Here's a story that didn't make it into the book

Hey Dennis, you might find this amusing and/or ironic. It didn’t make it into the book…2/20/09…….TT
I remember this day quite clearly
April 2, 1970 drug bust a separate story in itself I will get to that later, it covers a span of twenty four years. One of her friends, a guy named Bill, beefed on me when he got stopped for a traffic violation after having dinner at our house with his girlfriend. We shared some smoke after eating and drinking a little wine. When the cops stopped them on his way home he gave me up like marshmallow chicks at Easter.
My friends would have called to warn me, even if they had to leave a coffin. This guy was such a pussy. He never said anything of a warning. So I got tagged for growing grass, paid the lawyer, judge and bondsmen. Not as much as even an apology from Bill Pussymeyer. MFW thought the entire incident was funny. Lorrie McGrab, her best friend that week, called me paranoid, and over reacting, for putting up a crossbar across my back door.
I had the right to be paranoid; that happens after dealing with police, judges, attorneys and ‘friends’ that sell you out.
Lorrie was not really into reality, she only came to reality as a visitor. Once during a conversation, I thought we were having. I spoke about how poor this girl Nickie’s family was, and what it meant to them for her to taking ballet classes. The sacrifices her family had to make for her to do so. But, then again, Lorrie was from an upper middle class family, who once told me; “That’s no big deal that your old girlfriends father paid for ballet dance classes. Every little girl’s father does that.” I suddenly realized that although she was a college graduate, she knew nothing about life, and was really a snob in hippies clothing.

Buying Poverty

After hearing so much about poverty, especially now since her husband was a social worker. She thought she should really try this poverty stuff out. To really understand what it is like to be poor. She went to the Salvation Army thrift store and bought some used clothing. Then set a money limit for groceries and bought the cheaper food stuffs and even bought house brand products. By doing just those things she said; “I now understand poverty.” That entire escapade drove me up a wall. Especially having the extra cash to buy a nickel or dime bag of grass when she chose to do so and there was always the reality of calling her parents for some cash. How shallow can you get? My take on it was, this woman actually tried to buy poverty. Leaving things out like the hopelessness, no one or no where to turn, for assistance, financial or medical, that’s real poverty. That style of thinking says;
If I have the answer key to the I.Q. test before hand, and I answer all the questions correctly then I’m a genius. If I run up all my credit cards to the max then I must be rich. Just because you own a boat and have sailors cap that doesn’t make you sea worthy, nor a Captain.
Several months later she wanted to understand what single life was all about again so she excused herself from her marriage and left Jerry her husband, with their daughter. I bet she’s part of the Dubya Bush’ think tank.
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Chapter Time: Back to that marijuana bust. Her friends as oppose to my friends
Amazing How Things Change
Our biggest crime was having a group of us getting together on a Monday night and passing a “J” around and watching Carl Grayson host the Flash Gordon episodes on Chicago’s TV channel 9. The series, stories, and the acting were so bad, they were good. We did not sell grass as much as we shared a purchase now and then. Or if one of us ran out we would exchange the going price for an equal quantity of grass. Not for profit, only for a fair exchange. So “dealers” we were not.
It was 10:00 a.m. April 2, 1972 and I was cutting the hair of a regular client of mine, Commander Braasch. He was the head of the 18th police district one of the hot beds of the Chicago area. He was a very busy man during the 1968 Democratic Convention. The 18th District takes in the North side of downtown, the Gold Coast, Near North Side, Old Town, Lincoln Park, and the ever popular Cabrini Green Housing Projects, enough different types of crime to keep all the law enforcement agencies busy all the time. Braasch was a neat guy to talk with, because of the stories he could tell. He also gave me a professional cop’s point of view unabashedly. When I asked him about an officer Montgomery who carried a Buntline Special, a 45 cal. Six Shooter (it has a 12”barrel) and a Glock 9mm and a WWII paratrooper stiletto which is strictly a stabbing knife, Braasch simply replied; “Tom, I need Doberman Pinschers once in a while. Guys who will go into an attack mode, without any questions. Montgomery is that kind of officer. I don’t have to like him or his philosophy, however sometimes I need an animal.”
