When Newport Beach was in the hands of a few

The hoopla over some election shenanigans reminds me of a time

when city government was much lower key.

As I have told a number of times, because of a dangerous situation

in Green River, Wyo., my parents put me on the train at the age of 9

or 10 and shipped me to Balboa to live with my sister Jesse and her

husband, Dick Whitson.

After that, I spent at least as much time with them as with my

folks, and I came to worship Dick, a big, handsome guy who was loved

by everyone. He sold washing machines for awhile for Johnny Vogel,

and I swear, some people bought two just because they liked Dick so

much.

In those days, the city was run by a small group. If you belonged

to the group, you were in, which meant if you had a need for

something from the city, it was granted. If you didn’t belong, you

could appear before every City Council meeting, every administrative

hearing, fill out every paper given you, and you would get no place.

The “boss” of the city was Lloyd Claire. Lloyd was the head of the

American Legion. He never held an elected or appointed position in

the city, but he kept everything moving. Every morning he’d amble

into City Hall and check in at each department, ending up at the city

clerk’s.

Frank Rinehart was the clerk, and he was the visible manifestation

of Lloyd Claire’s invisible but very real power. Whenever I think of

Frank, I envision Charles Dickens’ Uriah Heep. He had this soft,

unctuous manner and was always wringing his hands. If you wanted

something done, you went to Frank.

Fortunately for my career, Dick was part of the in group. He was

on the City Council, elected by the biggest plurality in the history

of the city, further attesting to his amazing popularity. Because of

Dick, and also because I had grown up in the city and was viewed as a

local boy who made good, I was appointed city judge.

This made for some interesting situations. Every so often Frank

Rinehart would come to me in his soft, unctuous way, wringing his

hands.

“Bob,” he’d say. “We’ve got a little matter coming before you.

It’s one of our friends.”

“Our friends” was the code, meaning this individual was part of

the group.

“What is it you want, Frank?” I’d ask.

“Well,” he’d sigh, wringing his hands, “if this matter could just

be dismissed .

“No, Frank,” I’d tell him. “It has to go through the normal

procedures.”

Frank never pressed. He would nod and shuffle out, but somehow the

matter never reached the court room. What happened, I didn’t ask, but

things were quietly resolved behind the scenes.

For all I loved Dick, living with him wasn’t easy. He drank a lot,

and most nights we would sit down to dinner with his seat empty.

Where he was, none of us knew.

Despite this shortcoming, when Dick left the City Council he was

appointed electrical inspector for the city. After all, he was one of

the group, and the group took care of “our friends.”

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.