My Life in Crime

Picture 1969. Hippies. Drugs. Psychedelic music. People having wild times at wild parties even in the least wild of locales. 

Then picture a sober, twenty-year-old, plainly-dressed girl sitting with a similarly attired friend and four completely sober, clean-cut, twenty-ish, varsity rowers exchanging ghost stories in an old summer rental house at the New Jersey Shore. You would probably think that would be the least likely spot for a police raid on August 23, 1969. You would be wrong.

It wasn’t even midnight when a fellow named George sauntered into the all-purpose room where we had gathered. “There are police swarming around the building. I wonder what’s going on.” 

Turned out we were what was going on.

I don’t know how many cops burst into the apartment but I do know it was more than needed. They weren’t exactly taking down the Weather Underground.

I briefly considered hiding but figured I wouldn’t get away with it. I let a long-forgotten officer lead me outside. I didn’t resist. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t look around to see if I knew anyone in the crowd that gathered. To tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I don’t recall anything about the walk from the house or the ride to the police station. It couldn’t have been very long. I vaguely recall being rushed inside. Only then did I learn why I was there. 

Someone had turned up a radio in the back of the house. I couldn’t hear the music, but apparently the man next door could. He called the cops. 

All six of us in the house were charged with a noise violation. The cops couldn’t even find an instance of underage drinking in the group. We had to be the tamest crowd assembled on the entire island that night.  

Probably afraid we would get ahold of some transistor radios and hit the streets endangering the ears of innocent victims, the police did not offer us the opportunity to post bail that night.

My friend—I’ll call her Betty—and I were separated from the male criminals in our party, or should I say gang, and driven to the County Jail. I didn’t consider escaping because I had no idea where we were and, frankly, I was not wearing comfortable shoes. 

Besides, it was a summer Saturday night at the Shore. The jail would just be a somewhat subdued party with other kids. Right? I’ll repeat the term County Jail and let you figure that one out for yourself.

We pulled into a classic prison yard surrounded by brick buildings. I’d seen places like this in the movies (black and white films only) but never expected to visit one. Especially in the middle of the night in the back seat of a police cruiser.

Our custody was turned over to a male policeman that today I could not pick out in a line-up. I might not remember his face or his name but I do remember his attitude. Not good. He had no patience for hardened criminals like us. He made us sign what looked like a guest book but we weren’t fooled. There was no space to rate or comment on the service. 

After a few formalities—no mug shot, no fingerprints—he called a female officer into his office and told her where to put us. “Not with her!” The matron’s face contorted with horror. Sadly, her only power appeared to be over us. I came to suspect she might not be in the right line of work but she did her job and introduced us to our new life inside.

First off, we had to pick up our bedding. I shudder recalling that I ever touched the thin mattress let alone clutched it to me as we were led to our cell block. (Note to self: create a list of phrases you never thought you’d use.) To get there we were paraded through a row of cells. Male arms—in my memory they were big, strong and hairy—extended through the bars of each one. Hands made grabs for us but luckily none connected. I remember foul sounds and I can only imagine they were matched with foul words. As with the cops, I couldn’t pick any of the inmates out of a line-up which is, I suspect, where they were most likely to be found over the years. These were not kids who partied too hard.  These were criminals. In a county jail. Imagine that.

People might tell you they’ll never forget the moment those cell doors clanked shut behind them. I do. However, I didn’t forget that Betty and I ended up in a jail cell built for three. We had to share.

“I don’t know why he put you in with her,” the matron mumbled as she locked us in. The look on her face and the tone in her voice when she said “her” made me think that our new roommate—excuse me cellmate—was not incarcerated for playing loud music.  The guard did not stick around to answer our questions. There was no introduction, no orientation. 

Our cell, was brightly lit but the rest of the cell block was dark and silent. Betty and I could have had our pick of accommodations. Instead we would be occupying bunk beds across from a woman lounging in what I assumed was the premium spot. To be fair, she was a large women and needed the bigger cot. She didn’t make a move to greet us. Her only action was leaning forward occasionally to spit into a styrofoam cup. 