President Nixon was busy trying to discredit anyone who was not in accordance with his line of thinking. Maybe it was a carry-over from his Joe McCarthy era, where he and Ronald Reagan saw commies hiding under every bed and in every closet in the country. Reagan was turning in fellow actors, actresses and film directors. Nixon was finding communists anywhere the word “Workers” was used. This time it was different. He was the President of the United States. It was; “Them long haired, anti-war, bearded weirdo, pinko, dope smokin’, commie freaks.” I fit three of the six profile points.
Amongst my circle of acquaintances,(they were mostly my wife’s friends) I was thought of as conservative more leaning to the right. As far as a real conservative, I was a leftist radical, one of those liberals. Since I dealt with businessmen on a daily basis I needed to blend in. I blended even with mafia members, who by the way, did not like war protesters, nor anyone else who might upset the balance of their game. So my beard was always neatly trimmed and my hair styled. My wild ties were the only sign of a man trying to breakout of society’s cage. However buying ties was an important subtle signal to all the clothing reps that came in through the shop doors. (I was contributing to the apparel industry).
Back to the Nixon point. He began spraying the marijuana fields on both sides of the border with a toxic chemical called paraquat. According to Taber’s Medical Dictionary it damages skin on contact and if ingested may cause liver, renal, and pulmonary disease. “Treatment: Remove from stomach and gastrointestinal tract by emesis, gastric lavage and catharsis. A slurry of clay and charcoal should be administered to absorb the poison. Cortisone I.V. and hemodialysis are helpful.” Well that scared me enough to get some books and start doing my own gardening. Enter good old Dr. Ed, a long time client with a Phd. in micro biology. He gave me some pointers, and recommended using Schultz’s Instant, as an excellent fertilizer to stimulate growth and to use the information from The Marijuana Growers Handbook because it was a good reliable source of information. Then he got into a lengthy explanation about using some camel hair paint brushes to pollinate the plants. It was more information than I could handle at the time. He went on to explain anyway he was that detailed about everything. His request for a haircut would go on like a dissertation. (I loved the mix of my client base.) In a few weeks my seeds had sprouted into 5” tall plants. I had about 24 plants in my wooden crate from the original Crate and Barrel Shop on Wells Street, a tiny cool neighborhood store back then.
I finished Commander Braasch’s haircut and he was on his way to the station by 10:40 a.m. A couple of clients later, at 12:20, Diane the receptionist nods at me indicating that it was my phone call. When I picked up the phone, it was a new voice, an Officer Rifkin telling me to come home right now. He has an arrest warrant for MFW, and me and he will have to take my son and daughter to the juvenile center if I am not home in 15 minutes. I said I need to finish my client which would take ten minutes. He said that would be okay and to bring $100.00 for bond money.
When I arrived at home my heart was pounding. Officer Rifkin was right at the door to greet me. He then allowed MFW to go along with the arrangements that had been made with our neighbors who lived across the street on the third floor. Jerry and Leslie were to tend to our children Tom and Michelle until this issue got resolved. Officer Rifkin walked me into my kitchen where I was introduced to Officer Grana. Upon closer viewing at the other the vice cop, Officer Grana was sniffing and trying to bite some snowflake obsidian. I spoke out to him.
“Hey be careful you’ll crack your teeth, those are rocks.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” The Neanderthal cop would not believe me and continued sniffing, tasting and biting my little tackle box of stones from my lapidary / jewelry making class. They had plenty of time to go through the entire house basement and all. They only took about three ounces of grass in a baggie. Rifkin said, “I left you some to roll a couple joints for when you get released later.”
Wow, what a sweet couple of guys.
They were so matter of fact and totally indifferent to what was happening. It blew my mind. I on the other hand was not. I felt anger, hostility, fear like these two men were Nazis in sport clothes rounding up my family only because they were following orders.
