October 27,
2006
I Paid
To Vote
By HARRY COVERT
One of the most exciting
days of the year for me has always been
Election Day. This day not only has been the climax of political
campaigning and campaigners but back in my young days it was somewhat of
a social event, really a fun day.
On the day I reached 21
years of age, I proudly and innocently marched down to the city’s voter
registration office. There in the courthouse Mrs. Inez Ashe, Hampton’s
Registrar, had a few questions for me. Was I a property owner?
Had I paid my taxes? How long had I lived in the city? I also produced
a copy of my birth certificate and even my draft card, which I still have,
all brown with age and showing 1-A. I never burned it and was never
called up.
At the moment Mrs. Ashe’s
questioning seemed akin to being interrogated by the city police.
All I wanted to do was vote. I did what I was told and signed the
form. I was excited and ready for the next election, which would have been
the spring primaries. Then Mrs. Ashe said, “You gotta pay the poll
tax.” No one had alerted me about more taxes. But a tax to
vote? I put up a small argument but Mrs. Ashe didn’t crack a smile.
Firmly as a prison matron, she said, “if you want to vote you have to pay
the $1.50 poll tax.” I had a dollar bill and at least 50 cents in
assorted change. I just made it.
In today’s world I chuckle
when I hear about people who have trouble
pulling the right lever or punching out the right holes. In my early
days you just marked the ballot with a pencil, paid the poll tax and kept
the receipt just in case you were challenged. You couldn’t pay the
tax the day before the election or the day of the voting.
In the Commonwealth of Virginia,
several things were important in elections. It was advantageous to
be a Democrat. It was smart to be a supporter of Winchester’s Harry
Flood Byrd, Senior, and also the local members of the Byrd Machine. Whatever
office you wanted to run for you had to have the Byrd blessing. Of
course, you had to be a public Democrat, too. Another caveat was
you had to pay the poll tax, thanks also to the Byrd Machine. And
there was such an organization.
Now a $1.50 was quite a
high fee for a lot of people back in the Fifties and Sixties. I was
such an innocent it was only then I realized the reason for the poll tax:
to keep “some” people from voting. No one wanted to admit it but
those “some” people were primarily the black families and poor whites all
over the Commonwealth and throughout the south.
I started working the
polls. In those days the Commonwealth
allowed everybody to get a driver’s license at age 15 if you could pass
the written, the driving and then the parking test. There was intimidation
for a 15-year-old and that was with the uniformed and armed Division of
Motor Vehicles agents, dressed similar to the State Police. You had
to drive around the block, give hand signals out of the window and then
park between two imaginary cars without bumping the curb. I passed
the test in January.
In the spring, there came
the primary elections. A “machine” friend offered me an Election
Day job. I couldn’t vote, but I could drive people to the polls.
I loved it. The pay was five bucks and a lot of tips. We managed
to get many people safely to the voting booths and no one complained.
Precincts were fun to be
around. We’d pick up the voters, drive to the proper voting place
and wait. While we were waiting we could enjoy all kinds of homemade
cakes and pies and sandwiches. I liked the chocolate meringue
pies and political talk.
Sometimes, we had to make
late rides because it was getting near to closing time and the candidate
or candidates needed an extra bit of help.
I didn’t know the difference
between the parties in those days. There weren’t any because there
was just one, Byrd Democrats. In those days we pretty well knew who
was going to win on all levels. You couldn’t even be a local precinct leader
of the local Democratic executive committee unless you had permission and
the approval of Senator Byrd’s team.
Of course, now we voters
and workers are a bit more sophisticated, some even superannuated.
We have real voting rules, mainly no $1.50 poll tax and 18 year olds can
vote. Times have changed. Fifteen-year-olds can’t have a full-fledged
driver’s license.
This year, we don’t know
who’s going to win the elections before hand. Even the so-called
experts really can’t honestly predict. And I’m not either.
