Confidential File

If Stomach's Strong, Visit Tijuana Prison

Robert
Petersen, a slightly built 18-year old kid from Belmont, Cal., was
released from Mexico's La Mesa State Prison, near Tijuana, this week.

He'd
been there for nearly 14 months. His freedom came in the form of a
conditional release after his parents, Mr. and Mrs. William Petersen,
paid Mexican authorities 8,000 pesos ($640 U.S. currency) bail.

Last
week, I detailed the strange circumstances surrounding the boy's arrest
in April, 1958. He was charged with stealing an automobile.

In
spite of strong evidence and other witnesses' statements to support his
claim that he had rented the car from a Tijuana cabdriver to go to San
Diego, and in spite of the fact that he himself returned the vehicle to
the border city, he was found guilty (after spending a year in prison
awaiting a trial which took place without his knowledge) and handed a
four-year sentence.

Finally, last week, the Baja California Court of Appeals came up with a favorable ruling on his case.

But
his actual release was made possible through donations — mostly
anonymous — sent to his parents, who had already exhausted their funds
in attorney's fees, after his plight was publicized here.

Yesterday, I listened to the kid's story of his stay at La Mesa.

It was a chiller — real horror-story stuff.

That such a place could exist a few miles from the United States isn't possible.

But it does exist.

In
fact, it's waiting just south of the border for any American —
juvenile or adult — who wants to take his chances with Mexican justice.

These are some of Robert Petersen's observations after 14 months of enduring a living hell:

The prison, with a current population of approximately 700, is nearly completely prisoner-controlled.

Heroin, marijuana, tequila, beer and prostitutes all are readily available if you've got the money.

Stiletto-like knives, fashioned from steel bed frames, are practically a part of a prisoner's standard uniform.

Petersen
got one in the back while he was sleeping one night. And, as was the
case when he was slashed, variously, on both arms and on the side, he
received no medical attention.

"I was the youngest guy there," he told me. "I was a little guy. They seemed to like to have fights with me."

The boy weighed 115 pounds and stands just over 5 feet tall.
 
When
his parents sent him money, it was immediately requisitioned by the
other prisoners. The same with his clothes. He couldn't even take them
off for his allotted weekly cold shower.

"They even took the family pictures that my mother sent me," he said.

It was Petersen's estimate that 90 percent of the prisoners used marijuana regularly, and 70 percent used heroin.

One of the chief guards had the narcotics and liquor concession. He'd bring it in by the bagful.

Prostitutes lined up to get in on visitors' day. They charged from 50 cents up, and split their take with the guards.

The kid personally witnessed two murders in prison, and watched as another two men died from narcotics.

I
won't bother to repeat his description of the jail menu. But, there
again, those with money and the power to protect it could havefilet mignon.

Petersen
got occasional scraps from some of the richer, more influential
prisoners by washing their dishes, serving as their personal lackey.

He slept on the concrete floor the entire time he was there

Adventure in an Exotic Clime

Then,
there was his seven-day confinement in a pitch-black hole called
solitary. The floor, hosed out quarter-annually, was caked with
excrement. The prisoners, not the guards, sentence you to solitary.

When they finally dragged Bob Petersen out, he was paralyzed from the waist down.

You want more details on the kid's extended excursion to Tijuana?

There's more. Lot's more. But I guess the above will give you an idea of what a pleasant outing it can turn into.

It doesn't read as poetically as the travel folders. But still, it might be an idea to let your own teen-agers browse over it before they cross the border for a little fun.

Confidential File

'Practical' Advice to June Graduates

Eleven
months out of the year I've got no feud with the eggheads of my
generation. It's only in the month of June that they bug me.

Then
(which is now), like so many penguins, they file in pompous parade onto
the speakers' platform of the finest institutions of learning across
our nation.

From their positions behind the rostrums they honk
out to the thousands of starry eyed innocents in their captive grasp
about the "challenges awaiting the graduate of today."

They
mumble platitudes and theories and lofty ideas until half the
auditorium is asleep and, inevitable, they come up with the bit about
"You are the future leaders of tomorrow," which is not only a routine,
it's redundant.

What they neglect to give is solid, sensible, practical advice. For this reason — and because, through some oversight, nobody's
ever invited me to address a graduating class — I have prepared a
realistic guide for those young men and women who are laying down their
textbooks this month.

Clip it out. Carry it with you as you embark on your greatest journey — the journey into adulthood.

First, to those of you who are becoming doctors:

Your
primary concerns should be (1) to learn how to write illegibly and (2)
to begin searching for the right kind or girl to marry.

She
should have a father who is wealthy enough to set you up in private
practice, or, in lieu of that, she should be a good mixer, a joiner.
Have be become active in women's club activities. She can perform an
invaluable service as a spotter for hypochondriacs.

If you have
one already who's supported you through medical school, keep her.
Chances are she'll fit in fine as your receptionist.

Graduating
advertising students; I'm sure you're well equipped with all the
information you need on media research, layout, consumer surveys,
subliminal brainwashing and the art of writing a five-line jingle for
denture paste.

But, let me give you some essentials the textbooks neglected.

Take Four Martinis

 First, the practicing junior account executive should practice until he is perfect at handling four martinis a day at lunch.

Remember to call every client "baby."

Learn all you can from one of the older vice-presidents in the firm, and then as soon as you can, knife him.

For future politicians: Marry young, and immediately, or as soon as is reasonable, have four children and a small dog.

Become an Elk, or failing that, at least a Saint & Sinner.

Don't kiss babies. It's passe politics. Besides, you're liable to kiss a little chickenpox carrier.

Talk at every given opportunity, but whatever you do don't say anything.

Fashion designers: Develop a kind of benevolent sneer for use whenever anyone mentions Christian Dior, Jacques Fath or Don Loper.

Be eccentric. Throw temper tantrums at the slightest provocation.

Have Hair Done Right

Remember,
you're a walking advertisement. Always be chic. Never go out unless
your hair is done properly. And if you don't have one already, affect a
mincing gait that will make people turn around and stare.

Of
course, I offer this advice assuming that you're a girl-graduate
fashion designer. If you're a boy graduate, these suggestions are
optional.

That's it, children. Opportunity is everywhere. The world is your oyster. So, dammit, go forth.