In
preparation for our upcoming tour Down Under, Esther and I applied
on-line for visas to Australia and New Zealand. She got both of her
visas but my Australian application hit a snag. Both countries want
to know if applicants have had a criminal conviction. Australia
calls this a "Character Declaration." Fifty years ago I
was convicted and spent a week in jail for possession of a minor
amount of marijuana. New Zealand asks if a conviction entailed
substantial jail time. If not you are treated like everybody else,
which explains my successful New Zealand application. Australia
treats all offenses the same, however, requesting "details of
any criminal conviction." Unfortunately, we found it impossible
to transmit the detailed information requested. We made repeated
attempts. We even had a Department of Home Affairs agent in Sydney
on the phone for the better part of an hour trying to help us, to no
avail. We decided we had no choice but to cancel our reservations.
We were facing thousands of dollars in penalties for cancelling our
tour, and the penalties were only going to escalate if we delayed our
decision. By way of background to this story I offer an account of
my criminal past that I wrote a few years back.
It
was 1972. I'd been in Alaska since March, and I was past due for a
trip "Outside." Early December, darkest days of the year
was the ideal time for getting away. I would fly to San Francisco to
visit my sister, then to Scottsbluff Nebraska to see my brother, Tom,
and finally on to Boston for Christmas with my parents. I made it as
far as Scottsbluff before the long arm of the law caught up with me.
My
suitcase had gone astray on the flights from San Francisco through
Denver to Scottsbluff. I left Tom's local phone number for the
Frontier Airline agent in Scottsbluff to call when they found the
suitcase. That evening the call came informing me the suitcase had
arrived on the next flight following mine and was being held for me
behind the counter. It was late, so I told the agent to leave it
where it was and I'd check it in for my trip to Boston the next
morning.
I
got to the airport a half hour before my departure. The agent at the
check-in counter asked me, "Is that suitcase on the shelf over
there behind the counter yours?" "Yes. That's it", I
replied and asked her to go ahead and check it in for my flight to
Boston. That taken care of I settled into a seat in the departure
lounge to wait for the boarding call. Ten minutes later I noticed a
pair of sheriff's deputies at the check-in counter; the agent was
pointing at me. Now what?
The
one I figured was the senior deputy addressed me thus: "Am I
correct in understanding that you are Benjamin Pollard and that gray
suitcase is yours." I nodded in the affirmative. "Then
I'm placing you under arrest for possession of marijuana. You are
coming with us. We're taking you to the courthouse for booking."
They escorted me out of the terminal and into the rear seat of their
cruiser. I noticed there were no door handles or window cranks back
there and a sturdy steel grill between myself and the cops in the
front seats.
I
was only half paying attention to the conversation in the front
during the eight minute drive to the courthouse. The subject being
discussed: spotting agitators heading north to join the Wounded Knee
uprising. My thoughts were elsewhere. In 1972 Alaska was one of
the few places in the world where marijuana possession was legal.
There must have been a drug-sniffing dog in one of the airports, and
I had forgotten about the small baggie containing a lone joint and a
tiny foil-wrapped piece of hashish.
As
I posed for mug shots and got fingerprinted I had my predicament
explained to me. A recently enacted law in Nebraska called for a
mandatory sentence of seven days in jail for possession of small
amounts of marijuana. It could have been worse; if this had happened
in Texas it could have meant a sentence of seven years. Seven days
would be bad enough. I was booked but I couldn't leave until I made
bail. I had plenty in travelers checks, but the Sheriff had a policy
not to accept travelers checks for bail. I had to call Tom at his
office and have him come with the requisite cash. A date was set for
my arraignment and trial the week after Christmas. I called my boss
in Juneau for an extension in my leave time, booked flights to Boston
and back to Scottsbluff and resumed my ruined Christmas vacation.
At
the appointed hour I was back in Scottsbluff to face the music. In a
small court room a man in a suit I took to be a judge sat behind the
bench and asked me how I pleaded. "No Contest", neither
guilty nor innocent. "Well, I find you guilty of the charge.
Sheriff, take this man to the jail." Arraignment and trial had
taken less than a minute. At the jail, I was relieved of my belt,
frustrating my suicide plans. Also keys, coins, anything metallic,
and that thick novel I brought along thinking I would finally get
around to reading it.
