On the Togetherness of Police, Pawnshops

    Today's lesson is how to have your home burglarized, and — after the police have caught the culprit and recovered the loot — how to buy it back.

    I know it sounds simple, but it isn't.  Really, it isn't.  It's very confusing.

    Take, if you will, the Comiskey caper.

    On Dec. 23, 1958, burglars broke into the L.A. home of James and Helen Comiskey.  It was a daylight job.  It happened while the couple was at work. 

    The crooks were methodical pros.  They took their time, ransacked every room, opened every package under the Christmas tree, and walked out with $1,000 worth of loot.

    The Comiskeys immediately filed a report with police, listing all the items they missed.  And that, until last month, was the end of it.

    Then, to their happy surprise, they were notified that the LAPD had located part of their property — a $140 camera and a $190 projector- in a downtown pawnshop.
   
Taking along the necessary proof of ownership, the elated couple hurried down to the police station to claim their possessions. 

     And here is where matters started to complicate themselves.  Right away, an officer explained to the Comiskeys that the pawnbroker had put out $50 for the stolen goods.

    "Customary procedure," he told them, "is for you to pay the pawnshop man $50, and he'll give you your camera and projector back."

    This startled Mrs. Comiskey, as it would anyone who is a novice at being burglarized.  "Why should I have to pay for my own property?" she demanded.  "If a pawnbroker takes in stolen property, that's his responsibility, not mine."

    "All I said," the officer repeated, "is that it's customary procedure.  You have alternatives."

    He handed her a written form which said she could:

    1- Demand the pawnbroker give the goods back to her. ("Of course, he won't do it," the officer assured her.)

    2- File a claim for the property with the Board of Police commissioners.

    Or 3- File a civil action.

    "The easiest thing to do is to just pay the man," the officer explained.

    And Mrs. Comiskey, although not very happy over the prospect, was inclined to go along with the officer.  She'd probably lose money in the long run — she reasoned — if she took the matter to court, what with attorney's fees and time off from work.  And even then, how could she be sure that court actions or any hearings would actually get her property back for her.

    So she took the officer's advice and followed "customary procedure."  She drove to the pawnstore, went through the formality of demanding her camera equipment back and letting the broker laugh at her, and then paid him the $50.

   
All of which, I think, is too bad.  Because if the officer had explained to her that it's a very simple matter to file  a request before the police commission, if he'd said that this frequently scares the pawnbrokers into giving up the property immediately, if he'd mentioned that, with rare exception, the commission awards the property to its rightful owner, she could have saved herself 50 bucks.

    But policemen seldom point this out to the bewildered citizen.  They just say "customary procedure" is to pay the pawnbroker.

    After all, policemen work closely with pawnbrokers.  Pawnbrokers happen to be very good informants.  They've helped break some pretty big burglary cases.  It doesn't hurt to do them a good turn now and then.

    If citizens are only half-informed of their chances of getting back stolen property which is rightfully theirs- without having to "buy" it back- it's not exactly a lie.

    In fact, if you rationalize long enough, you might even come up with the conclusion that the officers — who are paid to protect the people and their property — aren't really misleading the citizenry.

    You might, I say.  But, somehow, I can't.