THE VERDICT: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 a while 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 courtroom. 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.”