September
28, 2006
The Art of Bounty Hunting
By HARRY COVERT
Bounty
hunting is alive and well in Alexandria,
Virginia. And there’s plenty of business to go around. I bring this
up because of all the hoopla from Dog the Bounty Hunter’s derring-do, which
has gained much acclaim from his popular television show.
Duane Chapman is an entertaining
character who wears blond hair extenders, pointy-toed black cowboy boots
and black jeans and shirt. He always gets his culprits. Of
late, though, the Mexican authorities have decided they didn’t appreciate
Dog’s help finding a dangerous three-time rapist they couldn’t locate.
In a reciprocal deal, U. S. marshals grabbed Dog at his home in Hawaii.
I am not one who copied
Duane’s attire. But I wasn’t averse to using various means to find
the bail jumpers either.
For a decade in my eclectic
professional career I enjoyed the bail bond business. It was interesting
and could be fun. I made a lot of friends. Some still owe me
money but can’t pay because they’re serving long jail terms. On occasion
I had to go hunting and I did.
One
particular weekend, I had to find an Alexandrian
on whom I risked a $5,000 bond. The court agreed to a brief extension
or else I’d have to fork over the cash – every dollar. I didn’t want to
do that. I checked out every address, including his girlfriends’
apartments (he had numerous female companions) and other assorted places
to no avail. When I least expected it his mother called and said
he would be on a Metro train stopping at Braddock Road in Alexandria.
He was coming to mama’s house for supper. My good fortune.
So not to alarm other passengers
and users of public transport, I donned a clerical collar with a sporty
shirt and Panama hat. A bicycle-riding Metro Transit policeman was
taken aback when I introduced myself. He was willing to help me though.
As we discussed technique, the 5:15 PM train arrived.
I looked up and there was my man, walking smartly down the steps.
He was all smiles with a pretty girl on his arm. I walked up to him
as though I was passing out a religious tract and slapped the handcuffs
on him. He didn’t know what to say. I said, “Bless you, my
son.”
Sometimes bounty hunters
can run into jurisdictional disputes that can be testy, similar to the
one facing Dog the Bounty Hunter and the Mexican government. The
Alexandria General District Court had given me a document authorizing the
arrest of a young man on another $5,000 criminal bond. The catch
was he lived in southeast Washington, D.C. I headed across the 14th
Street Bridge, visited the police precinct in southeast to present my credentials
and court orders. No professional courtesy I found. I was warned
by the police commander I’d be arrested for kidnapping if I picked up the
defendant. No way to that. The district doesn’t allow bondsmen
or bounty hunters to arrest its citizens. I wouldn’t risk spending
one second in the D. C. facility.
I
tracked down the bond-jumper though. He
simply didn’t want to return across the Potomac River. He may be
getting a job he said. I gave him a choice on the phone. Would
he prefer the D. C. jail or the Alexandria Jail? Without hesitation,
he agreed to meet me on a street corner and ride back to Virginia.
He didn’t want the D.C. jail either.
On another occasion, we
chased a young mother through a heavily Latino area near Columbia Pike,
finding her in a third floor apartment housing nine men, hiding in a 50-gallon
trash bag. None in the room could speak English nor would they point
out where she was hiding. We poked and prodded every closet and then
the trash bag. She attempted to jump out of the bag and the third
floor window
It can be a dangerous business
for some fugitive recovery agents around these parts. Caution is
always important even though sometimes it can be humorous situations.
A very good bondsman in Prince William County was caught off balance apprehending
a dangerous guy known for fighting. The bad guy grabbed the bondsman’s
gun. He grappled to avoid the handcuffs, tore off his pants, and
then shot the bondsman in the leg.
One
Thursday afternoon a fellow riding his
bicycle down King Street thought I was out looking for him. He tried
to run over me at the flagpole in front of the Alexandria Courthouse.
Two alert deputies jumped him. I didn’t have any warrant for him
but the sheriffs did.
