Trafford Publishing: Better an Honest Scoundrel: Chronicles of a Western Lawman

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Better an Honest Scoundrel: Chronicles of a Western Lawman

by Stephen T. Watts

325 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0962; ISBN 1-4120-0593-0; US$28.00, C$32.00, EUR23.00, £16.50

The life and times of Stephen Watts, a police officer turned private detective. This fascinating book chronicles Watt's time in the law enforcement profession, from street cop to Federal Investigator.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

This one deals with my law enforcement career and the second deals with a subsequent private investigation career. This book is true experiences that occurred during a 27 year law enforcement career and protrays my conclusions about police and the police world. My intended audience are people who have a general interest in the world of a detective. Those who are contemplating a law enforcement career might also have a interest. The manuscript has been well recieved by a variety of readers. Many of my police friends have told me they liked it and agree with my conclusions, but are uncomfortable with my not having supported police. As you read the manuscript you will see that I categorize police in percentage groups with some police being hero's and others being villains.

About the Author

Most of my adult life I have been a detective. A city detective on a police department. A criminal investigator with a State Bureau of Investigation and a Federal contract investigator with the U.S.Government. and finally a private detective and agency owner.

Sample Excerpts

. . . I explained about bickering over the price, and after reaching an agreement, he asked me to kill two other individuals. At this point Givens was on his feet objecting. He didn't want other crimes brought. I didn't blame him for objecting, I was watching the jurors as I testified and they and everyone else were quiet as I told my story. The judge overruled Givens' objection, saying that I could tell what I knew so I went on.
I told how Otto asked me about the weapon I would use and how he stated so emphatically, "I want that F---er dead." I told his account of harassment by the police. his story to me about being picked up and sent to Orfino to be evaluated, and of his obvious contempt for the evaluating physician. I gave the names of the other two businessmen Otto asked me to kill. I was watching the jurors and I could see recognition of the two men in their eyes - shock and revulsion.
While I was testifying I watched Otto sitting next to his attorney. He kept his head to the side and his eyes averted. I sensed hostility and defiance- he looked like a cornered weasel. He was dressed in western clothes, sporting cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. After the first day his clothes were rumpled. His hair was too long, his complexion sallow and he was handicapped from the start. But he probably looked better than he had in a long time. However, the comparisons of the two sides would not be confined only to appearances.
Over Givens' objections, we introduced the recording of the conversation between Otto and me in the Long Branch. The tape was broadcast to the jury. During my testimony I told of what was said between us but I did not go into how it was said and the language he used.
As it played, I relived the experience and was satisfied with how I played it out. I envisioned myself sitting on the jury listening. I saw myself sitting up in the witness chair as a tall, stalwart, good looking, open individual and I compared myself with the sleaze bucket sitting at the defendant's table taking refuge behind his attorney. That's the way I saw it and hoped the jurors would see it the same way.
As the tape rolled on, it became as real to the listeners as it was to me. I could see it in the faces of the jurors, the spectators, the court reporter, the clerk, the attorneys, all listening in rapt attention to the Hill-Billy music, the pool balls clicking and our voices as we conversed. Mine was modulated and low - normal, not unlike what the jury had been hearing during the past hours I had been testifying. They hadn't previously had a chance to hear Otto, to evaluate him as a person and now they were really hearing him.
I could see people recoil at the filthy language Otto was using. I had used the words, damn and hell, once or twice but it was like Sunday school language compared to his and had no impact at all. He did almost all of the talking, even bantering with the waitress and one of his acquaintances who briefly approached our table. The two made some demeaning sexual comments about a couple of women they tried to pick up a few days before and laughed about how rotten women are. While that part of the tape was rolling, I did not look at the women in the jury box as it did not seem fair to watch their embarrassment but I could see it among the spectators.
There were little things I hadn't spoken of being played out now, things you can't really describe, like a mean laugh, a caustic phrase, or viciousness in a voice. If all of the conversation, that we had, was expressed without emotion as if it was being read out loud by a third party, it would have been shocking. But to add emotion to that hour and a half of meanness, hate, fear, contempt but most of all viciousness, gave it a terrible power. It could not be shrugged off as just bar talk or fun.
Supposedly when people congregate in a bar, it is to interact with others, to relax and have fun. Nobody in that courtroom was having fun. The embarrassment could have been cut with a knife. The listeners were doing their best to mask disgust and I could see anger evident on many faces. The judge was staring up at the ceiling and I felt somewhat sorry that good citizens had to listen in the name of justice. This wasn't a radio broadcast that could be turned off because it was offensive.
