The Verdict -- Robert Gardner

Back in the ‘50s, Scotty, whose full name was Eugene Scott, was a

fixture at Little Corona. His hair prematurely silvered, he was a

handsome, well-built man -- the unquestioned king of the beach. The

youngsters adored him, their mothers secretly were in love with him, and

the men all respected him. From the top of the hill, it was easy to find

Scotty -- just look for the circle of bodies. He’d be the one in the

center, holding court in his beach chair.

Although he was usually living with some woman, and she was usually

paying most of the bills, Scotty came to the beach alone except for his

dog, a big boxer named McGroot. It was the best behaved dog I’ve ever

seen. Scotty would find a shady spot and command McGroot to remain there,

and the dog wouldn’t move an inch until Scotty gave the word. I once

asked Scotty about his training methods. He said a straight right to the

snout, which explained why his dog was so much more disciplined than

mine.

Despite what it might sound like, Scotty was no beach bum with nothing

more to offer the world than wide shoulders and narrow hips. He had an

interesting background.

At one time, he had been a race car driver and one of his prized

possessions was a picture of him and his car, each about 20 feet in the

air, each going in the same direction but 20 feet apart.

During his Little Corona period, he was a builder for a while. He

built a beautiful house for a lady in the upper bay area, and he took

special care with the entry. No ordinary brick or flagstone walk for him.

He carefully selected big, round rocks from the beach and embedded them

in concrete. It was all very colorful. The trouble was that no one could

possibly walk over all those embedded rocks without spraining or possibly

breaking their ankle.

Then he decided to visit Norway. He returned with the ugliest fishing

craft I have ever seen. It looked like a brown, square box on a flat

board, but because Scotty was selling them, he had people practically

begging to buy one.

The last time I saw Scotty was at some kind of an athletic event. I

was walking down the aisle when I was tripped, I mean professionally,

expertly tripped. I sprawled out on the floor, only to look up at a

grinning Scotty who said, straight faced, “Bob, you never were very

careful about where you walked.”

Then Scotty disappeared without a clue. I figured that was the end of

our contact, and then I received a phone call from him. He was in Arizona

at a mental institution. I told him that I was a judge in California.

There was nothing I could do to get him released from an Arizona

institution. Oh no, he told me. He hadn’t been committed. He was applying

to be superintendent of the institution and called to let me know I would

be receiving some inquiries from the authorities as to his

qualifications. I assured him that while I might have some reservations

as to his dealing with sane, normal people, I would give him the very

highest recommendation for anything to do with insane people. The last

thing I heard he was in charge of the institution, and all the inmates

loved him without reservation.

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

column runs Tuesdays.