NAPOLEON HENDRICKS, biggest black narc in the San Francisco Police Department, stood on the ramp to the Harbor Emperor like a menacing linebacker. “Nobody leaves the boat,” he growled at the dapper man with the handlebar mustache coming toward him.
“Oh, really,” attorney Gordon Rock-hill said with mild resistance.
“Really,” Hendricks snarled, planting himself in a wider, even more portentous stance that froze the little lawyer in his tracks. For the moment, it appeared that Hendricks was rather enjoying his latest undercover assignment, even if the white coveralls of San Francisco’s Red & White Fleet of harbor tour boats fit rudely over his long, lanky frame. Sergeant Jack O’Shea, dressed in a dark coat and pinstripe trousers, stood at a discreet distance making tiny nods of approval as Rockhill meekly turned around and went back aboard the Harbor Emperor. The little red-trimmed tourist boat rocked at its moorings, waiting for the crowd of 369 party-goers, most of whom paid $3 a ticket for a farewell-to-summer cruise on San Francisco Bay on this fog-snug Sunday, October 1st.
Rockhill had been among the first to board the boat for what his young client, Dave Morgan, promised would be a joyful reverie in salute to the passing season, with a rock band, dancing and good-time companionship of everybody who’d buy a ticket. And the more people who bought tickets, the closer Morgan would come to paying off the $1000 he still owed Rockhill in legal fees from his bust on charges of selling marijuana last December. Rockhill, busy with piano lessons in the evenings and the suburban sophisticate cocktail parties that tinkle south of San Francisco on weekends, was not particularly excited about a party boat full of Peninsula kids in their 20s; but on the other hand, he’d lived in the Bay Area for eight years and had never been out on the bay. Even so, he and fellow attorney Eugene Moriguchi, whom Rockhill had talked into joining him, felt a bit out of place once aboard the Harbor Emperor. Had it not been for Napoleon Hendricks, they both would have passed it off in trade for a quiet dinner and a few drinks in some nearby Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant.
Morgan himself was not sure whether it was going to be an end of the summer party or, more likely, an occasion for him to say good-bye to most of his friends. A short, Latin-looking 24-year-old with long black hair tied in a ponytail and a wispy Fu Manchu mustache, Morgan had been selling tickets for another boat party a year before when he first encountered Dallas Boggs, a scruffy, boyish-looking, turtle-shaped narc for the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office. It was just a week before the same Red & White Fleet ferry took about 400 Peninsula young people out on a good-time cruise, and Morgan had sold almost all the tickets assigned to him by a friend who rented the boat that year. On an afternoon in November, his friend Red Belaski came by Morgan’s Portola Valley house with Boggs and a woman Boggs said was his girlfriend. Belaski, who had had some recent dope problems of his own with the law, explained that Boggs needed some weed for the weekend. Morgan told him he had none, but the gregarious Mr. Boggs insisted he could not make it through the weekend without some help. At last, Morgan agreed to acquire some marijuana for Red’s “friend.” Morgan can’t recall if Boggs came along on that boat party a year ago, but he remembers clearly that it was only a week after it when Boggs, good-natured as ever, showed up again, hoping to make a buy of a pound of the same stuff. He worked at nearby Moffat Naval Air Station, Boggs said, and his friends there enjoyed getting high like everybody else. Two weeks later, Boggs called again, this time saying that his “boss at work” wanted to buy 50 pounds.
“I told him, man, I mean, I’d never done any dealing like that, I’d never even seen that much,” Morgan recalled. But everybody has friends, and the free-spending Boggs was persistent in his calls, so a couple of weeks later when Morgan encountered a friend who was anxious to move 15 pounds of weed, the first person he thought of was Dallas Boggs. Morgan became the intermediary for the deal, taking Boggs to his friend Frank’s house for a look at the money and the grass.
“I felt really strange,” Morgan said, “everything was going too quick, too fast. I walked outside and I saw all these cars going up and down the street. I guess they had been following him [Boggs] and had lost him. So Frank and I and Dallas went outside and we all said, ‘Yeah, let’s get out of here and meet down at the Safeway.’ As soon as I got in my car I said to myself, ‘Heck, I’m getting out of here, I’m not going to no Safeway.’ I took off down the hill and before I knew it I was followed by two cars. They got me at an intersection where one guy jumped on my hood and shouted, ‘Don’t move, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your head off.’ “
Frank took a six-month sentence on a possession charge, but it simply was not Dave Morgan’s year. He had been out of jail two weeks on $10,000 bond from the dealing charges against him and was driving to his weekly kung fu class when an errant motorist rammed the back of his car, sending Morgan to the hospital for a continuing series of traction treatments for his back – an injury that still gives him trouble.