Then it was over, and the courtroom was silent. Normally after someone testifies there is a kind of a buzz as spectators whisper to each other, and change their sitting positions. But this time, just silence, people just sat, staring ahead. But what could be said, everyone had just been confronted with depravity at its worst.
But we were not through. The judge cleared his throat and directed the question to the prosecutor's table, "Are there any other witnesses?"
Petrie replied, "Just one more your honor. I call Dr. John Armstrong". Everything was still, quiet, people started looking around and the bailiff called out loudly, "Dr. John Armstrong."
Everything was still again.
Suddenly the double doors coming into the back of the courtroom were flung open, and a very pretty woman, obviously a nurse wearing a brilliant white uniform, entered pushing a wheel chair. The man in the wheel chair was also striking in appearance, a man probably in his late forties or early fifties, a very good-looking man whose white hair was complemented by a high quality gray suit. His head hung slightly to one side and his arms were held awkwardly indicating that he was not in total control of his body. The thought raced through my mind that Hollywood in its best years could not have produced such a dramatic entrance. I was told that the doctor who examined Otto at the mental hospital was to be called, but I didn't know he was this handicapped. I didn't know his appearance was so striking. I was soon as touched by this man as all the rest of the spectators.
The nurse wheeled him before the clerk's desk to be sworn in. As he answered the question, "Do you intend to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," his voice indicated that he must struggle to speak, to form words and even though he spoke slowly, it was firm and loud enough for all to hear.
It is the prosecutor's duty, when presenting an expert witness to the court, to go through that expert's past history and education. This is to develop a basis for the court to be willing to accept him as an expert in his field. Petrie proceeded to ask about the doctor's qualifications. As he probed the doctor's background and experiences, the doctor took his time answering, obviously struggling to speak. He put out the kind of effort that caused me to want very badly to help him. I think everyone felt that way. Speaking is something that comes so easy to the rest of us; we don't even have to think. This man was gathering himself up, pausing, and then slowly framing words.
Your heart just went out to him.
With Petrie gently helping him, his story came out. He was originally from Seattle, Washington where he attended college, then medical school, and followed up with an internship in a major hospital, became a surgeon and returned to practice in Seattle. The Vietnam War was going on and he was told of a need for medical doctors to treat children, war victims in Laos and Cambodia. He responded as a volunteer, working in the jungle, treating those children for injuries and diseases.
When his tour was over, he volunteered again, and then again. He described the working conditions as horrible - lack of medicine, poor food, little chance to rest and stated that the experience eventually affected his health. He found himself unable to control his hands. Returning to the United States, unable to continue as a surgeon, he went back to school and studied psychiatry as he felt he could still make a contribution even though he was losing his mobility. After receiving his doctorate in psychiatry, he joined the staff of the mental health hospital in Orfino where he has practiced for the state the past couple of years. There wasn't a dry eye in the room.
As he struggled to speak clearly, this man's indomitable spirit just shone from him. Everyone in the courtroom could tell he just wasn't going to be handicapped in spite of the hardships life had dealt him. Here was a man who ruined his health, reaching out to people in need, people he didn't even know and to whom he had no obligation. When he was struck down, he took what he had left and went on to courageously build a new life serving others.
He was in the courtroom that day to report on his evaluation of Ralph Otto. The contrast between the two men was so striking and apparent, that I wondered how could two such opposites be of the same species, or even be on the same planet. I wasn't the only one wondering about that. I watched the jurors, watching the doctor struggle to speak and then look toward the defendant's table where Otto was slumped down. . .
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. . . Some people are hard to describe and Fred is one of those people. Sometimes it's easier to say what they are not. Fred is absolutely not boring, not conventional, not somber and dignified except when on the job, and we took great delight in being around him. No matter what the situation was, there was always laughter around the table, but he took his position seriously and winning was important.
There is a protocol that goes on in old western courtrooms that sets them aside from other parts of the country. The cowboy hat is important to its wearers. When true westerners come to court, they leave the battered Stetson at home and take the new brushed one, the one that's folded just so, curled slightly at the side brim and slightly dented in the crown. If you're new to the scene and don't know how important those hats are to the owners, it can startle you. These are gentlemen of the old school. When they enter the room, the hats are taken off and then as they take seats, the hats are carefully placed in the chair next to them. Those hats are treated like they were people. You are not expected to sit down next to that person, on his hat and he may think it's more important that the hat have a place to sit than you. These people can be very polite to you while they are trying to find you a place to sit but it won't be where the hat is. There seems to be no artifice or false straining. They take it for granted that hats come first.
