
> came out. The johns would get upset and start honking their horns and =
> breaking beer bottles against the walls until a huge guy in a gray knit
>=
> cap and dark glasses called The Enforcer came out and got nasty.
>
> THE JOHNS kept coming. Wetzel and her teen daughter couldn't walk home =
> without being propositioned. Then, one day, The Enforcer put a gun to =
> her 14-year-old son's head for 55 cents.
>
> Wetzel didn't have any money to move. Her son began flunking school, and
>=
> both kids wanted to live with their dad in L.A.
>
> So in February 1988, Wetzel, who spent a college year organizing =
> villagers in the rice paddies of Thailand, called a block meeting. About
6
>=
> 30 people came. They exchanged phone numbers, and for the next year, =
> everybody kept a chart listing the date and time of all suspected drug =
> activity. They called the cops every time, had their neighbors do the =
> same and logged badge numbers and report numbers.
>
> Then in May 1989, Wetzel and her neighbors wrote to the owners of the =
> crack house asking them to please get rid of the tenants, they're =
> destroying the peace and harmony of the neighborhood. When the owners =
> ignored the letter, Wetzel and her neighbors filed against them in small
>=
> claims court. The judge, overwhelmed by the mountain of evidence, =
> awarded each of them - including an 8-month-old baby - $2,000 to cover =
> their "emotional and mental duress."
>
> The owners, not wanting to be sued again, evicted the druggies. In six =
> weeks, the crack house was empty and two of the inhabitants, including a
>=
> pregnant woman, were in rehab.
>
> Since then, Wetzel has made a career out of getting rid of public =
> nuisances from Oakland to L.A. "We've also taken down liquor stores and
>=
> motels," she told the group. "We've never lost yet. We're 50 and 0."
>
> Wetzel, a short, fast-talking brunette, warned the audience not to =
> confront the drug dealers while gathering evidence. She says to get as =
> many people as possible on your team - your beat cop, your city =
> councilperson, even the small claims clerk. It costs $12 per person to =
> file in Oakland small claims court. In Sacramento, it's only $8.
>
> Usually, Wetzel said, you don't even have to go to court - just =
> threatening the landlord is enough to get the crack users kicked out. =
> It's empowering and it's a great way to meet your neighbors. Wetzel says
>=
> the victory over the crack house galvanized the neighborhood: "We got so
>=
> excited, we planted 80 trees on our block, we got $36,000 (from the =
> city) for a playground and ended up putting stop signs in."
>
> It takes a crack house to get people to work with their neighbors, =
> instead of ignoring them. That's life in the '90s for you.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ----
>
> THE NARCS' FACTS SEEM TO BE HAZY Origin By Stephen Magagnini Publication
>=
> Date 7/11/1990 Page E1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text THIS IS THE story of how Serah Zze, a local =
> rock singer, spent an evening with five narcs, watching a music video of
>=
> herself singing "Purple Haze."
>
> It was one of those little impromptu get-togethers that are happening =
> more and more as the war on drugs escalates.
>
> Cops, when you're not ready for them, can make you paranoid. Even if =
> you're not guilty of anything, terrible thoughts start running through =
> your head. Maybe you've been framed. Maybe they've finally nailed you =
7
> for that unpaid parking ticket you got in 1972. Maybe you're a dead =
> ringer for the towel rapist. Maybe you're going to jail. . . .
>
> At least a few of these thoughts crossed Serah Zze's mind when a =
> five-man drug squad paid her a surprise visit one night a few weeks ago.
>
> Serah Zze (pronounced "Z") is a 29-year-old single mother who works full
>=
> time for Californians Against Waste. She's also the lead singer for New
>=
> World Primitive, a world rock band.
>
> She was in her downtown flat, psyching herself up for a gig, when she =
> found herself talking to five cops from the city's narcotics squad. =
> Here's her version of what happened:
>
> The head cop, a stocky guy in his 40s, said, "We've had some calls about
>=
> drug activity going on here. May we have a look around?"
>
> Serah was in her singer's outfit: ripped fishnet stockings, black Army =
> boots, tight black shorts and a crop top. Her red hair was even wilder =
> than usual. But hey, she said to herself, what am I worried about? I =
> don't do drugs.