Morgan was majoring in criminology at the College of San Mateo and making money by selling rugs at a shop in Mill Valley and doing some occasional gardening. A native San Franciscan with no previous arrest record, he had hoped that the enlightened age would see him get a break at probation or at least a light jail sentence. So, without any firm promises from the district attorney, he pleaded guilty to one of the ten counts of sales against him. He was allowed to remain free on bail until his sentencing, scheduled October 9th, and he rather counted on using the money from his share of the boat party promoted by himself and two friends to pay for Rockhill’s efforts on his behalf over the last year.
The boat rents for $600. If you sell the maximum of 400 tickets at three bucks each, you come out with a profit of $600. Split three ways, that would leave Morgan with at least $200 to put down on his lawyer’s fees. It’s not clear just why, maybe because of the interest around the College of San Mateo or Skyline College, but boat parties have become something of a fad among the young people scattered through the bedroom communities that ramble south of San Francisco down through San Mateo County. Nearly everybody agreed with Morgan that it was a good idea–Rockhill thought so, Morgan’s older brother thought so, his dentist thought so, and even Arnold Peters, the rule-talking old fellow who had become Morgan’s probation officer, thought so.
Morgan signed the contract with cheerful W.C. Helman, manager of the Red & White Fleet. Everything was cool for October 1st from 7 to 10 PM. “Have fun,” Helman said. Morgan and his two friends passed the tickets around to other friends who sold them to other friends, and by mid-September everything was going just fine. Morgan also had some friends in a Peninsula rock group, Kimberly, and they agreed to play at a low price. A week before the Harbor Emperor was to sail on its fateful cruise, fleet manager Helman called back to ask Morgan if, because of boat problems, it would be all right to delay the departure time for half an hour. Sure, Morgan replied, that will just give people more time to get there.
After a remarkably dry spring and summer, the scuzzy clouds and damp fog that moved through the Golden Gate on the last day of September were welcome to most Bay Area residents. It was threatening rain for the first time in months, and a light mist was already glimmering in the streets of Portola Valley on the morning of October 1st. “The band and a few other people were over at my house that day,” Morgan recalled, “and we talked about postponing it because it was sprinkling. So we called down there to see if we could postpone it a week. But the guy said if we did postpone it, we’d lose the money already put in. So we said what the heck, if it rains, it rains.”
Morgan insists that he felt so sure the party would be no hassle that, “I would have invited my grandmother” – or even his probation officer.
Rockhill was already on the boat, and Napoleon Hendricks was standing at ease by the ramp after his initial tricky encounter. Morgan arrived with four crates of apples and pears, his contribution to the party. He went aboard with the crates and then returned to where Bob Van Amberg, stalwart captain of the Harbor Emperor, was standing counting heads and watching the clumsy work of his deck hands. Morgan gave Van Amberg the remaining $300 owed the fleet and Van Amberg smiled graciously. “Thank you,” he said warmly. “Have a good time on the boat. I hope everything works out fine for you.”
One of the rules in the contract for Red & White Fleet boat parties is that no booze may be brought aboard by the guests. The fleet picks up some additional money from sales of 75-cent drinks available at the on-board bar. Nevertheless, the nearby liquor store in Fisherman’s Wharf was doing a big business that Sunday night.
“The liquor store was really jumping,” one of the party-goers said, “and the clerk was out of his mind, he had a comedy act for everybody who bought a bottle. I got a bottle of wine and all of a sudden he was parlez-vousing me.”
Most of the people boarding the Harbor Emperor with its comic figurehead of Emperor Norton, legendary San Francisco eccentric, knew little or nothing at all about Dave Morgan and his problems. To them, it was an end of the summer bash on the bay, cheap at $3 a ticket.
“It was just a good idea for a party, you know,” said Jan Weeks, 20. “It really sounded fun.” Given a little more experience, it might also have sounded more than a little strange when the two guys in front of her in the line to board the Harbor Emperor began chatting among themselves. “One guy says, ‘Yeah, I just went by the office and picked up my ticket,'” Miss Weeks remembered. “We thought that was a little strange, but we didn’t give it a second thought, I mean, everything was cool, there wasn’t anything to worry about.”