When a trial is called and the courtroom starts to fill up with prospective jurors, observers and families, I avoid watching as I often burst out laughing. This is particularly true when the Salmon courtroom jury box is filled. I have seen a local rancher take his seat in the jury box and carefully placed his hat in the seat next to him obviously oblivious of the fact that there are only thirteen seats and they will need to seat thirteen people. As his hat's seat is taken by someone he has a confused look, almost a panic stricken look, as he stands with the hat in his hand. This is the first time he's come to the realization that there is not going to be a seat for the hat. . .
*******************************
. . .I've seldom been at a loss for a plan of action but now I was totally baffled. Allie's murder was over, her boyfriend had killed her. The law doesn't particularly care what reason he had, now that he's dead. He was a part of this group Allie told Red about, but she did not say the group was going to coerce him into killing her. There was no place I could go with this information, or so I thought.
Things were happening in Jim's and my assigned area of the state. In looking back I know I heard talk of some cattle being killed in the St. Anthony area but I wasn't interested, at least not enough to inquire further. We had other hats to wear to keep us busy, enough to not deliberately seek out new interests. I had recently been informed that among my other duties, I was to be the investigator to handle all cases of stolen airplanes in Eastern Idaho. Also Jim, I and all the other investigators were appointed as racing stewards in charge of investigating horse racing violations in the various race events around the state. These jobs were in addition to our regular duties with the bureau.
But maybe my real reason for not being interested was the same thing I was to run into everywhere in the coming months. What was happening did not fit into my little world of experience and knowledge and rather than having to deal with it, I could comfortably deny its existence. Not everyone could practice that luxury.
The sheriff of Fremont County, Tom Stegelmire, and his chief deputy, Terry Thompson, were good friends. Both Jim and I looked forward to traveling to the sheriff's office in St. Anthony and visiting. This in spite of the fact that one time I stopped in as Tom was going out the door and he asked me to go for a little ride with him. He acted kind of casual about it and I said, "Sure," and jumped into his car.
The next thing I knew, we were racing up the highway at a very high speed toward Island Park country, a high forested mountain plateau that serves both as a recreation area and summer cattle range. He explained we had a little problem, as he drove squeezing between logging trucks, that one cattleman allowed his cows to wander over on another man's pasture once too often and that rancher rounded them up and was holding them in his corral. The owner showed up, demanding his cattle back, and the rancher was threatening to shoot him if he touched the lock on his gate. He was also demanding a considerable sum of money to compensate for the loss of grass and he wanted his money before the cattle would be released. I told Tom that I probably wasn't suited to being involved in any cattle wars but he didn't pay any attention.
As we drove up to the corral, I observed two angry cowmen faced off, one behind the gate with a rifle in his arms pointed up just over the other one's head. The second one was beside his pickup and my guess was that he also had a rifle in that pickup as almost all western ranchers do. Tom jumped out of the car and walked between the two. I stepped out and took a position off to the side and casually pulled my coat back so that they would be able to see that big six-shooter high on my belt. I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.
Tom told the rancher with the rifle to put it away and open the lock, that the cattle were coming out. The rancher objected and Tom told him to open the lock or he would shoot it off. He said, " If you have a complaint against this man," waving toward the other cattleman, "you go to court and get it sorted out but we are not going to allow you to keep another man's cows." Everything stopped; the tension was, as they say, thick enough to cut with a knife. Angry emotions were playing across the men's' faces. Then with a angry snort the one with the rifle relented, set his rifle down, opened the lock and stood back glaring at each of us as the other rancher pushed his cattle out onto the road and drove them away from the corral. Tom told the first rancher not to start any more trouble and let the law handle things before they get out of hand. We got in the car and left.
Tom said," We were on our way to get a cup of coffee weren't we?"
I replied, "At least I was."
The inevitable happened. Dick Cade called Jim and me from Boise and said. "We're getting complaints from all over about what's happening up in Fremont County. Somebody who works at the atomic energy site at Idaho Falls went duck hunting there and was stopped by a group of ranchers with rifles who set up a roadblock and threatened to shoot him. . .

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