>
> "Instead of doing the logical thing - asking for a search warrant and =
> requesting their badge numbers - I told them, "Look all you want, but =
> you won't find anything. I'm clean.' " The cops spent the next 40 =
> minutes going through everything from her purse to her panties drawer. =
> They asked her a whole bunch of personal questions. Serah began to get =
> worried - what if the cops found a marijuana roach that had been left by
>=
> a guest or a previous tenant?
> One of the cops - perhaps inspired by her attire - asked if she belonged
>=
> to a satanic cult. Serah said no, she belonged to a rock band. The cops
>=
> asked if she liked the Grateful Dead and Jimi Hendrix. She said she =
> wasn't crazy about the Dead, but she liked Hendrix. Then, the cops asked
>=
> if she sang "Purple Haze," a psychedelic Hendrix song. It just so =
> happens that Serah has a video of her band playing "Purple Haze." The =
> cops asked to see it, in a friendly sort of way. She said OK.
>
> So the five narcs crowded around the TV and watched Serah sing "Purple =
> Haze." Serah took this opportunity to tell the cops that some of her =
> songs, including "Crack the World in Two" and "Society Suicide," dealt =
> with the destructive nature of drugs.
>
> The head narc politely apologized and said there must be some mistake =
> (meanwhile, another cop kept sifting through her stuff).
>
> Then one of the cops asked her if she had any enemies. "Not that I'm =
> aware of," she said. "I don't play my music loud, I know all my =
> neighbors. . . . "
>
> The cops left. But the feeling of being violated stayed with Serah for =
> weeks. "Steve, I don't understand," she said. "What is this? The new =
> McCarthyism? If somebody doesn't like my face or the way I dress, they =
> can just call up and sic the drug squad on me? Why didn't the cops do =
> some footwork before they stormed my house?
>
8
> "Why me?"
>
> CAPT. MIKE SHAW, head of the narcotics unit, said police get hundreds of
>=
> drug-related tips a month. The only way to deal with them is to make =
> surprise visits. "It pans out more times than it doesn't," Shaw said. =
> "You'd be amazed. People who take the time to call on their neighbors =
> usually are correct."
>
> What about the people who call the cops with bum tips, just to get back
>=
> at somebody? "It doesn't happen a lot," Shaw said. When it does, the =
> narcs figure it out pretty quickly.
>
> Shaw pointed out that citizens aren't obliged to let cops in without a =
> search warrant, and cops responding to anonymous tips don't have search
>=
> warrants.
>
> Shaw empathizes with innocent victims like Serah Zze. When a cop comes =
> to your house looking for drugs, "you're bound to be nervous." =
> Unfortunately, he said, "It's a sign of the times . . . we have to do =
> something. This is one of the tactics we use."
> Meanwhile, Serah Zze is still wondering, "Why me?"
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> --------------------------
> A SOOTHING VOICE IN A LAND OF CONFUSION Origin Stephen Magagnini =
> Publication Date 6/27/1990 Page E1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL =
> Dateline Corrections Memo Body Text I'VE JUST SPENT the morning with =
> Meuy Choy "Mimi" Saeteurn, an 18-year-old welfare mother who had her =
> first child at age 12; she's expecting her third next month. Her Mien =
> parents don't have jobs. They don't even speak English.
>
> If you get a picture of a hopeless, irresponsible young refugee whose =
> family will leech the welfare system for generations, you can rip that =
> picture up. You're looking at a 4-foot-9-inch, brown-eyed Superwoman.
>
> Maybe you pictured Superwoman in an Anne Klein suit with big shoulders.
>=
> Well, take another look. Mimi wears a Betty Boop T-shirt. She grows her
>=
> own vegetables, cooks, cleans, plays with her kids, maintains an A =
> average and still finds time to speak for Sacramento's mushrooming Mien
>=
> community, largest in the U.S.
>
> It is a community that sorely needs a voice. Two-thirds of Sacramento's
>=
> Southeast Asian refugees don't have jobs. Many of the older ones just =
> can't master the English language; something as simple as making and =
> keeping a doctor's appointment is beyond them.
>
> Need help getting a driver's license, or welfare, or Social Security, or
>=
> MediCal? See Mimi. Can't read the notices your kids bring home from =
> school? Bring them to Mimi's place. In 1988, when a little Mien girl was
>=
> kidnapped by the same man who abducted 4-year-old Candi Talarico, Mimi =
> was there to translate and sort things out. She did the same thing last
9
>=
> year when a Mien kindergartner took the wrong school bus, got lost and =
> spent a tearful night in the bus yard.