Morgan’s girlfriend, Linda Stagner, 21, was collecting tickets at the entry ramp to the Harbor Emperor. By 7:30, nearly everyone had arrived. Kimberly was thunking into tune on the lower deck of the triple-level boat and drinks were already beginning to flow when a group of five black couples barged past Linda and headed aboard the boat. Linda protested lamely, but the couples ignored her.
“What the hell,” Morgan told her, “if it’s just a few people, it’s not worth the hassle.”
Marilyn Wheeler, an airline stewardess who had just come in earlier that day from a New York flight, was passing through Fisherman’s Wharf when she encountered a crowd of kindred spirits setting out for the Harbor Emperor. On an impulse, she bought a ticket and came aboard.
It was 8 PM when Van Amberg finally helped his white-suited deck hands release the lines and the Harbor Emperor began backing out of the slip into the bay. Everybody cheered. It looked like it might not rain after all. With a grind and a thick iron clunk from the transmission, Van Amberg shifted the Harbor Emperor into forward and she pulled out into the clear water, headed in the general direction of Oakland. Off the starboard side, the red neon sign welcoming ships to San Francisco glowed through the light fog. One of the lights had burned out, making the sign read, PO T OF SAN FRANCISCO. Everybody cheered again, and several people lifted their glasses in a toast to the sign. The deck hand standing by the bar grinned broadly and did likewise.
Kimberly went into action and the iron floor on the lower deck filled up with shoulder-to-shoulder boogying. The Harbor Emperor sailed merrily on, and if there was anything detracting from the mellow good feeling on the boat, it was the self-conscious shiftiness of the deck hands. Even on the relatively placid San Francisco Bay, you’d think they would have developed better sea legs. They hung around the gangways at each level, constantly looking around with side-to-side movements of their heads as if they expected somebody to jump overboard. One white-suited worker seemed to have a fetish about cleaning the ashtrays.
People who had been on parties like this before noticed that instead of the dim cocktail-lounge lighting used on the lower deck in earlier trips, this time the whole boat was brightly lighted. It made it a little difficult to see out the windows, but nobody seemed to really mind.
Ted Marszalec was in the head pouring himself a drink from the private supply he’d brought on board when the chunky deck hand with the stiff-trimmed sideburns that made him look as if he’d just got out of the Air Force came in. “Brought your own, eh?” he said.
“Yeah, well, it’s Ok, isn’t it?” Marszalec answered cautiously. The deck hand nodded agreeably and Marszalec felt more confident. “Uh, you always have these kind of parties with so much grass around?” he joked to the friendly deck hand.
“All the time around this time of year,” Art Gerrains, San Francisco narcotics officer, laughed. “All the time. You go to school or something around here? . . . “
Linda Stagner was feeling good in the blaze of sound on the lower deck of the happy boat, good enough so that it seemed to her that everyone should join the party, including the solemn-faced deck hands. “C’mon,” she coaxed one of them, “dance with me.”
“Can’t,” he grumped. “We’re on duty.”
Morgan stood by the stairs to the upper deck, watching his party dance.
“Gee, this sure is a strange party,” deck hand Gerrains said in an offhand way, “Do you smell pot?”
“Uh, well, I don’t smell anything different,” Morgan fumbled, “there’s a lot of salt air going around.”
Upstairs, leaning over the rail of the Harbor Emperor, a couple we’ll call Jones was taking in the view of San Francisco with a little help from a friend. “I felt somebody behind me. You know how sometimes you just feel somebody behind you? And I turned around and there was one of the deck hands with a big smile on his face. ‘Smells good,’ he says, and I just nodded and turned around and passed it to my old lady. I mean, it was just me and her. . . . ”
If there was anybody more out of place on the boat than the clumsy deck hands, it was the black couples who had crashed the gate. For all their eagerness to get on board, they seemed determined not to mingle with the crowd. They stood apart, sipping drinks and giving off some cold-stare vibes that nearly everybody caught and avoided aggravating.
THE Harbor Emperor churned on across the bay, far to the side of Alcatraz and Angel Island, under the Bay Bridge, chugging in and turning slowly around in the Oakland Estuary for the voyage back to her San Francisco dock. Morgan felt a little cheated as the boat came about. She had left an hour late and it appeared the party would arrive back in San Francisco right at 10 PM.
Few others really noticed. The party was moving up to full tilt, and so far there had been nothing to spoil it, not so much as an angry word.
