THE POT THIEF WHO STUDIED PYTHAGORAS  by J. Michael Orenduff  

Herbert “Hubie” Schuze is a pot thief, at least according to Congress. Before the Archeological Resource Protection Act, he was a gifted treasure hunter, and his reputation as such brings him a new customer with an unusual request.  

Carl Wilkes represents a client who wants a rare Mogollon water jug—one of two in existence. Unfortunately, the jug is housed in the Valle del Rio Museum, and Carl wants Hubie to steal it. Tempted to see if the venture would be possible, Hubie drops by the museum for a look. By the time he returns to his shop, there’s a BLM agent waiting. The second Mogollon has been stolen, and Agent Guvelly is sure that Hubie has the jug.  

Hubie decides to visit Guvelly and Wilkes at the Hyatt where both men are staying. Guvelly doesn’t show, but Wilkes answers his door. His client swears he’s not responsible for the theft of the matching Mogollon, and Hubie is convinced that Wilkes believes this is true. 

The next morning, Hubie’s status changes from pot thief to suspected murderer. It appears that Guvelly is dead, and a security camera shows Hubie on the dead man’s hotel floor around the time the agent was murdered.  

While clearing his name, Hubie must deal with Indian thugs, a persistent runaway, and an ex-school mate whose goal is to eradicate white culture.  Thank goodness for Hubie’s best friend Susannah. 

New Mexico comes alive in Orenduff’s descriptions of its culture, landscape, and even food. With sharp dialogue and smart humor, he creates distinct characters that are as unforgettable as the surprise ending. 

The cool circles of steel close around my wrists.

I pull gently at the connecting chain…no give.

I twist my wrists inside the cuffs…confined, but not uncomfortable.  I can see how the unyielding metal would chafe and bruise in a struggle.

The police officer ratchets them tighter and I feel a twinge of panic.

No, I hadn’t committed a crime and I was not being arrested.  I was visiting the LAPD Foothill Station to write a story about women in the police force.  I’d been assigned Sgt. Sherri Egan as my guide and informer, and in this case, my jailor.

 

Sgt. Egan and I had already spent hours together in the station talking about the LAPD in general and female officers and detectives in particular. I had gone on a Ride-along with her and we’d eaten together at El Pollo Loco. (See next column over for Part 1 of this story.) 

Now that I was about to tour the jail, I wanted to “feel the steel.”

Sgt. Egan had hesitated when I first asked her to cuff me. (The word “lawsuit” probably flashed through her mind.) But another officer stood nearby and could verify my request.

“You heard her ask me to put them on,” she said to him then turned to me. “There’s a security camera recording our moves.”  I nodded.  She was covered.  

When the cuffs are off and folded neatly inside a leather case clipped on her kit belt at the small of her back, I flex my hands and ask Sgt Egan to walk me through the “booking process.” 

She nods and leads me to the rear exit. I look through the wire-meshed window and see a parking lot with several “black & whites” at the ready.  She indicates a confined area just outside the door. “This is the “body stall” where we secure arrestees before bringing them into the station.”  (Officers refer to those in custody as “bodies.”  It’s a way of distancing themselves from criminals, but it startles me.)

 “Then we walk them down this hall to the watch commander’s door.”  We pause and I glance inside.  He nods to us then returns to his paperwork.

Egan continues, “The watch commander asks them three questions and writes down their answers: Do you know why you’re here? Are you sick, ill or injured? Do you have any questions or concerns?”

“Next they go into one of these "holding tanks" until we prepare the paperwork,” she indicates several narrow cubicles with large viewing windows along the other side of the hallway. Metal benches run along the back of each. A man sprawls on one. “We have four tanks here, plus two more for juveniles. If there’s no security issue, we have them sit here on the floor.”

As we approach the door to the jail, Sgt. Egan unclips her weapon and puts it into a small lock box built into the wall.  She puts the key in her pocket and has the jailor buzz us through.

Inside, she indicates a man behind a security glass. “We give the paperwork to the Detention Officer and the booking process begins. He asks why the person was arrested, who did the arresting, and sets the bail amount.”

We move into an open area and she introduces me to Detention Officer Preciado, a ten-year veteran jailor at Foothill.  He’s short and soft-spoken, but as solid and tough as a bull. He indicates where the “body” is fingerprinted and photographed. If they're charged with a felony, DNA is also taken.

“We send it all to Sacramento then wait for the results.  They inform us if there are any outstanding warrants, parole holds or immigration holds. It could take as little as a few hours or up to a couple days.”

The prisoner is allowed his one phone call and then escorted to a cell containing eight bunks, a sink and a seat-less toilet.  “If he’s really smelly,” Preciado says with a grimace, “he gets a shower first.” (Regular shower days are weekends, Tuesdays and Thursdays.)  Everyone gets a set of “blues” (scrubs) to wear.

I glance around at the bare walls (yellowish-beige) and scrubbed linoleum floors…practical, serviceable, definitely not “Home Sweet Home.”  It’s very cool, and when I take a deep breath I am surprised (and impressed) that there’s no bad odor…no sweat or urine, not even a whiff of disinfectant.

Preciado indicates a small kitchen where hot meals (prepared elsewhere) are put on trays and taken to the prisoners.  There’s a viewing room, bare except for a single pay phone, and another small cubicle where visitors can talk to prisoners through a partition.

The Foothill jail holds 50 prisoners. Preciado tells me the maximum they’ve had since he’s been there is 35.  “We can hold them up to 48 hours – longer if it’s a holiday weekend – then the maximum hold time is five days.”  Every weekday morning a Sheriff’s bus takes the prisoners to court for an “open” charge.

“After the police transfer them to County,” Sgt. Egan adds, “we don’t see them again unless we’re called to testify.”  Outside the jail, she retrieves her weapon and clips it on her belt…the very picture of a competent, committed, Officer of the Law.

And then her cell phone rings.

The adage “Be sure your sin will find you out” has never been truer than in THE SENSUOUS SENATOR, the nutty bedroom farce playing now at the Sierra Madre Playhouse.  Plucked from the headlines, the play (written by British playwright Michael Parker) depicts a scandalous scenario wilder than anything we’ve read about… so far.

The play begins at a political press conference where Senator Harry Douglas (Mark Tydell) is introduced and extolled as an honest, devoted and faithful family man. He flashes a wickedly handsome smile as he arrives on stage, his demure wife (Donna Cherry) on his arm. 

Immediately he announces his candidacy for President of the United States, promises a platform of integrity, loyalty, and morality, and receives a smattering of applause. He then opens the floor for questions. (One wonders what would happen if a theater patron shouted out a question at this point. This reviewer was sorely tempted.)

He steamrolls one journalist, but another from The National Intruder (Tanya C. Edward) causes an uproar when she asks the Senator about his sexy secretary who can’t even type.  He has her escorted out by a policeman (Scott Vinci) but not before she vows to get the whole story.

Later in his posh residence, after a final drink and a hearty farewell to his campaign staff, the Senator turns to his wife for a goodbye kiss.  She’s off to a speaking engagement on his behalf; he promises to keep the home fires burning while she’s gone.