Where is Tony when you need him?

ROBERT GARDNER

* EDITOR’S NOTE: The Daily Pilot has agreed to republish The Verdict,

the ever popular column written for many years by retired Corona Del

Mar jurist and historian Robert Gardner, in exchange for donations to

the Surfrider Foundation. This particular column was originally

published Feb. 15, 2003.

When I was a small boy in Balboa I had a healthy dose of hero

worship. My idol was Antar “Tony” Deraga, who lived in a house

perched on the Corona del Mar cliffs overlooking the harbor entrance.

In those days, there was no east jetty and the west jetty was in

such a dilapidated condition the surf broke all the way across the

channel on a big day. Ergo, boats trying to get in or out of the

harbor were constantly capsizing. From Tony’s house, there was a long

flight of stairs leading down to a landing dock to which was moored

Tony’s trusty dory. When boats capsized, Tony would run down the

steps, jump into his dory, row out and save people. This happened so

often that it almost became automatic for Tony.

Growing up in that atmosphere of hero worship, I, of course,

always wanted to be a hero. I wanted to save someone’s life. However,

fate dealt me a lousy hand in the hero business. For example:

In 1936, I was working nights as a policeman trying to keep from

starving during that awful first year of law practice in

Depression-era Balboa. And so it was that one night a lady rushed

into the police station, which was then located near the foot of the

Newport pier. She said a man was trying to commit suicide at the end

of the pier. Since this was before the invention of police radios, I

couldn’t call for a patrolling officer.

So I pushed the button which turned on a red light at the top of a

50-foot pole over the police station. That would advise any

patrolling officer who happened to look up and see it to come to the

station. Not too efficient, but it was all we had. Better than smoke

signals at that.

So I locked the station and dashed out on the pier. When I arrived

at the end of the pier, I didn’t see anyone with a gun or a knife or

a handful of pills or a noose or anything else one would expect from

a would-be suicide.

I was looking over the railing thinking perchance that the

would-be suicide had jumped over when a man tapped me on the shoulder

and handed me a note. It said, “I am going to commit suicide.” In

attempting to speak to him, I ascertained that he was a deaf mute. So

I grabbed his notebook and wrote him a note.

It said, “You can’t.”

He wrote back, “Why not?”

I wrote, “Because it’s against the law to commit suicide.”

He wrote, “What law?”

He had me there so I improvised. “It’s a violation of section 532

of the California Penal Code.”

He wrote, “I never heard of that code section.”

No wonder. There wasn’t any such section. I had just made it up.

This was getting silly. Quite a crowd had gathered and I, as a

policeman, was looking very foolish standing there exchanging notes

with the guy. So I did what any normal, red-blooded policeman would

do. I arrested him and escorted him to jail -- for violating a

nonexistent section of the Penal Code.

All night long, the guy kept slipping notes through the slot in

the door leading from the jail to the booking section. He kept asking

what he was in jail for. I didn’t answer for the very practical

reason that I didn’t know the answer.

The next morning Rowland Hodgkinson, the chief of police, came in

and looked at all those pieces of paper scattered around.

Understandingly curious, he asked what this was all about. When I

told him I had this would-be suicide booked for a non-existent code

section, his usual ruddy complexion turned purple. He said, “Don’t

you know that people who call the police and say they are going to

commit suicide never do? And those who don’t, do.”

As I mulled over that last sentence he opened the cell door and

gestured to the guy to come out. He grabbed the guy’s notebook and

wrote a note, a very short, very succinct note. It read, “Get the

hell out of my jail.”

The guy wrote back, “Don’t I get breakfast?”

Hodge grabbed the notebook and wrote, “Yes, and this guy will buy

your breakfast for you.” He jerked his head at me.

So I took the guy to breakfast at Stark’s Bar. The first note the

guy wrote was, “Do you always eat your breakfast in a saloon?’’

He wrote me a lot of notes during breakfast. I only remember the

last one. It read, “I’m still going to commit suicide.”

I wrote back, “Be my guest.”

End of story. End of my effort to be a hero. Somehow I have a

feeling that Tony Deraga would have handled the situation better.

* ROBERT GARDNER, a Corona del Mar resident, is a retired judge

and a longtime observer of life in Newport Beach.