Rockhill, still uncomfortable in the crowd of younger faces and driving music, settled himself into chatting with pilot Bob Van Amberg. They talked about the weather and about Bob’s brother, who goes simply by the name Van Amberg in his nightly local television newscasts.
The boat was moving back along the shimmering San Francisco waterfront again, and Morgan was circulating around the crowded dance floor, waving to friends who by now had clustered into little cliquish groups that staked out tacit territories of their own around the boat.
“I want to talk to you,” one of the black gate-crashers unexpectedly said to Morgan. The powerful looking man had on a flashy suit and a soft silk scarf knotted around his neck and he kept putting his right hand up around his breast pocket. The oriental woman with him didn’t say a word.
Morgan flashed that maybe the guy was carrying a gun–Christ, a boat-jacking, he thought. “Well, uh, talk to me here,” he said to the man.
“Huh? . . . Huh? It’s too loud, I can’t hear ya. Let’s go upstairs.”
Half in fear out of what might be coming if he went and half of what might happen if he didn’t, Morgan walked with the man up the stairs and picked a table near the second deck bar.
“I hear you’re running this thing,” the man said, adjusting his coat again as he sat down. “Well, I’m one of the guys involved in it.”
“Yeah, well, I got a lot of money, and I want to buy some stuff.”
Morgan nearly freaked. “Hey, no, man, this is a party,” he said, getting up from the table, “there’s nobody selling dope on here.”
“Well, I heard you had some that was for sale . . . “
“Whoever told you that is mistaken,” Morgan protested. Linda was approaching by this time, and Morgan was beginning to see things more clearly. “I think I better talk to Rockhill,” Morgan told her, “where the hell is my attorney. . . . “
Downstairs, the music was going so strong and the dance floor was so full that few people even noticed the Harbor Emperor was turning into the long water alley to squeeze back into the dock. It was early enough so that tourist stragglers still wandered around the cluttered fish smells of the wharf.
“It’s the last dance!” Jones shouted to his wife. “C’mon. C’mon. . . . ” The dance floor was still jammed as the Harbor Emperor nosed into the dock with low gurgles of her engine. Jones glanced out of one of the big windows on the lower deck and could not believe what he saw. “I just grabbed my old lady by the arm and dragged her back to our table and as carefully as possible started emptying everything I had out of my pockets onto the floor.” One of the waitresses came by and looked at Jones. “That was the best thing you’ve ever done,” she said.
People were half dancing and half staring in disbelief. Kimberly’s beat had slowed distinctly, but nobody seemed to notice. “There’s cops,” somebody said incredulously. It started to snow baggies from the upper deck. They drifted down and landed gently on the water and just sat there with infuriating flotation. On the enclosed lower deck, there were tiny tinkling sounds of roach clips hitting the metal floor.
“It looked like Berkeley,” one celebrant said.
All of pier 43 1/2 was crowded with blue-suited cops packing long brown clubs – at least 30 of the uniformed variety and a stack of plainclothesmen who stood ominously with Sergeant Jack O’Shea over near an itchy pack of reporters and TV cameramen. There were four police dogs placidly resting on their leashes, and up on the street, the first of three paddy wagons could be seen waiting. The Harbor Emperor eased herself up to the dock, Van Amberg keeping her speed down to make this big moment a perfect landing. The band kept working and people kept sort of dancing as she bumped into the dock and drifted away a little to bump back again. Napoleon Hendricks was already out, ski parka over his jump suit, scrambling with the ramp to the big sliding door.
The door rolled open, diagonally across from the band, which was at last coming to a stop, and it looked like somebody just turned on the sun. Television camera lights blazed in, and people shielded their eyes with their hands to peer out at the line of uniformed cops, some of whom were now nervously slapping their heavy riot batons into the palm of one black-gloved hand.
“Well,” somebody in the band said with resignation, “it’s a bust.”
Jerry Kalb was standing next to the pert little stewardess, Marilyn Wheeler. “Ahh, they got to be kidding,” she said innocently.
Morgan, meanwhile, was still looking for Rockhill when a friend ran upstairs shouting, “Dave, Dave, there’s an army of cops on the docks.” In a near panic, Morgan ran over to the rail nearest the dock and nearly fell over at what he saw. He was there just long enough to get a view of the welcoming party when Napoleon Hendricks grabbed him on one side, and Art Gerrains, the deck hand nearly everybody met in or around the bathroom, grabbed him on the other and began rifling through his pockets.
“Mr. Rockhill! Mr. Rockhill!” Morgan shouted frantically, trying to get into his kung fu stance before the two bigger men wrenched his arms behind him into the handcuffs.
