proven. At the time we would reflect upon our transgressions the way an artist might admire his own paintings. Petra and I challenged each other to push the boundaries of our misdemeanors. Our crimes were childish, yes, but they possessed a kind of creative energy that was absent from your everyday vandalism. The following is the first co-list Petra and I created; however, many more would follow.
UNPUNISHED CRIMES: SUMMER 1993
1. 6-25-93
Relandscaped Mr. Gregory’s backyard. 1
2. 7-07-93
Drive-by.
3. 7-13-93
Stole 5 basketballs, 3 field hockey sticks, 4 baseballs, and 2 baseball gloves from phys ed storage closet at Mission High School.
4. 7-16-93
Dyed Mrs. Chandler’s toy poodle cobalt blue.
5. 7-24-93
Drive-by.
6. 7-21-93
Deposited a case of beer outside an AA meeting on Dolores Street. 2
7. 7-30-93
Drive-by.
8. 8-10-93
Filled out subscription cards for
Hustler
magazine on behalf of an assortment of married men in the neighborhood.
Our staple activity was what we called the “drive-by.” When lack of inspiration limited our nightly activities, garbage night provided a backup plan. It was simple, really: We’d sneak out of our homes after midnight. Petra would pick me up in her mom’s 1978 Dodge Dart (which Petra had stolen), and we’d sideswipe trash cans left out for the garbage truck. It wasn’t so much the rush of destruction that appealed to me and Petra, but more the narrow escapes. By the end of summer, however, my luck had run out.
I found myself in the interrogation room once again. This time it was different, since it was a real interrogation room in a real police department. My father wanted me to give up my source and I refused.
8-16-93
The crime: Six hours earlier, I had snuck out of the house past midnight, hitched a ride to a party in the Mission, and picked up a guy who wanted to score some blow. Although cocaine wasn’t my thing, the guy was sporting a leather jacket and a Kerouac novel and I have a weakness for tough guys who read. So I told him I knew a dealer—for reasons I’ll get to later—and I made a call, asking if I could “cash in on that favor.” Driving to my source’s house, I made the leather jacket guy from the party as an undercover cop and demanded he drive me home. Instead, he drove me to the police station. When it was established that I was the daughter of Albert Spellman, a decorated ex-cop, Dad was called in.
Albert entered the Box still groggy with sleep.
“Give me a name, Izzy,” he said, “and then we can go home and punish you for real.”
“Any name?” I asked coyly.
“Isabel, you told an undercover police officer that you could score him some blow. You then made a phone call to a man you claimed was a dealer and asked if you could cash in on a favor. That doesn’t look good.”
“No, it doesn’t. But the only real crime you’ve got me on is breaking curfew.”
Dad offered up his most threatening gaze and said one last time, “Give me his name.”
The name the cops wanted was Leonard Williams, Len to his friends, high school senior. The truth was, I barely knew the guy and had never bought drugs from him. What I did know I pieced together through years of eavesdropping, which is how I learn most things. I knew Len’s mother was on disability and addicted to painkillers. I knew his father had been killed in a liquor store shooting when Len was six years old. I knew that he had two younger brothers and the welfare checks did not feed them all. I knew Len dealt drugs like some kids get after-school jobs—to put food on the table. I knew Len was gay, and I never told anyone about it.
It was the night of Unpunished Crime #3. Petra and I broke onto school property to steal from the phys ed storage closet (I was convinced that a secondhand sporting-goods business would solve our cash-flow problem). I picked the lock to the storage closet and Petra and I moved the inventory into her car. But then I got greedy and remembered that Coach Walters
UNPUNISHED CRIMES: SUMMER 1993
1. 6-25-93
Relandscaped Mr. Gregory’s backyard. 1
2. 7-07-93
Drive-by.
3. 7-13-93
Stole 5 basketballs, 3 field hockey sticks, 4 baseballs, and 2 baseball gloves from phys ed storage closet at Mission High School.
4. 7-16-93
Dyed Mrs. Chandler’s toy poodle cobalt blue.
5. 7-24-93
Drive-by.
6. 7-21-93
Deposited a case of beer outside an AA meeting on Dolores Street. 2
7. 7-30-93
Drive-by.
8. 8-10-93
Filled out subscription cards for
Hustler
magazine on behalf of an assortment of married men in the neighborhood.
Our staple activity was what we called the “drive-by.” When lack of inspiration limited our nightly activities, garbage night provided a backup plan. It was simple, really: We’d sneak out of our homes after midnight. Petra would pick me up in her mom’s 1978 Dodge Dart (which Petra had stolen), and we’d sideswipe trash cans left out for the garbage truck. It wasn’t so much the rush of destruction that appealed to me and Petra, but more the narrow escapes. By the end of summer, however, my luck had run out.
I found myself in the interrogation room once again. This time it was different, since it was a real interrogation room in a real police department. My father wanted me to give up my source and I refused.
8-16-93
The crime: Six hours earlier, I had snuck out of the house past midnight, hitched a ride to a party in the Mission, and picked up a guy who wanted to score some blow. Although cocaine wasn’t my thing, the guy was sporting a leather jacket and a Kerouac novel and I have a weakness for tough guys who read. So I told him I knew a dealer—for reasons I’ll get to later—and I made a call, asking if I could “cash in on that favor.” Driving to my source’s house, I made the leather jacket guy from the party as an undercover cop and demanded he drive me home. Instead, he drove me to the police station. When it was established that I was the daughter of Albert Spellman, a decorated ex-cop, Dad was called in.
Albert entered the Box still groggy with sleep.
“Give me a name, Izzy,” he said, “and then we can go home and punish you for real.”
“Any name?” I asked coyly.
“Isabel, you told an undercover police officer that you could score him some blow. You then made a phone call to a man you claimed was a dealer and asked if you could cash in on a favor. That doesn’t look good.”
“No, it doesn’t. But the only real crime you’ve got me on is breaking curfew.”
Dad offered up his most threatening gaze and said one last time, “Give me his name.”
The name the cops wanted was Leonard Williams, Len to his friends, high school senior. The truth was, I barely knew the guy and had never bought drugs from him. What I did know I pieced together through years of eavesdropping, which is how I learn most things. I knew Len’s mother was on disability and addicted to painkillers. I knew his father had been killed in a liquor store shooting when Len was six years old. I knew that he had two younger brothers and the welfare checks did not feed them all. I knew Len dealt drugs like some kids get after-school jobs—to put food on the table. I knew Len was gay, and I never told anyone about it.
It was the night of Unpunished Crime #3. Petra and I broke onto school property to steal from the phys ed storage closet (I was convinced that a secondhand sporting-goods business would solve our cash-flow problem). I picked the lock to the storage closet and Petra and I moved the inventory into her car. But then I got greedy and remembered that Coach Walters
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