We once had a judge--Herbal Smoot we'll call him--that liked to have an evening toddy or two. Or ten. Or twelve. Then he liked to get in his little fastback car and drive home. He lived fairly close to the old PD, at 8th and 8th South, and we'd see him trying to get the horse in the barn without running over all the chickens. I decided to have a talk with him.
I explained to him that we didn't want to see him--or anyone he encountered--killed and he was welcome to give us a call if he drank too much and needed a ride home.
"Don't want any special considerations," he said.
"It wouldn't be," I countered, "we take lotsa folks home." And we did. This was before the personal injury Aholes started suing us if we took the guy home and, after he got there, he got in more trouble. This was a time before total avarice and greed. Now if the cops stop you for excessive drinking, you're going to jail.
Judge Smoot was noncommittal but did say, "I might give it a try. I certainly don't want to drive when I drink."
"Just give me a call," I said, "or anyone at the station. They'll be glad to assist you."
The very next night my phone rang. I recognized the voice. Now Judge Smoot was a brilliant man, an accomplished orator, except when under the spell of liquid stupid. " Smoooosh, here," he'd say or something like that, "and when I drivel I don't drunkel. Or I don't dink when I dunk. Or drunk when I drink. Or something nonsensical like that. Anyway, I got the idea and took him home or arranged for it to happen.
And we did that for several years. Then, for some reason, he quit the heavy drinking, and never called again. Maybe it was old age. Maybe a medical reason, but he dropped the excessive part.
We were happy for it. We liked Judge Smoot and certainly didn't want to see him the victim of drunkling while dribbling. Or whatever.
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