Ted Marszalec’s brother-in-law, Chuck, saw what was coming and dashed upstairs to find his wife, forgetting that she was sitting agape at the table behind him. The first two club-carrying cops came right after him. They caught him at the top of the stairs and Chuck made a sound like agghh, as they whomped one billy club around his neck for a firm hold. He had gone limp as they dragged him back down the stairs past his stunned brother-in-law. “Here’s the keys,” Chuck said, holding the little bunch of metal objects out to Marszalec.
“Nothing’s getting out of your hands, motherfucker,” the cop said, pulling the club up tighter. As they dragged him through the doors, the cops managed to turn the limp body around so the TV cameras could get a clear shot.
Jan Weeks and Ken Burkett decided to wait it out. They sat at a table as calmly as possible, finishing their drinks. Jan had double-checked to be sure, but there was nothing in Burkett’s pockets to even get rid of. They were doing their best to take it merrily as they at last decided to join the line being urged by the cops to “get out of here, move it.”
“It didn’t seem like we had anything really to worry about,” Jan remembers thinking about the time they came to the doorway and Sergeant O’Shea pointed at Burkett and said, “Take him.”
“What for? What for?” Jan started yelling, following the cops as they took Burkett into custody. “Will somebody please tell me what he’s being arrested for? . . . ” Just out of view of the cameras, one of the cops suddenly grabbed her from behind by the hair. She wrenched back and the cop instinctively swung at her head. Burkett, looking back, started to pull away. Four cops landed on him at once. Somehow, in the brief struggle, half his goatee was pulled out.
Ted Marszalec came off the boat and stood up the ramp watching as police again searched his brother-in-law. The two exchanged a look and shook their heads in mutual disgust.
“Him. Get him,” Art Gerrains said, pointing to Marszalec.
Marilyn Wheeler leads one of those flashy stewardess lives. As she told people on the boat, she has dated San Francisco cops before and, well, she looked a little furtive as she left the Harbor Emperor.
“Her,” O’Shea ordered.
“Oh, no,” the stewardess shrieked. “I didn’t do anything! I’ll lose my job!” Big tears were forming on her cheeks as they led her past O’Shea to the paddy wagon.
“Well,” the burly sergeant observed, “you could always be a waitress.”
Napoleon Hendricks was plainly getting frantic, practically jumping out of his white coveralls. “Did you get the lawyer? Did you get the lawyer?” he shouted. “Lawyer? Who’s the lawyer?” one of the uniformed cops was heard to say.
Where the hell was Rockhill anyway? The out-of-place attorney had lost track of his new friend, Van Amberg, soon after the busy captain began talking on the two-way radio prior to docking. In the confusion, Rockhill had stood off to one side with his law partner, Moriguchi, uncertain of just what their role in the whole thing could be, save to bail a few new clients out of jail. When it looked less chaotic, they marched to the door.
“That’s him! That’s him!” Hendricks cried gleefully. “That’s the lawyer! Arrest him for being in a place where drugs were used. I saw him.”
“Me, too,” said O’Shea, who had waited on the dock during the cruise.
“Just a minute,” Moriguchi put in.
“Him, too,” O’Shea said.
In all, 45 people were arrested as they left the boat. Those who were not came off the ramp through a gauntlet of cops and newsmen staring at them. “You’re lucky,” cops were saying to people who made it through. “Now, get out of here.”
Jones figured he might just have a heart attack before he stepped off the ramp. Straight ahead of him was that smiling deck hand, waiting. Jones braced himself as best he could and walked forward. To his amazement, the deck hand looked right past him to the couple following Jones and said, “the next two.” Jones walked by thinking of miracles.
The paddy wagons were full and ready to go when O’Shea appeared on board the Harbor Emperor with a large paper sack. He stepped over to a table and dumped out a pile of baggies.
“Technically, we could have arrested them all,” he announced, “but Chief [Donald] Scott said only to arrest those using or dispensing.”
The sergeant allowed that he had used some personal discretion in picking up others who, he explained, “looked stoned.” Most of those arrested were charged with possession, being “under the influence” or being in a place where drugs are being used. O’Shea explained later that the whole operation was carried out at the request of San Mateo County officers who had word of some “big dealers” going aboard. Dallas Boggs had made the big time. And maybe Morgan should have insisted that his probation officer come along.