>
> Mimi understands the paralysis many new immigrants are experiencing. =
> "I've been there," she says. "For my parents, it's a total shock just =
> learning how to sign their name - they never had to hold a pen in their
>=
> country. They didn't need to. Over there, you need muscle; over here, =
> you need brains."
>
> Maybe you're wondering what these refugees are doing here. Maybe you =
> think they ought to be sent back.
>
> Think again - the reason many of them are here is because they fought on
>=
> our side in the Vietnam conflict. When the war ended in 1975, the =
> Communists came looking for them. Mimi's father smuggled his family into
>=
> Thailand across the Mekong River, known as the "Ocean of Death" because
>=
> so many drowned. He told Mimi they were going to America so she could =
> "become somebody."
>
> FOR FIVE YEARS they lived in a refugee camp without electricity or =
> running water and ate scraps the Thais had thrown out. In 1980 Mimi's =
> family was sponsored by an agency in San Francisco. For a year they =
> lived in an apartment in the Tenderloin, among the bums, junkies and =
> hookers. "I was afraid to cross the street," Mimi says. She remembers =
> walking miles to Chinatown with her parents to buy groceries, because =
> none of the Mien knew how to drive, or even how to take the bus.
>
> In 1981, Mimi's family moved into an Oak Park attic that turned into an
>=
> oven in the summer. But here Mimi could go outside.
>
> When she was 11, her parents arranged her "marriage" to 17-year-old Nai
>=
> Saechao. A year later, they had their first child. A lot of girls would
>=
> have dropped out, but Mimi remembered her father's words: "Become =
> somebody." She tracked down a school for pregnant and parenting teens.
>
> Maybe you think it's crazy for a 12-year-old to have children, but =
> Mimi's parents were overjoyed. "They're our hopes, they're our future,"
>=
> Mimi says. Her sons, ages 3 and 5, speak English and Mien so they can =
> help their grandparents. The grandparents, in turn, tend the family =
> garden and look after the kids while Mimi's in school or studying.
>
> Mimi's mate, who's studying to become a social worker, has also given =
> her a lot of support - most Asian teen mothers get help from their =
> partners; in stunning contrast, only a small percentage of American-born
>=
> teen mothers have supportive boyfriends.
>
> Maybe you hate the welfare system. Mimi does, too. But she's used it to
>=
> feed and shelter her family while she goes to school.
>
> In 1987, Mimi pleaded with the California Assembly to restore $350 =
> million to the state's education budget. She said that without bilingual
10
>=
> teachers and classes for teen mothers, she might not have made it. The =
> cuts were restored.
>
> Earlier this month, Mimi graduated from Sacramento High with a 3.84 =
> average and scholarships to Sac State. She plans to become a teacher, so
>=
> she can show her students and her community the best of both worlds. If
>=
> anyone can do it, Superwoman can.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ---------------------------------
> HE'S THE SOLOMON OF SMALL CLAIMS Origin Stephen Magagnini Publication =
> Date 5/14/1990 Page B4 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text THE HONORABLE Bob Schleh is playing with a =
> rubber band as though it were a rosary. He wraps it around four fingers
>=
> of each hand and rotates it furiously.
>
> "Who stole the bike?" yells Schleh from the bench. Here, in Night Court,
>=
> the wheels of justice turn swiftly - but not swiftly enough for Schleh,
>=
> who has mediated more conflicts in the last 12 hours than Kissinger did
>=
> in four years.
>
> A yuppie in a business suit alleges that a 17-year-old juvenile =
> delinquent took his cherry Yamaha 1200 motorcycle for a joy ride and did
>=
> more than $2,000 worth of damage. The yuppie is suing the punk's dad, a
>=
> truck driver from Rio Linda.
>
> The truck driver says, "We've got seven kids and he's the only one =
> causing any problems. When he stole my car and my guns, I said that's =
> it. I haven't seen him since October." The punk now lives with his =
> mother.
>
> Schleh, the Solomon of Small Claims Court, avows, "This is a very, very
>=
> difficult problem." Should the father be made to pay for the sins of the
>=
> son? "In my opinion, it takes living with the child, having the child =
> under your own roof. . . . On the other hand, you have an innocent =
> person who's the victim of a crime."
