CONFIDENTIAL FILE

Pinball Machinery Tilts in El Monte

I'm no crime-buster.

But
every now and then I come up with a morsel about some slightly illegal
activity being conducted under the noses of some slightly more than
indifferent officials in our cozy community.

And, going on the theory that the officials can read, I print details of the violation.

And, ever so gently, I suggest that maybe somebody with a little authority ought to open his eyes.

Buried
deep in the archives of The Mirror News there's a yellowing copy of one
of my penny lectures to public servants. It's in a column dated Nov.
12, 1957.

The column dealt with a pinball-machine syndicate
which was operating with no apparent interference in a dozen cities
throughout Southern California.

The pinball games were nothing
more than thinly disguised slot machines, capable of gobbling up a
workingman's pay check in the space of a couple hours.

In the
column I listed the names and addresses of some bars and cafes in the
town of El Monte, where the machines were doing land-office business.

An
assistant of mine toured a few of them and proved how simple it was to
drop $26 in two hours. He came back to the office with the additional
observation that adults weren't the only ones who were feeding nickels,
dimes and dollars to the syndicate.

High school kids — lots of them — were dropping their lunch money and allowances into the machines.

My column was strictly a reflection of my public spiritedness.

And, naive boy that I am, I figured that's how the city fathers of El Monte would take it.

They were incensed, all right. But not at the crooks who were taking money from the kids in their town.

Instead, the solons got mad at me. Me! I never did nothing to nobody (except hit them with a double negative if they weren't looking).

One city councilman pointed out to me a few days later. "Let's face it. Gambling is here to stay."

And
a second council member added that he was positive that there weren't
any payoffs on the machines. "I asked some of the men who owned them,"
he said.

El Monte's police chief stood before the councilmen a week after my column appeared and begged them to outlaw the machines:

"I know they pay off," he said, "but I just don't have enough men to police every place that's got one."

But the majority of the city fathers were apparently very fond of the pinball operation. Staunchly, they did nothing.

About
a month later, though, some citizens started putting the heat on. Why
they demanded to know, was the City Council in favor of such a crummy
operation which could do nothing but hurt their town?

Neatly,
the councilmen about-faced. They didn't do anything so bold as to ban
the machines, as lots of other cities have done. But they did vote,
4-1, to put the issue before the people.

There the matter rested
until November of last year. Then, in a sudden reversal of course, they
brought it up again and voted, 3-2, to let the machines continue to
operate.

Finally, the people of El Monte took the matter into their own hands. Church groups, PTA's and other civic organizations began passing petitions early this year demanding the removal of the pinball games.

Things May Work Out

They
had the support of Mayor Dale Ingram, who's always been against the
machines. Two days ago, a group embracing many of the game operations
found a technical flaw in the presentation of the citizens' petitions,
but, with Mayor Ingram's help, the people of El Monte finally convinced
the City Council that private citizens should have a voice in what kind
of corruption they want in their town.

On June 23 a special
election will be held — and, at last, the people will be able to
decide for themselves whether they want their kids to contribute their
allowances to a gambling syndicate.

I'm not too worried about the outcome.

Confidential File

American Friends Service Committee

You just never know where you'll find a bunch of pioneers.

On wind-swept sand hills at Kitty Hawk, under the polar ice cap or in a quiet Los Angeles residential district.

I visited a rather remarkable "we're doing it first" group in the latter locale yesterday.

Its
members are former California prison inmates. Ex-cons, if you will. And
all are on parole. But unlike others of their number, they're living an
experiment conducted by the American Friends Service Committee.

Their
pioneering venture is built around a boarding house whose only
residents outside of the director, his wife and 16-year-old son — are
men who've made a mistake or more, paid behind bars and now want a
chance to prove they're fully capable of taking a productive place in
our society.

And every man pays his own way. Eighteen bucks a
week for room and two home-cooked meals a day. If a man falls behind in
his rent, he's asked to move.

"We feel a man is more likely to
find himself when he assumes responsibility," explained Tom Nelson,
who, with his wife, runs the boarding house.

 "How many former convicts live here?" I asked him.

"We have six now," he replied. "We have another due tomorrow and one on the 30th. Our total capacity is nine.

"But since the project began a year ago, we've had about 25 guests," he added.

"And how many," I wanted to know, "have failed you?"

"Well," he began, "we've only had one man go back to prison in the year."

"That seems to be a pretty substantial statistic," I suggested.

"Oh, it's much too early to tell yet," Mr. Nelson said. "But we are certainly encouraged."

It
would be difficult to say just now many paroled convicts across the
nation return to prison during their first year of freedom, but some
penologists and law enforcement officers place the estimate as high as
70%.

But even if it's half that number, it seems clear that the Friends have made a good beginning.

 "Do you exclude men from the program because of any particular offense?" I asked Tom Nelson.

"No"
he said. "The Friends make no distinction in men. Whatever a man has
done — murder, narcotics, armed robbery — he's still a man. We don't
pin any labels on those who come here."

"How did your neighbors
react to the boarding home?" I wanted to know. "I mean, did they object
to the fact that they'd be living next door to ex-convicts?"

"Not
at all," he told me. "That was one of the big worries int he beginning
though. Members of the Friends Committee went to every house around
here before we got started.

Just to Break the News

"Not
to ask permission, you understand. Just to break the news. Instead of
objections, we found that people wanted to make us feel at home.

 "The
fellow next door, for instance. He's a former Army cook and mighty
proud of some of his menus. Came over one night and fixed spaghetti for
the boys. His wife played the piano."

"And do you consider that sort of help important?" I asked.

"We
certainly do. We are trying to provide a homelike atmosphere. If
there's one thing all of these men have in common, it's the lack of a
background which included a loving home."

The Friends are the first to point out that what they've done so far proves little.

Unless, that is, that you've got to start somewhere.