As for pilot Van Amberg, he saw it as part of his civic duty. “Well, the police called me the night before and said they just wanted to observe,” he explained. “They didn’t want to make any arrests unless it got really out of hand. I didn’t see much myself, a little marijuana maybe, but I guess you gotta know what to look for. It must have been out of hand.”
THE SENTIMENTS precisely of the weekend newscaster on channel 7, the station Van Amberg’s brother broadcasts for on weekdays. The fair-haired, weekend newsman read it as the lead item on the 11 PM news and added his own ad-libbed comment with a little clucking twitch at the side of his mouth.
“So, Peninsula parents, if you’re wondering where your kids are tonight . . . “
All the way across town to the Hall of Justice, Marilyn Wheeler had been crying. She’d lose her job for sure, and, come to think of it, she didn’t even have enough money for a phone call. All she had left were Mexican pesos.
“All right, get out of there,” O’Shea barked like a drill sergeant as the paddy wagons pulled to a stop in the basement of the Hall of Justice. “And keep your mouths shut. Put your left hand on the shoulder of the person in front of you and walk straight ahead.”
Don Pizziconi, a round-faced guy with a panda bear build, started protesting. “Wait a minute, I want to know my rights, I want to know what this . . . “
Numerous people among those arrested said they saw Pizziconi lifted right off his feet and spun around in mid-air just before a cop threw a side arm punch that landed full force in Pizziconi’s crotch and crumpled him to the concrete floor.
“Turn around! Face the wall!” one of the cops shouted at the others. Ted Marszalec hesitated too long. The cop he recognized by now as O’Shea raced up to him, his face boiling with rage. “Turn around or it’s going to be you,” he shouted, shoving Marszalec headfirst into a car.
Jan Weeks was standing a few feet from where the blows were landing on the handcuffed Pizziconi, and she had taken about enough. With courage that men in the crowd thought suicidal, she took her hand off the shoulder of the person in front of her and loudly demanded, “Ok, look, somebody tell me what I’m being arrested for.” The same cop, who she too said was O’Shea, charged over, a rolling barrel of rage. “You, you bitch, you’re the one who tore my shirt!” he screamed, yanking her back by the hair. “You cunt.” The little group of uniformed cops standing nearby began to chuckle and guffaw.
“What do you think you are,” the gutsy Miss Weeks said to one of them, “playing God?”
“Here, lady, I play God if I want to.”
Nobody was booked or bailed out before 3 AM. By that time, somebody finally had loaned Marilyn Wheeler a dime for a phone call.
BY MONDAY afternoon, a third of the 40 men, five women and two juveniles arrested had copped to lesser charges of being “around and about a place where drugs were being used,” in exchange for a $25 fine and a 15-day suspended sentence. It’s an interesting law, one that suggests that people really should have manned the lifeboats when they, as Van Amberg said he did, saw a “little marijuana” aboard.
As Jan Weeks said later, “Twenty-five dollars, you know, I couldn’t get off cheaper than that if I got a lawyer to fight it.” A week later, bruises on her neck and arms were still visible.
The police laboratory reported the haul of illicit drugs from the Harbor Emperor as 39 grams of hashish and four ounces of marijuana, but the investigation was still underway.
Down the Peninsula, the local press had given it heavy coverage, implying that some local heavy dealers had been nabbed – particularly Dave Morgan.
Morgan and Rockhill agreed that it might be better if he took a new attorney with him when he appeared for sentencing October 9th on the nearly year-old bust for sale of grass. Attorney Tom Bruyneel asked Judge Howard Hartley to delay sentencing Morgan until October 30th so the new attorney could familiarize himself with the case. Granted. Then prosecutor Tim Fox asked the judge to take judicial recognition of the press reports on the big boat bust. The gruff judge refused, but allowed the DA to explain the circumstances and move to cancel Morgan’s bail and jail him pending sentencing.
Peters, Morgan’s probation officer for the last few months, was there too with his report, which duly noted that the defendant and 44 others had been arrested a week earlier. “Defendant was responsible party who chartered the cruise boat” on which he was busted, Peters noted. He recommended that Morgan be sent to prison on the earlier charge. Judge Hartley looked at Morgan for a moment and then ordered him locked up until at least October 30th.
The new charges against Morgan include possession of marijuana, possession of dangerous drugs, encouraging minors to break the law and maintaining a place for the sale and use of marijuana.
So far, no physical evidence against him has been produced, but Morgan remembers seeing that natty gate-crasher as he was led handcuffed off the boat that night. The guy was standing there with the rest of the cops, smiling.