Photo of the Day

Thanks to the Reagan Library's Vatican Exhibit, you don't have to be Catholic to go hand-in-hand with a saint.

Sex, Lies, Violence and Cover-Up at the University of California

Students are protesting again.  They are subdued compared to the brick-throwing, establishment-busting rampages I saw as a student in UC Berkeley, but their complaints against the University of California, which calls into question the prestigious institution's basic humanity, are serious and deserve public attention.  The recent conflicts arose over the University's failure to protect students from sexual predators.

A lawsuit has been filed claiming that administrators did not adequately address accusations of sexual abuse, and also discouraged students from filing complaints.  A UCLA professor who allegedly fondled young women and stuck his tongue in their mouths, was disciplined, but then allowed to continue teaching on campus.

The University's casual attitude toward the safety of female students is disturbing and dangerous, but not unexpected.  The University has been, and continues to be, guilty of much worse.

Victims who have been violated by their teacher, like women to whom Bill Cosby was a mentor before he betrayed them, undoubtedly suffered deep psychological wounds.  But, their lives went on.  They did not suffer permanent physical injuries inflicted by an unknown assailant.  They did not have to wonder why that assailant was never pursued, and why the University of California lied to them and about them; why the University wrote demonstrable falsehoods on hospital records and accounts distributed by the campus police department and administration which covered up the crime.  They did not lose their livelihoods because of their injuries.  They did not have to fight a Goliath like the University of California without benefit of a salary, Workers' Compensation, good health or health insurance.  And, they did not have to live with the burdening fear that someone wanted them dead, and that person, the perpetrator of the attack--not the victim!--was being protected by the authorities.

In a previous post, my niece and I told the story of a UCLA employee who was brutally beaten and raped.  As immigrants, she and her husband were panic-stricken when the University tried to blame him for the attack.  He was still humiliated and terrified weeks later when he heard about the parking lot attack on another UCLA employee, a psychiatric nurse.  He warned the nurse about UCLA's cruel treatment of crime victims, but begged her not to tell anyone what happened to him and his wife.  Their lives had been forever devastated.

Dizziness, headaches, nausea and either insomnia or horrific nightmares began to deplete the nurse's physical and emotional resources, but inhuman abuse, inflicted by the University of California, nearly destroyed her spirit.

The nurse's doctor was pressured to send her back to work.  He refused, telling UCLA that she had been mugged and was lucky to be alive.

She asked the California Nurses' Association for help.  They ignored her.

When it was revealed that campus police had dismissed the attack as "just an injury," the nurse's family hand-delivered a complaint to the Chancellor's office.  Eventually, UCLA conducted a putative internal investigation and a detective interviewed the nurse.  He apologized for the failure to go after the assailant.

A month later, he said, it was unlikely the assailant would ever be caught.  But, the detective promised to post the crime, as the law required.

It wasn't done.  And nothing came of the 'internal investigation," except that the case was submitted to Workers' Comp.

The nurse asked again for assistance from the California Nurses' Association.  Again she was ignored.  Weak, debilitated, and still unable to process her thoughts properly, the psychiatric nurse reluctantly accepted her inability to return to work.  Because of continued harassment, she left the job she had once loved.

The Workers' Comp. investigation dragged on for months, delayed, apparently, by UCLA's refusal to grant access to campus police records.

Then, the University changed providers without informing the nurse.  By the time her family tracked down the new person in charge of the case, they were told it was too late for an investigation because of the looming statute of limitations.

Anxiety, pain, fear, frustration and severe weight loss had now caused a dangerous decline in the nurse's condition.  Still, she was told her only recourse was to file a lawsuit within the next few days.

Again, the California Nurses' Association ignored her pleas for help.

The family filed a lawsuit for her, but asked legislator Sheila Kuehl to intervene with UCLA in order to avoid the legal action for which they were unprepared.  A female staffer curtly told them that UCLA had explained everything already.

How?

In a letter written by a campus police representative and disseminated by the administration.

She sent the nurse a copy.  It was full of obvious lies, including what was to become the University's repeated response to every question:  The University was sorry, but it was unable to determine the cause of the nurse's injuries.

Period.  Case closed.  Then a judge dismissed the nurse's lawsuit when the lawyer for UCLA stated that the delay the nurse asked for would be an unfair financial hardship to the University.

The family wrote letters to Sheila Kuehl's office, to the University, to the CNA, to the Justice Department, to Senators Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein, and many others complaining about UCLA's treatment and refuting the many lies in the letter it used to deny the nurse justice.

A typical response came from a female staffer in Dianne Feinstein's office:  "You keep writing as if you expect us to do something."

A ridiculous concept, really, politicians who actually do something for the people.

Years later, when the nurse was in ICU after more than fourteen hours of surgery, she learned of another lie perpetrated against her by UCLA.

A doctor--not the one who treated her--lied on the nurse's medical records, turning an attack which caused a severe concussion with multiple head wounds into "a laceration" from a fall.

Complaints to authorities, including UC President Janet Napolitano, the California Nurses' Association, Supervisor Sheila Kuehl, the Justice Department, even California Attorney General Kamala Harris, were ignored.  At least the outgoing president of UC wrote the usual regrets that the University was unable to determine the cause of the nurse's injuries.

So whatever happened to "women supporting women?"  Where was the California Nurses' Association when it was needed?  Why is there outrage, sympathy, sisterhood, for sexually violated women, but nothing for a woman whose entire life has been destroyed by violence?

Not suggestive enough?  Or what?

In the future, we will print some of the actual correspondence between the nurse and authorities who, instead of being advocates for victims of abuse, became adversaries instead.

Some of us do feel the outrage.

