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The old Newport Beach City Hall had originally been a two-room

schoolhouse. When it was converted, one room housed the city clerk

and city treasurer, the other became the original multi-purpose room.

Once a month the City Council met there. The rest of the time it was

the courtroom -- sort of.

The so-called judicial bench was a desk situated in the back of

the room on a slightly elevated platform. Immediately in front was a

long table. That’s where the council sat on meeting nights. The rest

of the time it was used by representatives of the county assessor’s

office who pored over large dusty tomes. It looked like the driest

reading imaginable, but it must have been fascinating because they

never looked up no matter what happened.

On one side of the room was a machine where a woman pounded out

water bills. This was the city’s first effort at automation and not a

very successful one. Not only did it make an awful noise, the woman

could have written out bills by hand and included a personal note on

each one in the time it took her to produce them on the machine. She

seemed to spend most of her time repairing the contraption with a

pair of pliers and a screwdriver.

In one corner was a small office used by Frank Rinehart, the city

clerk. In that office was a desk. In the lower right hand drawer of

the desk was a bottle of whiskey. As Frank explained, this was for

public relations.

On the other side of the room was a desk at which sat a

representative of the Department of Motor Vehicles who administered

driver’s license tests. On the wall next to my bench or desk was the

eye testing chart.

Thus, in one visit you could have a trial before the city judge,

get a driver’s license, pay your water bill, complain about your

assessment and get a drink. It was a highly efficient use of space.

However, there were some strange results at times, for example, Mr.

Ancruive.

Every morning the police brought in the night’s accumulation of

jailed drunks. Sometimes, they were not quite sober, and that was the

case on this particular day. A man looking the worse for wear was

brought before me.

Me: “What is your name, sir?”

Drunk: “A-N-C-R-U-I-V-E.”

Me: “That’s a strange name. It’s nice of you to spell it, but how

do you pronounce it?”

Drunk: “B-N-X-E-W-O-P-K.”

Me: “But you just said your name was--”

Drunk: “M-X-W-Z-A-T-Y-D.”

Finally, I noticed that where his eyes were focused. “Sir, sir!” I

said, trying to get his attention. “Whatever your name may be, you

are charged with being intoxicated in a public place. How do you

plead, guilty or not guilty?”

Drunk: “P-L-C ...”

The eye chart seemed to have mesmerized him, so I congratulate the

man on his 20-20 vision and told the officer to take him back to jail

for a few hour’s more sleep.

That’s the way things were in the multi-purpose room of the old

city hall.

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

His column runs Tuesdays.