A little bit of good, old-fashioned justice

* EDITOR’S NOTE: The Daily Pilot has agreed to republish The Verdict,

the ever-popular column written for many years by retired Corona Del

Mar jurist and historian Robert Gardner, in exchange for donations to

the Surfrider Foundation. This column was originally published Feb.

26, 1994.

As I have mentioned previously in these dispatches, one of my

favorite characters in earlier Orange County times was C.C. Gavvy

Cravath, city judge and justice of the peace of Laguna Beach.

Gavvy was a retired big-league baseball player, the original home

run king whose record was broken by none other than Babe Ruth. Gavvy

was a big man, handsome in a rugged way, with close cropped white

hair and a close cropped white mustache.

He peered out at the world through a pair of fierce blue eyes and

his voice was that of a professional baseball player, a rasping

growl.

Whenever I went through Laguna I invariably stopped to talk to

Gavvy at his so-called courtroom, an ancient frame building next door

to a plumbing shop. On one occasion I found George Boyd, a Santa Ana

motorcycle officer, already there swapping stories with Gavvy.

George, too, was a favorite, a character in his own right.

When I was the city judge of Newport Beach we brought in outside

officers to help out during Easter vacation. George was one of the

outside officers we regularly brought in.

One Easter vacation night, George was on Main Street in Balboa

when a big, mean drunk came down the street pushing people out of his

way.

George looked up at him and said, mildly, “Son, I think you ought

to go home and sleep it off.”

The big drunk stopped, glared down at George and said, “If you

didn’t have that gun and that badge, you wouldn’t have the guts to

say that to me.”

George stood up, took off his gun and badge and, dodging a wild

swing by the big drunk, knocked him cold as a clam with one punch.

When the drunk woke up he looked up at George, who said, “Like I

said, son, I think you had better go home and sleep it off.”

“Yes, sir,” said the drunk as he struggled to his feet.

He staggered off and was not seen again that night.

I listened to George and Gavvy swapping stories for a while then

Gavvy said to George, “You mind taking a prisoner to Santa Ana on

your bike?”

“Not if the prisoner doesn’t,” George said, smiling.

Gavvy picked up the phone and called the police department.

“Send Pete over,” he growled.

In a few minutes the local police brought Pete in. Pete was

obviously the town drunk, unshaven, bleary eyes, shaking.

Gavvy spoke to Pete.

“Pete, you’re going up to Santa Ana to jail for a while to dry up.

George here is going to take you on his bike.”

Pete, no stranger to court proceedings, said, “But, Gavvy, I ain’t

even been arraigned yet.”

Pete was not only no stranger to court proceedings, he was on a

first-name basis with the judge.

Gavvy glared at Pete, his eyes frosty. “Now, lookee here, Pete. I

know you were drunk; you know you were drunk. Now we ain’t gonna

waste any of the taxpayers’ money on this. You hop on that there

motorcycle out there and go to the county jail with George here.

Understand?”

Pete stood there for a minute in deep thought. Then he grinned,

nodded and said, “Guess you’re right, Gavvy.”

Gavvy handed Pete a piece of paper on which he had been

scribbling.

“This here is your commitment. Says clear as anything that you

were arraigned, advised of your constitutional rights, pleaded guilty

to being drunk in public and were committed to the county jail for

seven days. Any argument?”

Pete grinned. “Nope, Gavvy, that’s exactly what happened.”

He tucked the paper in his pocket.

Pete and George left the courtroom, walked across the sidewalk to

George’s bike, Pete climbed aboard behind George, wrapped his arms

around George’s middle, and the last I saw of them they were roaring

up Laguna Canyon with a total disregard of the speed laws.

Now that was justice, Gavvy Cravath style.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a resident of Corona del Mar.