“Be Prepared” is a very
good motto to remember. A bondsman or bounty hunter can’t be too
careful. On a spring Sunday morning, I tracked an elusive bond jumper
to a Whiting Street convenience store. The 24-year-old decided not
to come quietly with me, he wouldn’t cooperate when I tried to handcuff
him and most certainly he wasn’t returning to jail. I struggled with
him for a moment. He pulled away and then I drew my .38-cal. Smith
& Wesson as I held on to his arm. I threatened to shoot him dead
on the spot. Fortunately, an Alexandria police officer came to my
aid. The guy kept yelling that “the old guy” was threatening to shoot
him.
“I know him,” said one of
Alexandria’s finest. “I believe he would have shot you, too.”
At that moment I realized
youth was a thing of my past. And, it was probably time I looked
for another line of work or perhaps return to my computer keyboard.
There are a million stories out there and these are just a few in “the
Naked City.”
September 14, 2006
A Reporter’s Life
By HARRY COVERT
The best beats for any
reporter are police and courts, politics and sports. You
can cover the good, the bad and the good again. When you age a bit
you become a columnist and an expert on all things.
Recently, we read of the Maryland high school football player convicted
of major felonies but not jailed. His punishment in part was to change
high schools. He was also named captain of the new football team.
Because he’s a good quarterback he’s playing regularly. He escaped
any jail time.
I know of a Virginia boy, an all state caliber football end. He
was fleet of foot and could catch passes to the envy of most players.
He was headed to a major Atlantic Coast Conference university football
program with a full academic scholarship and a pro football career well
in his sights.
He also had a side job.
After daily football practices and weekly Friday night games, our Virginia
athlete began to break into homes and steal. His little venture went
undetected for almost a year. At the same time he was courted by
major college and university football teams, toasted at banquets and named
to state all-star teams. His parents were proud of his athletic prowess.
So it happened. A nosey neighbor got suspicious. She wondered
about this young 6-foot-6 lad who always seemed to be moving in.
She called the police. After a few weeks of surveillance, the cops
entered the apartment and found a cache of hundreds of thousands of dollars
in stolen radio and television sets, stereos, rings, necklaces and bracelets.
The young athlete had learned the art of fencing stolen goods. He
was doing pretty well for himself dollar-wise.
On one weekend, the athlete was named one of the state’s best players.
On Monday, still in high school, he was charged with 38 counts of burglary,
breaking and entering, grand larceny and attempting to escape from police.
He was later convicted on most of these charges and sentenced to 20-plus
years in the Virginia penitentiary. No suspended time either.
He didn’t get a chance to play college football. He shouldn’t have.
It was a good story.
Now the continued story
of Judy Miller. She is the celebrated former reporter of The
New York Times who spent 85 days last year in the Alexandria Jail.
She had refused to reveal her source in a story she didn’t write involving
the outed CIA agent Valerie Plame. In the end, Judy was forced to
leave The Times earlier this year. I admire her because she stood
on journalistic ethics. She earned the praise of some of her colleagues
but many turned against her because of their own political agenda to smear
the current presidential administration.
The point here is simple: Judy Miller had professional character and
went to jail on that principle. We know now it wasn’t even necessary.
The special federal prosecutor was aware from the beginning who leaked
the information. No one in the media seems upset at the miscarriage
of justice. Against Judy, Karl Rove, the President’s man, or I. Lewis Libby,
the Veep’s man, who’s been indicted. But that’s a tale for another
day.
I visited Judy several times in the Alexandria Jail. She was always
smiling wearing her green jail jumpsuit, in good spirits and did her jobs.
She first worked in the jail kitchen and then in the library. She
was a model prisoner and well-liked on the second floor, not far from the
infamous Zacarias Moussaoui of terrorist fame in the 9/11 attack.
Ms. Miller kept a daily
journal of incarcerated life on Mill Road, Alexandria.
She found time to organize the jail’s library, itemizing every book by
category and computerizing every book for use by inmates and staff.
