19 February 2011
 
Rap Sheet


(US-40, Colfax Ave in Aurora, CO. Photo Denver Post)

According to the provisions of the 1968 Gun Control Act, a response to the series of political killings that defined the decade in which I came of age.
 
From what I had read of the Act, if the State Cops could not come up with adverse information regarding my state of sanity or previous criminal conduct, the sale of a weapon was required to go forward.
 
The technology of the gun has evolved considerably since then; Oswald (if he did it) and James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan and Arthur Bremer all did their work with bolt-action rifles or revolvers- wheel guns, the ultimate point-and-click weapons.

(Iver-Johnson Cadet 55A. Photo Gun World.)
 
The latter were  not particularly evolved; Sirhan (if he really did it, and it was not a hale of gunfire from security personnel that actually got Bobby)  chose an eight-shot Iver-Johnson Cadet 55A chambered in .22. Arthur Bremer who gunned down George Wallace, chose the venerable design of the Charter Arms .38 Special.
 

(Old School Charter Arms .38 Special)

Nothing advanced. Nothing like what the latest in the long line of lone wolves used against Congresswoman Gabby Giffords down in Tucson.* Jared Loughner was equipped with a Glock 9 semiauto, chambered in 9mm, a short recoil-operated locked breech weapon that features a modified Browning cam-lock system to inflict terrible suffering.
 
He had three 32-round clips for the attack, but alert civilians managed to drag him down as he tried to re-load after the first one was expended.

Anyway, I send a note down to Trader Jerry to advise him to keep the Sig-Sauer .22 Mosquito put aside, since it would take a few days to sort out my rap sheet, if that is actually what the hang up was in the process.

I was troubled. I had no idea I had a criminal record. I would have thought that might have come up in the course of six periodic special investigations I have had to endure as a condition of employment by the government. Maybe they are just getting around to digitizing all the paper records in all the mom-and-pop jurisdictions across this great nation to create one gigantic data archive on us all.
 
Sort of funny, I think, since the reason for all this was to ensure that team of young, male Saudis don’t hijack any more airplanes. But of course, the database is useful for all sorts of things, and it is a new world, after all.

The interesting thing that Babs told me was that in any event, there was no way she could give me the file that caused the flag on my application, or give me the number. The government had something on me, and I was not permitted to know what it was.
I have had to endure requests for information from a variety of concerned citizens, most of them obsessed loons, under he provisions of a law that all bureaucrats dread: The Freedom of Information Act, or FOIA.

They always take time, though the Act is intended to be a speedy way for citizens to find out what their government is up to.

While I waited for Aurora, CO, to produce a piece of paper, I decided to become a concerned citizen-loon myself, and looked up how to request the paperwork that contains my personal information. On further consideration, I thought I knew the only thing it could be, unless it was something wildly different, maybe a report from an undercover agent who infiltrated one of my clandestine organizations, like the National Ski Patrol, or the Disabled Veterans of America.

I can tell you how to do it, now. It is easy. You cannot use FOIA to get your rap sheet. You have to use the Privacy Act to request information on what the government has in the FBI Files, and there is an affidavit you must fill out swearing that you really are you. But it amounts to the same thing, and I filled it out, swore under penalty of law, and attached a brief description of what I thought might be in the file, with my social, date and place of birth.

Then I went to Willow to get some cheap happy hour white.

Boats, my coon-ass friend from the Bayou was there, having a frosty malt beverage.

Elisabeth-with-an-S was holding down the bar. Sabrina was showing off the fancy engagement ring with two delicate pearls. Her acceptance of the ring on Valentine’s Day at the Dog Head Tavern in Falls Church had transformed her boyfriend to Fiancé, and her to a bride-to-be.

We talked about that, marveling at how the world can chang, and then I started bitching about the government. There is a lot of that going around these days, as you might have head.
 
Boats scowled when he head my specific grievance.
 
“Welcome to the club,” he said.  I have a rap sheet too. I'd have never known it and it might have held up my security clearance on my current job had not the Coast Guard Auxiliary started to require national background checks for participation. That is just last year.”
 
“You have been in the Auxiliary for quite a while, I said. “You were a Master Chief Boson’s Mate, right?”
 
Boats nodded and took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. They were so helpful to me on a number of jobs back on active duty that joining the volunteers seemed a matter of simple gratitude. But here is the deal: I was contacted by the Auxiliary one day and told there was a hold on my clearance and that an "adjudicator" would contact me. I found that strange since I had held security clearances for 33 years.”
 