>
> The rubber band is spinning faster than a dynamo. This is Schleh's 18th
>=
> case in less than three hours. On his way home, he will not see the sun.
>
> In the legal world, there are Supreme Court justices, federal =
> magistrates, Superior Court judges and Municipal Court judges. Then =
> there are bottomfish like Schleh who rake the muck, trying to find =
> justice for the little guy.
>
> Every second Monday at 5:30 p.m., Court Commissioner Schleh presides =
> over Sacramento's version of "The People's Court," dispensing justice in
>=
11
> an airless room to agitated people who don't have the time or the money
>=
> to fight their battles in civil court.
>
> Instead of lawyers in $800 suits, the wronged bring trees and fleas, =
> roaches in jars and parts of cars, chunks of concrete and rank carpet, =
> bags of dog hair and even the dogs themselves.
>
> A man sues his neighbor for hosing down the inside of his car. He wins.
>=
> A woman sues a laundry for losing her silk suit. She wins. A diabetic =
> sues his landlord for renting out his apartment while he's in the =
> hospital. "He was collecting double rent?" says Schleh indignantly, =
> finding for the plaintiff.
>
> The most you can sue for in Small Claims Court is $2,000, but people =
> have sued for 35 cents. "We took up a collection," says Schleh, "but the
>=
> guy refused to take it, said it was the principle of the thing."
> SMALL CLAIMS COURT is a window on the human comedy. "A guy was sued by a
>=
> jewelry company for a ring he bought for his girlfriend - the jewelers =
> sent the bill to his wife's address. Now his wife is suing him for =
> divorce and his girlfriend thinks he's so dumb she won't have anything =
> to do with him," recalls Schleh, who, incidentally, found for the =
> jewelers.
>
> But Schleh is having a bad Monday in a bad year in a decade that =
> encompasses 5,000 disputes, hundreds of ill-prepared, truculent =
> combatants and one heart attack.
>
> At 8:30 a.m., while presiding over Traffic Court, where he spends most =
> days, he got a "constitutionalist" who refused to pay his parking =
> tickets because he felt the state had no jurisdiction, even though he =
> collects a state welfare check. Then there was the guy who got a ticket
>=
> from the CHP for parking on the median while helping an accident victim.
>=
> "Knowing there was no legal defense, I had to find that there was such a
>=
> travesty, he wasn't guilty. That's what I did."
>
> Schleh stares at the yuppie seeking satisfaction for his damaged =
> motorcycle, then at the truck driver. The rubber band is racking up the
>=
> miles. "I don't even know if this gentleman's son did in fact take the =
> bike. I have no idea - no idea! If I don't know the answer then you =
> haven't met the burden of proof." The yuppie scowls at the truck driver,
>=
> "See you in muni court."
>
> A tense Schleh finally leaves the bench at 8:30. "I get paid very well =
> ($80,000 a year), but it's not enough. There's a lot of anger out there
>=
> and this has affected me personally," says Schleh, who had a heart =
> attack three years ago. "I have a much more difficult time restraining =
> my own anger and frustration."
>
> At 55, Schleh feels he's missed his chance to be a judge. So he goes to
>=
> stress classes, tries to talk in a monotone and plays with a rubber =
> band, stretching it to its limits, hoping he doesn't snap before justice
12
>=
> is served.
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------
> BAGGING THE BIG ONE BRINGS DUBIOUS PRIZE Origin STEPHEN MAGAGNINI =
> Publication Date 9/8/1989 Page SC1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL =
> Dateline Corrections Memo Body Text FOR 26 YEARS, Randy Pennington was a
>=
> quiet, easygoing guy, a little pudgy, outwardly pleasant. He worked as a
>=
> bag boy at a Bel Air Market in Carmichael, making $5 an hour, and he =
> collected antique toys. Such was his lot in life, and no one heard him =
> complain. Then in June 1988 Randy hit the California Lottery for $25.7 =
> million, to be paid in 20 yearly installments of $1,028,000, after =
> taxes. His days of hauling out sacks of Pampers, Diet Dr Pepper and =
> Cheetos were over.