She took time to organize the books by reading levels. Through her
efforts, The New York Times donated a computer, complete with program,
and hundreds of books for the Alexandria Jail.
It sure seems obvious that though she was shabbily treated by her Times’
colleagues and the special prosecutor, she stood perfectly straight on
principle. Refreshing. Certainly she’s exonerated for
any misconduct. It is shameful that this Pulitzer Prize winning reporter
was jailed. I hope she gets a book out of the ordeal. Maybe
the special prosecutor will be forced to resign, this man of allegedly
high moral character, who seems to have played fast and loose with the
law and other people’s lives.
September 5, 2006
Sticks and Stones
By HARRY COVERT
My
first reaction to Virginia senator George Allen’s “macaca” quote
was, and still is, so what? I believe folks these days are a bit
too jumpy. They don’t laugh enough and they certainly lack a bit
of self-confidence if and when someone speaks off the cuff or too curtly.
I always wonder how these people could ever officiate a sporting event
or listen to the ugly remarks reserved especially for those in politics
or in other forms of public service?
It seems like only yesterday when newspapers,
and not only those in Virginia, always described minorities by race in
news columns, particularly a black person. It was usually “so-and-so,
a Negro” was arrested, convicted, or scored a touchdown. It took
years for this practice to be dropped. It was none too soon.
As a young reporter covering the murder trial
of a detective’s son, I began to receive midnight telephone calls with
heavy breathing or screaming words at what a rat and bum I was for reporting
the facts in the case. This continued for weeks and often scared
the family. Several times one of the sons would pick up the phone
in the afternoon and hear that their father was related to a female dog
and that “your daddy should be careful where he takes you to eat.”
Remember
that childhood phrase, “sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will never hurt me?” I agree that’s almost true.
People, no matter who they are, can indeed be rather cruel with words.
I say, though, many people purport to have been slurred and offended when
in reality they haven’t. I wonder if they’ve ever attended a sporting
event. They probably never have or at least never listened to the
noise from the crowds on the sidelines or in the stands.
Hog wash, I say. Be serious. You’ll
hear more insults and slurs at a high school, college, or recreation-league
football-, basketball-, baseball- and/or soccer game or listening to sports
radio stations.
Back in the mid-60s, that time so many politicians
like to recall these days, when we were indeed in the midst of a social
revolution and newspapers, radio and television stations were a bit tardy
in taking leadership.
My paper at the time used descriptive phrases
in naming minorities, no matter who they were. Our news staffs disliked
the practice but the publisher, along with others in the Old Dominion,
refused to change the unnecessary callous and offensive style.
One
day I began receiving letters from
a young black activist addressed to “Harry Covert, a Caucasian.”
At first I thought it was just a joke and then maybe overkill on his part.
As I thought about it, I figured it was a good way to see the editorial
practice ended. Other reporters and publishers received similar missives
and by the late 1960s no individual was identified by race, unless truly
pertinent to the story.
Slips of the tongue can be disastrous to everyone.
But, I can’t abide those who pretend to be offended by public speech.
Personally, I’m sick of the locker room and bathroom talk emanating from
broadcasting stations. I’m a believer if you don’t like what’s on
the radio or television, turn it off. I do.
In no way do I condone slurs to anyone.
But let’s not get carried away with efforts to make more out of innocuous
comments than they are worth. I will agree, though, that Senator
Allen may have his neck in a noose but only for a short while on this one.
I was almost offended recently when a guy called me a “white-haired old
guy.” I thought. He’s right. Then I noticed he was bald-headed.
I didn’t say a word.
Personally,
I think Allen has apologized and “bled enough” on his little
verbal misplay. I don’t think it’s an issue that will amount too
much from now to Election Day. I do think there are too many squishy
people wearing their “feelings” on their sleeves merely for political reasons.
I remember when opposing politicos some years
back referred to the then wife of a Virginia senator as an “old hussy.”
And that was in church, too. The lesson from this was good then and
is now, “don’t get even, get elected.”