Officer Rifkin saw the hate in my eyes and said; “Hey don’t take this so personally.”
I looked him in the eyes and asked “Who did this to me?”
He said; “Turn around. I’m going to put handcuffs on you. I can’t tell you who, but I can say that it’s someone you break bread with.”
They let MFW stay and walked me out to the unmarked car. It was an ugly, sickening feeling, looking up across the street into the third story building and seeing my son looking at me being taken in hand cuffs.
Officer Rifkin said; “You know if you really want to have those plants grow you need to remove all of those cedar chips. They are too acidic for those plants. By the way I found a lot of information about Canada in your house. What’s the matter, don’t you like this country?”
“Aren’t you taking me to jail for smoking grass in my own home?” I replied.
The day went on forever. Finger prints, photos profile and head on, and then to a holding cell. As the door entrance to the holding cells swung open Commander Braasch did a double take upon seeing me behind bars. In retrospect he must have looked to see what I was in for and who arrested me. As long as that took, about three minutes, a uniformed cop came in with a business card.
“Here, this is from a friend who saw you in here, and said you need to call this attorney.” He was very emphatic that it needed to be this particular lawyer. I took the advice of this friend. My court date was set for 6/24/70 just two months and twenty two days after my arrest, 82 nights of anxiety. It felt like years. The constant wonder of who turned me in. These god damned new friends are assholes. None of my old crowd would ever consider “beefing” on a friend. Snitches never lasted long in a school yard or in the old neighborhood.
I saw my attorney Thomas Maloney about 10 days after my arrest and paid him the $800.00 as requested by our initial phone conversation $400.00 more to be paid on the court date. Without getting into the details of my situation I asked around about this attorney of mine and came to find out he was “The Policemans’Attorney”. He would make sure that what ever the situation, the cops would come out on top.
Finally the court date came about and I was amazed at how young so many under cover police looked. It was the first time for me to have an age check experience. Most people get that realization when they go to the hospital or clinic to see a new doctor and think,
“This guy doesn’t look old enough to be a doctor, or receive a traffic ticket and think he’s still a kid what is he doing with a gun? Let alone writing me a traffic citation.”
This time I saw men who could easily pass for teenagers. I was scared. The bailiff announced Judge Surea into court with all the formality of a 16th century system. The fear percolated inside of me as I watched some of the defendants being escorted through the doors behind the judge’s bench after their cases were heard. Just as I had watched my brother go through doors like those and not return for five years. They were escorted to cells. The lucky ones walk out the doors through which they entered. Which one will I be? I could barely keep water in my stomach and my mouth felt like parchment. Case after case went by the morning was halted by a lunch break….
“All rise! The Honorable Judge Surea blah blah blah……….”
Maloney looked at the bailiff and caught the nod. He tapped my knee and gestured with his head to follow him. I noticed there were others in the court room with special attorneys. There were five different cases that had to go upstairs for their cases to be heard. All the words and procedures followed just like downstairs. Except we were all found to be innocent of possession of drugs for one reason or another. Mine was an improper search warrant. Rifkin and Grana were nice enough to say the grass was found in the basement and the Judge asked;
“Was the warrant for the basement?”
they said; “No your honor”.
“Dismissed!”
Maloney got his $1200.00. I got my freedom and first night’s sleep, but the under current of which one of my wife’s friends had ratted me out, ate at me like a cancer. It was almost a year before I discovered who it was. I could hear Rifkin’s words,
“Someone you break bread with…”
Someone who had dinner with us frequently. It was as though someone had dropped a movie in my brain of the night before the bust. I pieced it all together with bits of fragmented conversations, gestures and looks, then it gelled. That evening after leaving our home with his new girlfriend, he got a traffic ticket. His eyes were bloodshot and his new girl was a young teacher who never smoked grass until that night. And he took her downstairs to show off the plants. The two of them did everything except drive the police back to our home. The prick never called to notify or warn us. He got scared and sold us out. None of my old crowd would have said anything to the police unless they got very physical. Even then if they had access to a phone I could count on being forewarned. Those were the old friends.