>
> The next time Randy Pennington, retired bag boy, walked into Bel Air =
> Market No. 11, he was given a hero's welcome. His former co-workers =
> embraced him. Shoppers applauded him. "We love you, Randy!" blared a =
> voice over the store's intercom system. Everyone agreed it couldn't =
> happen to a nicer guy. The store began receiving dozens of letters =
> addressed to Randy, some from people asking for money, others from women
>=
> proposing marriage.
>
> But then a strange thing happened. Within weeks after Randy became a =
> millionaire, word began to spread that he had died in a car crash in a =
> fancy car he'd bought with his winnings. Soon, the tale of Randy's =
> demise was all over Sacramento.
>
> A guy I play basketball with told me the story. He heard it from a =
> friend of his who drives a cab. The cab driver said, "I heard that he =
> had all this money and he went out bought a Porsche and he crashed it."
>
> The cab driver got the story from a checker at Raley's. The checker =
> said, "I heard he was killed when he hit a tree in his sports car. I =
> think it was a Mercedes. I heard it from a customer, and then everybody
>=
> else started talking about it, hundreds of people. I was very surprised.
>=
> He won all that money, and it can do so much for you, but then it turned
>=
> out to hurt him in the long run. It goes to show you that money can be =
> used in the wrong way."
>
> The story drifted from supermarket to supermarket. Only the car changed.
>=
> At the Bel Air where Randy had worked, employees said they heard he had
>=
> wiped out in his new Corvette.
>
> In the chilling Shirley Jackson short story, "The Lottery," a farming =
> community holds a lottery every summer. The old-timers like to say, =
> "Lottery in June, corn'll be heavy soon." But winners of this lottery =
> don't become millionaires -- instead, they're stoned to death as a sort
>=
> of human sacrifice.
>
13
> Maybe Randy Pennington, a mild-mannered bag boy who hit it big, was a =
> human sacrifice to all of those average folks who never won anything. A
>=
> lot of people feel uneasy getting something for nothing. Maybe some of =
> them breathe a little easier, or feel a little better about their own =
> deprived lives, if they believe that Randy Pennington's jackpot drove =
> him to an early grave in a fast, fancy car.
>
> I called up the California Lottery Commission. They, too, had heard the
>=
> rumor, but they said it isn't true. "He's alive and well and receiving =
> checks," said spokeswoman Joanne McNabb.
>
> But how could I be sure? Had Randy faked his own death so people would =
> leave him alone? Maybe he was dead and someone else was cashing his =
> checks. I tracked down Randy's new address and drove out there. It was a
>=
> big, brand-new house with a three-car garage. But when I rang the bell,
>=
> nobody answered. I left my business card in the door and asked Randy to
>=
> call.
>
> THAT AFTERNOON, the phone rang. "This is Randy Pennington," said a =
> disembodied voice. I told him about the rumor. He'd heard it. "I don't =
> pay attention to this," he said. "I hear a million rumors a day." I'd =
> heard from friends of his that he'd been on a Caribbean cruise and that
>=
> he was engaged to be married. "Is that what you've heard?" he said =
> mockingly.
>
> I asked Randy if he was happy. "What do you think?" he said, dripping =
> sarcasm. "I'll let you figure that out." He didn't sound real happy.
>
> I told him that people were naturally curious about his new life as a =
> millionaire. "They have a saying that curiosity killed the cat," he =
> said. "They can't see the other side of it." Then he added, "How do you
>=
> know you're really talking to Randy Pennington? I have to go. It's been
>=
> nice talking to you."
>
> Maybe this is one of those mysteries better left unsolved. If we solved
>=
> it, we might be disappointed. We might find a retired bag boy, trying to
>=
> figure out how $25 million has complicated his life instead of making it
>=
> easier.
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ---------------
> A GANG MEMBER'S LATE CONVERSION Origin STEPHEN MAGAGNINI Publication =
> Date 9/13/1989 Page D1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text FROM "DANGER ISLAND" in Meadowview to The =
> Front in Del Paso Heights, the handwriting is on the wall.
>
> Mr. Chico. El Gato. Rapbone. Fly Loc. Al Capon. South Side Bloods. 29th
>=
14
> Street Crips. Barrio Diamonds. Tongan Crips Gangsters.
>
> "When there's graffiti on the wall, trouble is never far behind," says =
> Sheriff's Detective Lee Smith. "As soon as they see the handwriting, =
> they'll come looking for you. They want to know, 'You down for it?' (Are
>=
> you ready to rumble?) Or they'll 'steal' on you (sucker-punch you). =
> There's no such animal as fair fighting. On the streets, it's about =
> winning."
