Robberies

"Being robbed hurts—not physically, but from what it does to your pride."
—John Boyega

I have had my fair share of robberies. The first one I remember occurred in Chicago. After Robbie and I had packed the car for a trip to Kansas City, we had stopped in downtown Chicago for a late evening snack at the Prudential building. We were walking down the dark street to our parked car when Robbie noticed that someone was messing with it. We both realized at once that we were watching a break-in. It made me furious and without thinking I charged at the thief just as he jimmied the car door open. By good luck, he was no bigger than me and was concentrating on his theft. In my fury I was able to surprise him and knock him to the ground. Then, while he was still disoriented, I shoved him into a nearby telephone booth and held him there while Robbie called the police. It never occurred to me that he might have a gun.

The police were fairly prompt, took our statement, and took the thief into custody. We exchanged information including the name of the prosecuting attorney who would probably be handling our case. The drive to Kansas City was uneventful but the more we talked about the incident the more determined we were to get this guy off the streets so he wouldn't be robbing other people. When we got to Kansas City, we called the prosecutor's office and were very disturbed to learn how our justice system operates. He told us that if this case followed the usual pattern the thief would get a lawyer who would get the judge to give him a postponement if we came back for trial. He would be allowed three postponements so the only way we were going to get justice was to make the thousand mile round-trip to Chicago four times. Losing faith in our justice system, we gave up.

Some years later, Betty and I were robbed three times in one year. The first incident was in Corsica when we were traveling in our VW Pop-Top camper. Being conscious of thievery, we parked our van in a crowded parking lot while we went to lunch. It was a typical Corsican lunch, a very leisurely three-hours with two bottles of excellent wine. We were in great spirits, until we returned to the van and a virtually empty parking lot. Our van had been broken into and my camera case stolen. I was sorry to lose the camera but even sorrier to lose the three precious rolls of undeveloped film shot over the two days we had spent extensively photographing the Benedict home in Cap Ferret. I had hoped to give the pictures to the Benedicts as a thank you for their hospitality.

Later, on that same trip, the van was broken into again, this time while parked on the street in Paris. The thieves took our carry-on bags with our passports and airline tickets. Fortunately, we were not flying back to the states for a couple of days, so we had time to get new passports and tickets. Six months later we were surprised to receive a letter with our tickets from a French lady who, ironically, had found them when her stolen car was recovered.

That winter we suffered our third robbery. We had left Expectation, our 44- foot cutter, at anchor in the bay on the French side of St. Martin while we went ashore for dinner. Expectation was locked up, but sailboats are notoriously easy to break into and the thieves had gotten our expensive binoculars and other electronic gear. There is something unnerving about having your space violated and we were very upset. The next morning, we went to the French police to report the robbery, and, to our astonishment, they had everything in their custody. Apparently, our thieves had left our belongings on the beach while they went to rob another boat. They plundered a huge pile of cash from that boat and took off rather than take the chance of being caught on the beach with our stuff.

Reports of piracy at sea made having a weapon on board seem like a good idea but the problem is you have to declare your weapons at every foreign port or face criminal prosecution. It can be a hassle and a lot of paperwork. My solution was to buy a sawed-off shotgun, paint the stock red and put it in a case in our head with a sign on it “flare gun, for emergency use only.” Of course, the shells were real shotgun shells. We never declared it, were never questioned when the boat was inspected, and luckily, never had an occasion where we felt we needed it. Later I acquired a pistol, which we hid under the huge bed in the aft cabin, and we never had to use it either.

Now that I can't see I would be an easy target for thieves. Hercules is a guide dog – not a watchdog – and he would probably lick any thieves that came along just like he does everyone else. Hercules does not have an enemy—he even loves the three cats that live outside our front door.