Guardhouse Lawyer

With the prospect of going back into the newspaper business, my law studies really began to suffer. Another diversion contributed to my school decline. In February, in my car, on Bodley’s Hill, I asked Janice to marry me.

She said yes. She thought I was rich because I had bought a newspaper and I thought she could type (I would need someone to help at the paper). We were both wrong! We decided on an August date because by then I would be out of school and settled in the paper. Besides, the Register traditionally shut down for a week during the county fair and that would give us a chance to get away on a honeymoon.

A major problem cropped up, however. The Guard was scheduled for a weekend training session at Camp Ashland near Lincoln and a number of the officers went out Friday night for a party prior to the Saturday-Sunday sessions.

The booze was plentiful and I was still young enough to think I could handle it. I couldn’t. Late in the evening, I decided to go back to my apartment in Lincoln. My friends tried to get me to bunk at the camp but I was belligerent and refused.

On the way back to town I ran a highway patrolman off the road and I found myself, shortly thereafter, sitting in the municipal lock up with the officials wanting a urine sample.

At that time the law allowed refusal of urine tests by those arrested. I was a “guardhouse lawyer” with my nearly one year of schooling and was aware of the law. So I refused the test.

Law enforcement officers had “been there, done that” and simply bided their time. I could refuse the urine test, but they were not required to let me go to the bathroom. Eventually the bladder becomes so full you beg for relief and they stick a bottle in front of you and they get their sample, freely given.

I was pretty well out of it but I was told later that when this was happening, the stream was errant and one of the officers got wet. My response, reportedly, was, “Good, I always wanted to piss on a cop.”

For anyone who knew me at the time and knows me now, that remark was completely out of character. It is simply another indication of what excessive drinking can produce.

I woke up the next morning on a steel bunk, no mattress, no pillow, in a jail cell. It began to sink in what had happened and I was near panic.

Fortunately a cell mate said he was being released that morning and asked if he could call somebody for me. I gave him Joe and Al’s number in Wilbur without much confidence in his following through.

Apparently he did, however, for later that day the firm of Steinacher and Vosoba showed up to get me released without bail.

Al and Joe did not want to represent me in the Lincoln system but recommended a local attorney, Paul Douglas. He told me to come to the court hearing with $500 and my toothbrush just in case I might get some jail time.

I had to call Mother for the money, obviously a hard thing for any son to do. She did not chastise me but simply asked how much I needed and she said she would put it in the mail that day. I’m sure the money was not easy to come by for her but as in so many other instances, she was there for me when I needed it.

The fine was $100 and six months suspension of license. The attorney’s fee was $50. That was a lot of money in the fifties but with the seriousness of my action, endangering a patrolman and abusive conduct, I figured another attorney might not have gotten me off so leniently.