>
> Gary Fitzgerald Watson found that out in 1987 when he was jumped by nine
>=
> guys on 29th Street, home of the powerful 29th Street Crips. Watson, who
>=
> stood 6-foot-1 and weighed 210 pounds, was a linebacker on the Burbank =
> High football team.
>
> Gary "Lovin' Gemini" Watson was by all accounts a good-natured guy with
>=
> a big heart and a rapid-fire rap. His parents, John and Christine Lucas,
>=
> remember the time in kindergarten when Gary brought home a classmate who
>=
> had been abused.
>
> Leon Peoples III, who grew up with Watson, says, "He was excitable, he =
> was a good rapper, he rapped all the time, always kept a smile on your =
> face. He would have been somebody."
>
> After the beating, Watson and his friends from the Detroit Boulevard =
> neighborhood formed a gang for their own protection, his parents say. =
> Watson became a ranking member of the Detroit Mob Bloods, who numbered =
> two dozen. Police suspect the Detroit Mob Bloods of drive-by shootings,
>=
> dealing rock cocaine and general gang violence.
>
> Last year, Watson and several other Detroit Mob Bloods chased some Crips
>=
> across John Still Park in the Meadowview area. Shots were fired. Watson,
>=
> who admitted carrying a .357 Magnum, was convicted in November of =
> assault with a deadly weapon and served seven months in county jail.
>
> JUST BEFORE his release in June, Watson wrote a letter to his mother.
>
> "Mom, I look at it this way: God has saved me from the way I was =
> headed," he wrote. "Because, Mom, if I was still out on the street, I =
> would probably be dead. I've lost two friends who were on the streets =
> since I've been here, and they both got shot in a drive-by shooting by =
> Bloods. They were Crips who I knew in school before they even thought =
> about being in a gang. Even though they were Crips and I called myself a
>=
> Blood, I almost cried. . . . They were my friends. I loved them.
>
> "A lot of my friends have been killed or almost killed over this gang =
> warfare. That has never happened to me because I'm here for a purpose. =
> God keeps giving me chances. . . . Now he has given me the chance to =
> make a choice between my friends and what is right. . . . He's already =
> given me two chances, and I'm not going to mess around and be dumb and .
>=
> . . try for chance number three. Because I look at it like the game of =
> baseball -- three strikes and you're out."
15
>
> At about 2 a.m. on July 9, a couple of weeks after he got out of jail, =
> Gary Watson took strike three. Watson and a few friends were at a gas =
> station on Arden Way when three members of a rival Bloods faction drove
>=
> up looking for some payback. "They told Gary to move, because they were
>=
> going to shoot Leon," says Gary's stepfather, John Lucas. "He wouldn't =
> move. He said, 'You're going to have to shoot me.' "
>
> Watson called his rival's bluff. And then Gary Watson got his face shot
>=
> off.
>
> "Gary's purpose was to die so somebody else might live," says Lucas. =
> "The Bible says there's no greater love than to lay down your life for =
> friends."
>
> This month, Watson's alleged slayers will go on trial. One of them was a
>=
> good friend of Watson's, says Gary's mother.
>
> Meanwhile, the Detroit Mob Bloods claim to have laid down their weapons
>=
> and given up their colors. "We don't exist anymore," says Peoples. "It =
> ain't worth doing time over a color. We already lost one friend over =
> something stupid. I hope to get my life straight and raise a family."
>
> Time will tell whether ex-gang members can be happy working day jobs for
>=
> under $10 an hour. In case they have second thoughts, they have only to
>=
> look at the scrawl of black graffiti on a picket fence along Detroit =
> Boulevard: GARY W. R.I.P.
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> -----------------------
>
> A DUPED DATE GETS HER DAY IN COURT Origin Stephen Magagnini Publication
>=
> Date 8/18/1989 Page SC1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text ARE YOU ONE of those wretches who's wasted =
> countless agonizing hours waiting for a date who never showed?
>
> Buck up, fellow dupes! The next time some cad or slattern trifles with =
> your emotions, you can make them pay.
>
> That's what Sandy Smith, a bookkeeper from Hayward, did when her date =
> for! San Francisco's tony Black and White Ball never materialized.
