Feb. 11, 1958

Berl Biggs gave himself up last night.

He was a little confused as to why, but the important thing was–as he
told me–"If I’m inside, doing time, I won’t be bothering nobody."

He called me at my office about an hour before midnight.

"I got a story for you," he said. "I’m going to tell it to you straight. I’m going to shoot straight with you all the way."

I asked him what it was about, and he told me that he’d pulled a $3,000
mail burglary last week. He said he’d forged some checks, and that
forgery was a habit that cost him 10 of the last 15 years of his life.

But then Berl Biggs clammed up.

"I’m not telling you no more unless you come down and talk to me," he
said. "But no cops. If anybody comes with you, I’m gone. No cops until
after I’ve talked to you."

There was a little more discussion and finally he agreed that if I’d
come down and talk with him, he’d surrender to the police. I was to
listen. He was to surrender afterward.

He named the bar where we’d meet. It was on Broadway and it took me about 15 minutes to get there.

When I did, Biggs was at the door waiting.

"You alone?" he said. I obviously was, so he didn’t pursue it. "I had a special reason for having you come here," he went on.

I nodded, trying at the same time to size him up. He was a tall man,
minus a few upper teeth, and with a thick shock of wavy gray hair.

"I mean for having you meet me in this particular bar," he emphasized.

Again, I nodded. And he continued.

"I met the only person in my life who ever did me any good here. My wife. Right here, I met her. It was May of ’53."

We sat down at a table where Biggs had a beer waiting for him.

"We got married in June–June 4, 1953. In Las Vegas. But then she left me."

"Right away?" I asked.

"January. Jan. 8, 1957. For three and a half years I did everything right. So she left me."

But Biggs had a more immediate problem–a problem with the law. Gradually, I turned the conversation to it.

"I leveled with you," I said. "Now you level with me."

It was a week ago Sunday, he told me. He was walking along on the
outskirts of skid row when he wandered into the rear entrance of a
commercial building.

"There was a gob of mail there, in the hallway. I did forgery before, so I knew the scoop. I picked it all up and I walked out."

Biggs related how he found a quiet alley and opened it up–How there
were some big checks–$800, $900–and some little checks. The big ones
he knew he couldn’t cash. He shredded them and threw them away.

The little ones, with a bit of doctoring, he said he passed very nicely in an El Monte market the following day.

"But write it up good," he said. "So it’ll do some good. If you write it up bad, it’ll help nobody."

I asked Berl Biggs how I could write something like that up good.

"By telling them why," he said. "Tell them how I went bad when she left
me. Tell them the last year I did time I never thought of nothing but
my wife.

"I never been married, never really had a girl, until I met her. All I wanted, all I needed, was a little recognition from her."

The conversation got a little heavy then, but I listened, as I’d
promised to do. After the waitress had come and gone a few times, I
excused myself and stepped over to the phone booth.

I located the residence phone of the man whose checks Biggs claimed to have cashed. It was late, but I called him.

"No," the man told me, "I haven’t noticed any checks or mail missing."

I explained why I was calling and the man then said it was quite
possible that the checks wouldn’t be missed even if they were gone. He
described in detail where the mail was delivered and the type of checks
he would have received.

I returned to the table and asked Biggs a few more questions–about the checks and where he found them.

His answers matched those of the owner. But the subject was boring to Biggs.

"The last time I got sent up was ’57 after my wife had left me. But she
was in the courtroom. I hadn’t seen her for two months, and I just kept
looking at her.

"She was there, and all I wanted was a nod. One nod. But she didn’t even–wouldn’t even–look at me.

"Do you know that all the time I was in the courtroom I didn’t hear one word the judge said to me."

It was late and getting later.

I asked Biggs if he was ready.

"One more," he said. "It’s going to be a long time before I have another one."

For Biggs, it was a double shot of bourbon.

Then by silent agreement, we stood up.

We walked back to the Mirror News city room and Berl Biggs waited while I called the cops.