I am generally a big chit-chatter but I was a little distracted by a digestive system that was betraying my outward calm. So, Betty took it upon herself to get to know our cellmate. Since there were no doors in the cell I could hear her attempt at prison chatter over the churning of my stomach.

BETTY: “What are you in for?”

CELLMATE: “I cut up a woman.”

BETTY: “Where is she now?”

CELLMATE: “She’s dead.”

We couldn’t help assuming that there might be some cause and effect between the cutting up and the death. Neither of us made any further attempt at conversation.

We knew the boys—excuse  me our partners in crime—had arrived when Billy yelled out. “Don’t worry, girls. We’ll get you out.” A nice show of bravado but completely implausible since he and the others were being led to their cells. 

The night was so long we could have been in Stockholm in midwinter. At least that is how it felt. Wake-up time was signaled by the arrival of the same prison matron carrying a metal tray filled with . . . hard to say. Our cellmate assured us the gelatinous glop, tastefully presented in a battered metal tray the same color as the food, was edible. She wolfed it down. My stomach urged me not to risk it. My brain agreed. Surely we’d be out by lunch.

I won’t go into the details of how, in the ice age of banking, our bail money arrived because I have no idea. I assume Western Union was involved.

Neither will I share the details of our release although I can testify the traditional walk of shame has nothing on the ride of shame when the police car you’re riding in stops outside the Catholic Church just as the last mass is letting out.

Speaking of testimony, I’ll skip ahead to the trial. 

I didn’t usually feel entitled but I do generally feel lucky. So, I took it for granted when a friend’s father’s friend, who happened to be on the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, and who happened to be on vacation at the Shore, and who happened (I assume) to be licensed to practice in New Jersey showed up to defend us. Spoiler alert: we were acquitted and our record expunged.

I suspect the powerhouse defense could have been a detriment but the prosecution did have a pretty weak case. They tried to impugn Betty’s and my morals when the prosecutor asked “What room were they in when you arrested them?” 

The cop feigned distress as if he hated to say it. “The bedroom.” I guess they wanted to expose the sweet little college girls as shameless hussies engaged in all types of wanton behavior. 

Our attorney wasn’t going to let that happen. Even before I’d watched twenty seasons of Law & Order, I knew that was irrelevant. Our attorney took a simpler approach and established that there was no bed in this “bedroom.”

In today’s world, we’d probably sue. We’d been arrested for playing music that we couldn’t hear, paraded through a crowd of onlookers, denied our one phone call, forced to spend the night in the county jail, and made to share a cell with an alleged murderer.  

But the worst indignity? The song on the radio? “ Sugar Sugar” by the Archies. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Working with Daddy

Long before Take Your Daughter to Work Day (Now Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day) became a thing, one of the biggest events of my summer was the day my father took me to “the office.” I am not sure how the yearly event came about. Maybe my mother needed a day alone with me out of the house or maybe my father thought experiencing office life would be good for me. I don't actually know at what age he began taking me or how long the tradition lasted, but I know I was in elementary school when it started. I remember being in a body that was very small for the furniture. When I grew large enough to fit at a desk, I actually worked for pay for four or five summers. 

As an unpaid employee, my principle job was running numbers on an old-fashioned adding machine - probably unnecessarily. Nonetheless, I did learn something that helped me throughout my life. If your total is a penny off, you inverted two numbers somewhere. I never learned that trick anywhere else. 

I also learned that coffee breaks were important. Many of the executive staff - friends and golfing buddies - walked a block or two to meet at the greasy spoon every morning. I thought that was the restaurant name, not the category. I don’t remember what I ordered but I enjoyed the tradition a lot. The men (only men in those days) tolerated me with kindness.

After our break, I returned to the big table in my father’s office probably to put papers in alphabetical order for filing. And, then it was time for lunch.