>
> Smith, 33, won justice for the jilted the other day when she sued her =
> reprobate date in small claims court and was awarded $231 in damages and
>=
> court costs from the offending individual, Hayward businessman Edgardo =
> Carillo.
>
16
> Smith met Carillo through the Hayward Chamber of Commerce. They went to
>=
> lunch, but Smith said Carillo isn't her type: "He's a little too smooth
>=
> for my tastes."
>
> Still, when Carillo telephoned last April and invited her to the Black =
> and White Ball, Smith was intrigued. The ball, a fund-raiser for the San
>=
> Francisco Symphony, is the biggest, glitziest party in Northern =
> California. Tickets start at $150. "It's something I always wanted to go
>=
> to," she said.
>
> Smith drove to I. Magnin in San Francisco and fell for a black chiffon =
> gown with a satin lining. Two fittings and $145 worth of alterations =
> later, Smith had herself a gown to die for. After spending another $30 =
> to have her hair and nails done, Smith was ready.
>
> At 5:30 that evening, Carillo telephoned. "He said he'd be there at 7:30
>=
> and asked for directions to my house," she said. "At 7:30 I'm standing =
> around in my dress, because I don't want to sit down and wrinkle it."
>
> At 7:50, one of Carillo's friends telephoned to say that he and several
>=
> other college buddies had "kidnapped" Carillo and were taking him to Las
>=
> Vegas to celebrate his 40th birthday.
>
> Needless to say, Smith was shocked and angry. "I thought, this guy's an
>=
> idiot. You just can't do this to somebody and not be held accountable. I
>=
> wasn't going to let him get away with it."
>
> At 10:30 p.m., a mildly contrite Carillo called from the MGM Grand Hotel
>=
> in Las Vegas. "He said, 'I'll be happy to reimburse you for your =
> expenses.' " said Smith. "I said, 'That's great, I'm sitting here in an
>=
> $800 dress.' "
>
> Smith and Carillo exchanged threatening phone-machine messages. Their =
> next date was in small claims court.
>
> Carillo claimed Smith was merely one of several acquaintances he had =
> invited to the Black and White Ball, but Judge Peggy Hora ruled that =
> this was, in fact, a date gone awry: "It sure turned out to be a date =
> from hell. She was all dressed up with no place to go." The judge =
> ordered Carillo to pay for Smith's hairdo and nails ($30), the =
> alteration on the dress ($145), her court costs ($31) and $25 for =
> "emotional distress."
>
> Carillo insists, "This was not a stood-up date." However, he plans to =
> comply with the judge's order: "Enough is enough. It's an embarrassment
>=
> to the whole community to waste so much time on a case that has nothing
>=
> to do with the court system."
>
> EDGARDO, MY MAN, I disagree. The operative words are "emotional =
17
> distress." I've been left hanging more times than a Christmas ornament.
>=
> Waiting for a date that never arrives is like Chinese water torture. =
> Every second reduces your self-esteem by half.
>
> I figured the $231 Smith was awarded was chump change compared with what
>=
> I had coming. There was that blonde in Dallas who stood me up 12 years =
> ago, without explanation. That's got to be at least a couple of grand =
> worth of emotional distress, plus the cost of a bottle of Binaca, a new
>=
> plaid leisure suit and a fresh pair of underwear. Then there was the =
> dark-haired beauty that promised to meet me in San Francisco in 1982. =
> I'm still waiting. These serpents have left me an emotional rutabaga.
>
> I was planning to retire on the damage done to me by cold-blooded women
>=
> from coast to coast until Judge Hora told me the statute of limitations
>=
> on an oral contract is two years, and added that the statute of =
> limitations on "infliction of emotional distress" has probably expired,
>=
> too. "And you can't sue somebody out of state in small claims court, so
>=
> you'll have to confine your suits of amour to California," said the =
> judge, who has never been stood up, incidentally.
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
> -=
> --
>
> ROCKS IN THEIR HEADS? WELL, . . . Origin Stephen Magagnini Publication =
> Date 11/10/1989 Page SC1 Section SCENE Edition METRO FINAL Dateline =
> Corrections Memo Body Text CURTIS CLARKSON and Mark Nelson are two =
> hot-blooded, enterprising Sacramento State students who give life to the
>=
> expression "dumber than a box of rocks."
