Judge’s surfing hobby makes waves in court

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

the column written for many years by retired Corona Del Mar jurist

and historian Robert Gardner, in exchange for donations to the

Surfrider Foundation. This column was first published March 19, 1994.

When I was the Newport Beach city judge, I used to keep my

surfboard at the women’s section of the city jail. The women’s

section was almost never used. In those days we simply didn’t put

women in jail for the same offenses as men.

I must admit, it was sex discrimination, but I have no

recollection of any man ever complaining about it. Today if we

followed that practice we would have lawsuits coming out of our ears.

Sex discrimination cases are becoming a substantial part of current

judicial case load.

The reason I kept my board at the jail was that after court I

could take my board a few yards to the Newport Pier and surf. When

you’re as skinny as I am and dealing with an 11-foot, 100-pound

redwood and balsa board, every yard you can save in getting the board

to the water is gravy. It was because of that practice that a funny

thing happened one day.

I was surfing after court when a policeman came out on the pier

and said that an irate woman was in the police station complaining

about a parking ticket and demanding to see the judge.

So I paddled in, lugged that big, heavy board to the women’s

section of the jail and dressed for court. However, rather than get

completely dressed I just put on a shirt, tie and coat because I

meant to go back to the water as soon as the court session was over.

I left on my trunks and didn’t put on trousers and shoes. Sitting

behind my desk I would look completely dressed. I couldn’t see any

sense in getting completely dressed, undressed and dressed for a

session that couldn’t last any longer than a few minutes.

And so I sat behind my desk and called the police department to

send in the irate woman. While I waited I could hear her clomping up

the stairs from the police station to the city hall. She sounded like

Godzilla, an irate Godzilla coming up those steps. When she came into

the courtroom she looked for all the world like Groucho Marx’s

Margaret Dumont -- large, demanding, imperious.

She came charging across the room with fire in her eyes. Then when

she came even with my desk a startling change overcame her. She was

deflated. She actually looked frightened. I have never seen such a

change in a human personality. She held out her parking ticket in a

trembling hand; asked how much; I said 50 cents; she practically

threw the money at me and fled from the courtroom. It was an amazing

experience.

A few days later I met the lady at a cocktail party and found out

what had happened.

My so-called judicial bench was a desk on a slightly raised

platform at the back of the all-purpose room. I had forgotten that

the front of the desk was open, not closed as is the case with most

desks. I guess the city bought this one cheap.

So when the lady came before me she saw a young man wearing a

coat, a shirt and a tie above the desk but under the desk she saw a

couple of naked, hairy legs. She assumed that I was naked from the

waist down and jumped to the conclusion that I was a flasher and

liable to jump to my feet and expose myself to her. After all, we

were the only people in that room. Thus, the sudden change from irate

citizen to terrified woman.

That surfboard at the jail had another peculiar result.

I had put a young man in jail for several days for reckless

driving. When he discovered that I was a surfer he asked if he could

surf with me. I was agreeable so he brought his board to the jail and

he and I surfed together.

Then one day his mother called from Pasadena to talk to him. When

she was advised by the desk officer that he was surfing with the

judge she blew her cork.

She screamed that her son was a worthless, no-good, irresponsible

slob, that his jail term was the best thing that ever happened to

him, that he had been getting away with murder all his life, that she

had thought I was the greatest judge on Earth because I had had the

guts to throw him in jail and that maybe that might do him some good

but that when she found her worthless, no-good son was surfing with

the judge, that judge went down in her estimation -- and on and on.

She followed that phone conversation with a scathing letter to me

expressing the same sentiments.

When you’re a judge you just can’t satisfy everyone.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a resident of Corona del Mar.