Even though Braasch was a cop, he stood by me like an old friend. I was a little fish that got scooped up in his net. He had his own game going and I was completely unaware of it. To play it safe he stayed away from me and the barber shop all eighty two days. When I was found innocent via attorney Thomas Maloney’s efforts, Braasch returned as before a regular client and bringing in his son every month or so. Then on October 6th 1973, I picked up the Chicago Sun-Times and there he is on the front page. BRAASCH AND 18 OTHERS FOUND GUILTY - Every Chicago newspaper carried a similar headline on the front page. He was convicted of extortion, Phil Grana went down and Ed Rifkin turned states evidence and went into the witness protection program offered up by the F.B.I. and he gave all the details and fingered everyone he could. I guess there are 19 other guys he used to break bread with too. Even Thomas Maloney couldn’t get him out of this one. Braasch served about five years. I don’t recall exactly but it sure was good to see him come through the barber shop doors all those years later. He served his time and now he is a limousine driver and still stands tall and commands that air of respect. After his third or fourth visit to the shop after his release from prison he brought in his son.
“Wow you got tall since I saw you last.”
His son was about nine or ten back then, plus five years at that point in life kids grow like they are being paid to do it. He was like a colt not quite used to his long legs as yet. He sat in the barber chair and dad looked at him proudly. It was a Saturday and the shop was busy. The waiting area was filled, that was why Braasch was standing in my work station. The TV was on and aside from wanting some room noise we were waiting for the baseball game to start. The program that was in progress was a special investigative report on police corruption in the U.S. and faster than I could realize (because I was concentrating on the work in front of me).I heard the announcer say and in Chicago one of the highest ranking police officials to be sentenced to prison was Commander Clarence Braasch and with him 18 other police officers. I looked at him and asked if he wanted me to change the channel. He said; “No it’ll be over in a minute.” As I looked into the mirror I saw the people in the waiting area looking at his image on the TV and doing a slow take of him in real time. It was awkward and I could feel his pain and the resolve he maintained gave an example of his strength to his son. He took it all, head-on without a blink or squirm. He never said these words out loud that day, but it showed as, “I was wrong, I did my time, took my punishment and I’m going on with my life.” His son did not react one way or the other he might have missed the whole thing just as a matter of a kid paying attention to his haircut. Most of all he liked the haircut. After all that is what they came in for anyway.
My marriage was already falling apart after seven years of enduring a mate rather enjoying a mate. We went on a cross-country trip from Chicago to Toronto straight west across Canada. It was a great trip, one of the best. I thought all was going to be great and maybe even better than before. Upon returning home it didn’t take but a week when all the turmoil started all over again. It was time to go. After 5 years of being single, I married again started a new family. Things got off to a rocky start. My son stayed with us but my daughter went back with her mother. It was a heartbreaker. As soon as son Tom was old enough, he had had it with crazy parents and joined the air force in November 1983. The following year we moved to Texas.
A side note to this story line a friend asked me and my wife to come as a friend / bouncer to his Christmas office Party because he knew I could be discrete, and oversee his and our friends. Through the course of the evening as the party wound down. I danced with a young lady and as we talked and exchanged names I was very surprised to find out her father was Judge Surea. What were the chances of that happening?
August of 1984 we moved out of Chicago too, away from all reminders. Many years later I received a newspaper clipping from one of my old haircutting clients Ed Lee, the same fellow who gave me the scoop on Maloney being “The Policeman’s Attorney” the article is dated Friday, July 22, 1994. Headline reads Ex-judge gets final fix: 15 years. My old attorney became a judge and continued fixing the law for a price. The F.B.I. had him under surveillance for some time. At 67 years old getting a 15 year sentence is a life sentence. Several others had gone down with him. He served 12 years and died in a nursing home from kidney failure. Amazing how the twists and turns that life takes.
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Judge Thomas J. Maloney died Oct. 21 2008 at age 83
Clarence E. Braasch checked out Feb 20th 2009 also at 83 DOB Nov 9 1926