>
> Like most young bachelors on campus, they have a passion ("call it an =
> obsession") for the opposite sex. Curtis' goal in life is to date Mary =
> Hart - "the one with the legs."
>
> "Girls think I'm funny, but they won't let me near them," complains =
> Curtis, a 24-year-old journalism major. "On my last date, I showed up =
> with John Lennon glasses, a clown wig and an Indian gourd nose. =
> Everything went totally great. She was laughing hysterically. When I =
> called her later, she said, "I think if you had touched me the whole =
> relationship would have gone up in flames.' "
>
> Given their arid social lives, Curtis and Mark content themselves with =
> educational adult videos.
>
> They were returning one of these self-help videos to a rental store next
>=
> to a Raley's on Folsom Boulevard a few weeks ago when they were offered
>=
> the opportunity of a lifetime. "Right before I walk in," says Curtis, "a
>=
> short dude with a Dodgers cap walks by and says under his breath, real =
> casual, "Hey man, are you interested in a camcorder for $250?' "
18
>
> Curtis looked at Mark. Mark looked at Curtis. The same dim bulb went on
>=
> in each of their heads. "I thought, how cool, we could take pictures of
>=
> babes and stuff and say, "Hey, you want to be on video?' " says Mark, =
> 20. "It seemed like a good thing to do at the time."
>
> "Basically," adds Curtis, "we wanted to film girls at the beach."
>
> They followed the little guy out to the Raley's parking lot, where they
>=
> met a big, muscular guy with a ponytail standing next to a beat-up =
> Rambler. "The little guy goes in the car and starts drinking, while the
>=
> big guy opens the trunk and shows us three brown boxes wrapped with =
> cellophane and tape," says Curtis. "He tells us he has a VCR and two =
> camcorders. Mark and I were each going to get one, but the guy said he =
> was saving one for a friend."
>
> Each box had a picture of the merchandise on it. Since new camcorders =
> cost $1,000, Curtis and Mark were a little suspicious. Curtis asked, =
> "How do we know you aren't going to arrest us for taking stolen =
> merchandise?"
>
> The guy looked at them through bloodshot eyes and laughed. "Do I look =
> like a cop to you?" He said he got the stuff from a buddy at an =
> electronics store who took them off the truck. "He told us he lived in =
> an apartment complex next to Raley's, and if we had any problems with =
> the camera, he and his buddies could fix it for us," says Curtis.
>
> For 45 minutes, they haggled over the price. "We talked him down from =
> $250 to $100," says Curtis. "He said, "You won't get this deal anyplace
>=
> else. We don't know if we're ever going to be here again.' "
>
> SO CURTIS AND Mark went into Raley's and used their ATM cards to get =
> $100. "Think about it, dude - $100 for a camcorder, dude. That's 900 =
> bucks off," says Curtis. "Right before I shook his hand and gave him the
>=
> money, I said, "How do we know it's in there?' He said, "C'mon, man, =
> we've been out here with you guys forever. Don't you trust me?' It =
> sounded like he was getting angry and I didn't want to get him angry."
>
> Curtis picked up the box, put it in a paper bag, and took it over to his
>=
> car. "I was afraid they'd follow us and take back the camcorder."
>
> Curtis and Mark raced back to their apartment. "We couldn't wait to get
>=
> it open," says Mark. "We're jumping around, really hyper, bragging to =
> our roommates, "We bought a camcorder for 100 bucks!' "
>
> They ripped open the box. "The first thing we saw was newspaper," says =
> Curtis. "I thought it would be, like, Styrofoam. We kept digging. I'm =
> breaking into a cold sweat. Under the newspaper there was a big chunk of
>=
> black asphalt and a couple of other rocks."
>
> Mark kept looking for the camcorder. "I didn't stop until I got to the =
> end of the box."
>
19
> Curtis flopped on the floor and moaned, "Oh, my God, I can't believe we
>=
> just bought a box of rocks! They knew we were nerds."
>
> Curtis and Mark aren't the first Sacramentans to buy a box of rocks. "We
>=
> got a couple of guys selling rocks several years ago," says police Sgt.
>=
> Bob Burns. "In that case it was VCRs for $100."
>
> Burns suggests charitably, "Maybe they could start a rock garden."
>
> ------------------------------------------------------------------------
20