Lunch was usually a more formal affair, a traditional business lunch minus the martinis that were often on the menu in that era.

After lunch, I spent some time “helping” a very kind woman at the switchboard - another archaic skill. But learning skills wasn’t the objective. Spending time was. 

I suspect we “worked” a short day. My father always wanted to beat the rush hour traffic. Besides, he needed to get home for cocktail hour with my mother. It was a different time.

© 2023 Jane Kelly

Times I wrote my own obituary

The other day a friend sent me an article about a mother who expressed her concerns about her daughter’s safety by drafting possible obituaries for her. This reminded me that I used to create headlines about unlikely death scenarios for myself. Not full obituaries. I am not morbid. Usually.

So on 2/6/2023 I checked to see if I had recorded any of my proposed headlines for a possible blog entry. I discovered that I had. On 2/6/2018. Do I see any significance that I opened the file exactly five years to the day since I created it? Only an indication that I really should start working on these entries a little more regularly. I have close to 200 to work my way through. 

Anyway. . .

I started doing this many years - actually many decades - ago when I saw a headline in my hometown newspaper:

Local Girl Killed in Car Crash in Remote Chinese Province.

 

This was before travel to even the easily accessible Chinese locations was at all common. I was fascinated. I wanted to know why was she there and how did she end up dying in such an unlikely manner. Then, I realized I was in that position on occasion. Not that often. Nonetheless there could be obit headlines for me that might raise some questions. One of them was even on a Chinese road.

Local Woman Killed in Crash on Chinese Highway 

Three Chinese Nationals Also Perish

I don’t know how the Chinese drive these days but in 1986 when I was lucky enough to go to China on business they drove like maniacs - at least on the two-lane roads my party used from Shenzhen to Guangzhou. If there was a speed limit, I was not aware of it. Every time we passed a car, we appeared to be in a game of chicken. Spoiler Alert: we always won.

Local Woman Trampled by Mob in Spanish Political Demonstration

I couldn’t have seen it coming. I was strolling down a street in Barcelona when an angry mob turned the corner no more than thirty yards ahead of me. They were carrying signs and, as the years go by I would swear, pitchforks but that was probably a memory from a Frankenstein movie. I had been chatting with a tourist from Florida who grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway. The mob went by chanting something. I have no idea what. I would never have known why I died. 

Local Woman Dies in Overturned Irish Army Van

Three Members of West German Equestrian Team Also Killed

How long ago did this happen, you ask. It was the WEST German Equestrian Team. After the Dublin Horse Show, I got to ride back to the stables with my brother’s sister-in-law whose horse, if I recall correctly, had just won. The memory of the actual show was eclipsed by the memory of the ride. At least the part of the ride when the van in which we were riding ran onto a curb, a very high curb. Three very large, very loud German riders were tossed around in the back seat. Any one of them could have crushed me to death. The driver quickly regained control, but I couldn’t help thinking the headline announcing my death would have been thought-provoking.

Local Woman Killed in Crash of Mexican Laundry Truck

I didn’t actually know why I was traveling in the back of a laundry truck in Mexico City. I later found out I was being smuggled across a picket line at the University of Mexico. All I knew is that a coworker and I were being transported in an empty panel truck while holding onto poles in an effort to stay upright. It took a lot of effort. It was probably best we couldn’t see the driver or the route he was taking. My memory says it was a bumpy one. 
 

Yoko Ono Killed in Runway Crash at Heathrow

380 Others Also Perish

This headline would have just been annoying. Who wants to be reduced to a number. I didn’t see Yoko. She was in First Class. But I knew how the headline would read. I was happy when they delayed the fog-plagued flight until morning. 

All of these unused obits are old. I don’t know if that should make me happy or sad. My life is much simpler now.

Local Woman Killed Rolling Off Couch While Reaching for Dropped Remote

Victim Unable to Find Phone to Call for Help

Woman Unable to Open Food Packaging Starves to Death

No one would stop to read that article.

© 2023 Jane Kelly