My
home for the week was a six cell "tank", each cell six feet
by eight, with a bed consisting of a steel shelf bolted to one
concrete cell wall. An odd-looking stainless steel fixture serving
the dual purpose of sink and toilet was bolted into a corner of each
cell. Floor-to-ceiling bars with sliding doors completed the decor.
On the other side of the bars high on a concrete block wall was one
small window, through which I could see the bare branches of a tree,
my only connection to the world outside.
The
law required people serving those seven day marijuana possession
sentences to be segregated from the general jail population. During
my stay I was sole prisoner in that category, and my "tank"
was physically isolated from the rest of the jail. In effect, I
served my sentence in solitary confinement. Apart from deputies, the
only people I saw were jail trusties, inmates doing time for
relatively minor non-violent crimes and free to move unescorted
throughout the facility. Trusties brought me my meals, typically a
bologna sandwich, a packet of Cheez-its and something equally
unappetizing to wash it down.
I
was getting desperate for something to read, so I asked a trusty if
they had any books down in the jail and could he bring me one. On
his next round he brought me a couple of what in his world pass for
books: well-used back issues of True Detective Magazine. Of course I
thanked him for those but I tried again, this time with a more
detailed description of what I was hoping for. "You know,
really thick books, with hundreds of pages and stiff covers, about so
big." It worked. The next day he brought me real books: a pair
of encyclopedia annual supplements covering the important events of
calendar years 1967 and 1968. Lucky for me. Those happened to be
the two years I spent overseas protecting the country from the
"enemies of freedom," so I had lots to catch up on.
My
only other diversion came when visitors from another planet came
calling. It happened three times during my stay, groups of a dozen
or so adolescents escorted by a uniformed deputy. They would slowly
file past my cell, staring intently at me like I was some sort of zoo
specimen. The deputy would be telling the kids they better behave or
this (me) could be their fate. I figured these were Sunday school
classes or maybe scout troops. I repaid their stares with a friendly
smile.
Six
days of terrible food and boredom had passed when a deputy told me I
was getting the seventh day of my sentence off for good behavior. I
asked him to let Tom know to come get me. I got the bail money
refunded, retrieved my belt and other confiscated possessions, and
was released, my debt to society paid in full. That evening over
supper Tom showed me a couple of stories he had clipped from the
local paper. The first featured the headline "Alaska Man Jailed
on Drug Charge", a story leaving out no details about my
identity. The other story was about an un-named high school kid in
eastern Nebraska let off with just a warning after being discovered
with the bed of his pickup truck filled with "hemp" he had
harvested along the railroad tracks. (note: in 1973 Federal law
considered hemp as dangerous a drug as marijuana or opium)
Next
July, back in Juneau on a scheduled break from another pointless
North Slope summer field season, I told my boss I was quitting the
Bureau of Mines. I said I planned to spend the rest of the summer
painting my house. It was an amicable parting, we briefly talked
about some professional differences we had, but he said he was sorry
to see me go. Then he said something amazing. "So, has your
quitting anything to do with the FBI investigation?" "What!"
"Yes, we had agents here and around town too I think, asking
about you, a Federal employee, using drugs." "Really!"
Later it struck me that here in the Spring of 1973 the FBI had come
all the way to Juneau, Alaska to investigate me, while back in
Washington DC the President was distributing hush money to the
Watergate plumbers.
*****
I thought it might be interesting to share this
incident from my criminal past.
Complication from that event rendered the Government of
Australia unable to approve my request for a visa. So here is
a full account of my one and only ever criminal offense. . .so far.
Now 81 years of age, I
grew up in Massachusetts but spent the better part of the next 60
years out West. Shortly before her death my wife and I moved from
California to to be near our son and grandchild in Massachusetts. My
second wife and I, both of us having lost our spouses, met at our
61st high school class reunion, married 2 years later and are now
settled in Rochester, New Hampshire.
In 1965 I graduated from
the Colorado School of Mines with a degree in Mining Engineering. I
worked in mining and civil engineering for 34 years, 25 in Alaska.
The work involved a broad range of engineering disciplines on
projects throughout the Rocky Mountains West, the Pacific Northwest
and Alaska.
As soon as we could afford
it, we retired. After our son left Alaska for college, we followed
suit, and began chasing butterflies in January on California's
Central Coast. Retired now going on 25 years, my life continues to
be filled with the pleasures of life-long learning and long walks in
the woods.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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