Wrong Place Wrong Time

#101 - Little did I think at the time, as the red-orange sun rose through the L.A. smog, that I’d see the sun rise the next morning through the barred window of a Los Angeles County jail cell.

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  Wrong Place Wrong Time 

Little did I think at the time, as the red-orange sun rose through the L.A. smog, that I’d see the sun rise the next morning through the barred window of a Los Angeles County jail cell. 

We went for lunch and a midday buzz at Orlando’s house. He lived a few minutes away from work over on N. Orange Dr. and De Longpre Ave. We had an hour for lunch. 

Work was at the Western States Strobe Light Company, Inc. where I put together 10” square box strobe lights. Party lights. The fancier strobes also had a spinning three-color wheel. 

The wood boxes came precut, we just glued them together, screwed on the backside, and moved them down the line. 

Some days I screwed in the light fixture and soldered the wiring to its connectors and put on the face glass.  

It didn’t take long to assemble each piece. They were shipped throughout the states. A contract with Germany was in the works I was told. 

I had three of them at home myself. They did enhance our weekend get-togethers. Party-time was the norm for us those days in the Hollywood Hills interrupted only by the need to work to pay rent and fund our entertainment. 

Roger and Eddie and I went with Orlando in his car to his place. I only knew these guys from work.  

We got to Orlando’s house only to discover that he had forgotten his door key that morning. His housemates weren’t home and had gone to Venice Beach for the day, so he went around back and climbed in through the bathroom window.  

We commenced to passing around a joint while we took our turns at the kitchen toaster for a lunch of toast, butter, and honey. Soon enough we were in the living room listening to music. 

The doorbell rang. Orlando went down the hall to open the door and was met by a couple of Hollywood’s finest.  

They said they had a report of a break-in at the address. Orlando explained what had happened and that he was a resident there. 

That would have been the end of it but the cops smelled marijuana and now they had cause to enter. Orlando wouldn’t let them in without a search warrant. 

This went on without Roger and Eddie and me knowing what was going on. 

Why didn’t Orlando say, “Let’s get out of here,” or something, anything, about it to us? To that, I don’t know.  

A short time later, another knock and doorbell ring. 

Orlando went to the door again and this time when he opened the door, the police came right on in.  

One officer kept watch on the four of us in the living room while the other started looking around. He was soon joined by two more officers and a dog. 

The dog found two pounds of weed under the kitchen sink. 

Orlando said it wasn’t his. That left it to his roommates. 

But it didn’t matter at the time. We were arrested. 

When we were led outside, the block was lined with squad cars and cops, all decked out in SWAT gear with firearms drawn and at the ready.  

Was something else going on in the neighborhood? I couldn’t believe all this fuss was for us four longhairs. It was much ado about not much of a thing to my thinking. 

Nevertheless, we went to jail. The other characters in the holding tank scared me. There were many. It wasn’t even the weekend, and the tank was full. 

Some of them, gang members and other toughs, looked comfortably at home and at ease in the tank, but others, like the four of us, wore looks of concern wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. 

There were clean lines of separation between the blacks, Latinos, and Asians. Bad vibes all around. I didn’t want to spend any more time around them than I had to.  

The Company bailed us out the next morning, for which I was extremely grateful. Otherwise, I don’t know what I would have done. 

We had court appointed public defenders. They did a great job representing us. They got a couple of delays and five months later, we went to trial.  

The two pounds of weed belonged to one of Orlando’s roommates. He was nowhere to be found.  

The trafficking charges against us were dropped. There was still the smoking and possession charge. 

I came close to skipping town but for the fact I was in a band and was about to do some recording. I didn’t want to mess that up, as well. At the time, that was more important than the arrest warrant that would follow me wherever I went. 

We attended the preliminary hearing, or procedure, where three events saved us from jailtime. 

First, there was no search warrant. Second, the two police officers who arrested us were not the original police officers who arrested us. These two rookie officers were given credit for the “collar” to help boost their performance record or some such. I didn’t understand how that worked in the police world but nevertheless, there they were.  

The third thing that happened was our lawyers asked each of the two police officers to identify us. And they couldn’t.  

We were not yet seated in the defendant's box or at the rail but sat with the public behind the lawyers. We were to be called up by name when the trial began. 

The judge called for a meeting with the attorneys and a few minutes later, we walked out free. How our lawyers pulled this off was pretty slick from my point of view.  

The judge was upset with the prosecution. I owe him and our lawyers. I thought for sure I would spend time in jail.  

At the time, it was the longest five months of my life. 

I saw how easy it was to get caught up in big trouble. There could be a heavy price paid for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

I was lucky. I was scared straight.  

That weekend, we had a “Get out of jail free party!” My straight and narrow resolve was short lived. 

The best part for me was my family back home never finding out. Until now, that is, better than half a century later. : ) 

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