“Goddamn, I said. “Same deal for me.”
 
“As it turned out the FBI computer indicated that I was arrested on a charge of "impersonating a policeman" in 1966 in New Orleans with "no adjudication,", indicating that the FBI had no record of whether or not I was ever exonerated or convicted. I was asked to furnish "court records" about the incident to prove I was worthy of a clearance. Once I had the date I knew what it was about.”
 
“I think I know, too, since it is the only time I have run into the law, well, almost the only time.”
 
Boats has been on the water and in the Guard since Christ was a corporal.
 
He contemplate the brown glass bottle in front of him. “I was one of the Coast Guard's pre-1970s "creds cases."
 
“I remember how important it was to have official identification. When I was assigned to the Undisclosed Location we were supposed to get official credentials, but I rotated out before they came through. I still have the blue light for the Bluesmobile, though.”
 
Boas nodded. “Creds are key. Before the use of the "Bender Blues" uniform we wore the naval uniform with a "Corps" shield insignia on the left forearm sleeve.  I was assigned to law enforcement and regulatory duties, but the Coast Guard did not consider it necessary to have anything more than our military IDs.” He waved to Elisabeth for reinforcements, and she stooped gracefully to the lower cooler to get him another beer, and one for Old Jim at the end of the bar.
 
“So one day, some New Orleans bulls refused to recognize me as a law enforcement official and let me pass me through a waterfront perimeter I needed to get through. When I tried to explain what the Coast Guard is and does they demanded ID. Upon seeing it ,they said "you ain't in nothing but the service kid " and promptly arrested me.”
 
“Jesus,” I said. “And you were in uniform?”
 
“Yep. They took me down to the station house, took my prints and threw me in the slammer. About thirty minutes later, a Coastie watch lieutenant with some brains showed up and explained things to the arresting officers and numb-nuts at the booking desk. Meanwhile, I used my one phone call to summon the Shore Patrol.”
 
I imagined Jack Nicholson arriving to the rescue with a big Colt .45 M1911A in a government holster on his hip and the lanyard around his neck in a Dixie Cup hat.
 
“Shortly thereafter, two big burly cops came into the holding tank,  grabbed me by the arms and dragged me out back to the parking lot as I could hear the shore patrol guys at the front desk inquiring about me and being told that they had no idea what they were talking about. My two escorts stopped in the back parking lot, let go of me and said "Shoo! get out of here, you were never here, understand?"
 
“And they never pulled the report?” I asked.

“Nope. I understood pretty well and went back to the base and explained everything to my supervisor. I never heard another word about it, but about a year later the uniforms changed and "LE" people were issued "Creds" in addition to their ID cards. A year later I transferred to the reserve, but kept my special-interest boarding officer status which required a clearance, which was periodically upgraded, so I couldn’t imagine the Coast Guard had a problem with the arrest.”
 
“Long story short, in order to get the arrest adjudicated, I had to come up with documentation. I went down to both the city and state courts trying to find some record to no avail and ditto with the Police. That booking was in the days of typewriters and carbon paper. The cops had dumped everything out of fear of being charged with interfering with a Federal Law Enforcement Officer. But the one thing that entered an ancient computer system was their feed to the FBI, and it finally popped up.”
 
“Crap,” I said, waving to Elisabeth for more Happy Hour White. “That must be like what is happening to me. Some ancient records just got digitized just in time for me to be a geezer.”
 
“As annoying as all that was a year later , you have to pay attention,” Said Boats firmly. “I'm up for a top secret clearance for this job and I have all the paper exchange from the auxiliary business. The "previously adjudicated arrest " was no problem, but the damn thing remains in the FBI computer system. I understand that I can get it removed, but the FBI shares the information there all over the place so there is no assurance that it will ever disappear. I prefer to leave it on the FBI computer where I know exactly what it says and I can anticipate what any one inquiring will be told.”
 
“Double crap. Still, I guess it is a good thing my active career is over.”
 
“I don't know what happened to you in Colorado,” said Boats “but this could be a God-send for you. Next time it might be something more important than an extra gun. It is better to know and get it "adjudicated" and documented now. Next time it might be a job or security clearance at risk.”
 
“Yeah,” I said. “My thing was sorta like yours, a misunderstanding, really. But it helped to teach me not to get cops riled up.”
 
“That is always a good policy.”
 
“And not to live on Colfax Boulevard near the Silver Slipper Bar.”
 
“Another splendid policy,” said Boats, and took a long sip of his beer.
 
“But of, course, I deserved what happened,” and then I told him.
 
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
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