Einstein is Still Not an Einstein

The ancient Greek philosopher Pythagoras knew his way around a right triangle and proved it with his Pythagorean Theorem,  which even today, is well known to every student of geometry.  Harder to prove was his notion of the "Music of the Spheres," a theory suggesting that planets harmonize as they orbit in the heavens.  But now, we learn that Apollo astronauts did claim to hear music from the far side of the moon.  While not proof, it is an intriguing suggestion that the old genius was on to something.  The prescient Pythagoras said nothing about what black holes do in space.  Maybe because they hadn't been discovered yet.

That hasn't changed.

But wait a second, you might say.  Didn't scientists just gleefully announce the detection of gravitational waves as two black holes merged?  And that's two black holes, not just one.  Isn't that like double proof that black holes actually exist, and have, in fact, been discovered?  And at a cost of a mere 1.1 billion dollars?

Considering all that scientists achieved, wasn't it worth it to pour over a billion dollars into two black holes?  Especially since no one ever detected even one black hole after over fifty years of searching?

Well, what exactly did scientists achieve?  Did they get exceptionally clear photographs of the heavenly union?  Of course not.  Black holes are invisible, and, in fact, may exist only in the minds of imaginative astro-physicists.

What scientists at the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory achieved was, "...ripples in the fabric of space-time called gravitational waves..."

Ripples.  Really?

For over a billion dollars, scientists felt the earth move, but just barely.  And only with their technologically advanced equipment.  Ordinary mortals missed the event entirely.  We have to take the word of scientists for what happened--and, if it happened, we have to take their word for what it meant.

But why did these barely perceptible--and possibly anomalous--ripples matter?

Because matter matters.  And energy.  And because Alfred Einstein matters.  The world of science worships him and refuses to let go, even though his General Theory of Relativity--theory, mind you--has been impossible to prove during about a hundred years of trying.

In Einstein's theory, the Universe is an enormous geometric "fabric" in which time and space are one inseparable entity, existing as in the sphere of the Universe.  All that is, all that ever was, all that ever will be, exists now, and can actually be accessed by scientists.  It is this theory, this hypothesis, this lovely concept that allows advanced and specially-equipped telescopes to supposedly travel back in the space-time continuum to capture the death of stars from billions of years ago.  But what are they capturing?  To call dying stars Supernovas sounds impressive, but, in reality, what is seen is nothing more than flashes of light.  And the dimmer the flash, the farther back in space-time it is.

Or is it?  Infra-red images are colorful, but they are proof only of a camera's ability to capture pictures of light.  Even though some scientists hope to hop on the space-time continuum and travel back twelve billion years to witness the creation of the Universe at the Big Bang, that explosive event remains only a theory which other scientists dispute.

However Einstein's Universe was created, his theory of space-time was problematic.  The hypothesis that matter caused warps, or distortions, in the fabric of the continuum could not be proved.

In the mid-20th century, the scientific community came up with the concept of black holes, which are created, it was theorized, as stars or planets collapse into themselves and disappear from the continuum.  This disappearance, along with the disappearance of its "warp" from the continuum, causes gravitational ripples which travel through the earth.

This "ripple" hypothesis, based on the "black hole" hypothesis, based on the "warp" hypothesis, based on the "space-time continuum" hypothesis is what science spent 1.1. billion dollars to prove.  If every hypothesis was proved, Einstein's theory would appear in a better light.  But none of it was proved.  Einstein's theory remains a theory.  Maybe he wasn't such an Einstein after all.  He certainly wasn't a Pythagoras.

It Didn't Start With Bill Cosby

My niece, writing partner, and intrepid guide through treacherous historical terrain, is an accomplished player in the "What if..." game. She and I spend considerable time in the past and often indulge in this pleasantly futile pastime.

For instance, what if Ulysses S. Grant's oldest child Frederick had become William McKinley's vice-president instead of Teddy Roosevelt? Yes, Frederick Grant. It could've happened. If it had, America would be very different today. In some ways, better. Fred Grant was a great man with a noble, enlightened vision for the future. He had none of Roosevelt's false and destructive bravado. We paid tribute to him in our screenplay, "The Wars of Julia Grant," but what's a tribute worth when he was denied the presidency?

On a personal note, I deserved a job on the "Bill Cosby Show." Or did I? What if I had gotten it? Would it have become a nightmare? I can't help wondering, what if?...even though it leaves my stomach slightly unsettled.

Before the "Cosby Show" became a series, Marcy Carsey, the executive producer, invited me to her home to watch the pilot episode. The prospect of a job as a staff writer filled me with irrepressible joy. I was humming, singing, tingling with excitement as I drove to Westwood for our meeting. My agent had hand-delivered one of my scripts to her and she liked it! If she and I got along, I'd be heading for New York. Or so I thought.

I really needed the job. As a student in Berkeley I didn't have a TV, didn't go to movies, and pretty much disdained show business. Too trivial for the likes of lofty me. Fate--in the form of a fellow student with a summer job in Los Angeles--changed all that. I was persuaded to write a script. It was a joke, really, done for a laugh, but it got me a job in Hollywood. My friend's summer employer, Tom Pollock, warned me to "watch out for the sexuality at Paramount." He wasn't kidding. What I witnessed on my first day there made me cringe. An aging, distinguished-looking gentleman with a fancy walking stick caught my attention. He seemed charming in an Old Hollywood sort of way. The charm faded fast when he used the walking stick to lift a secretary's skirt. She didn't smack him, possibly because her job was at stake. Neither did the next object of his scrutiny, who, I would learn, was an actress whose feigned delight during these ugly encounters honed her skills and kept her working.

But I was a writer. I assumed that exempted my legs from an appalling inspection by the predatory producer. It didn't. He approached, waving his walking stick. I bolted. And I kept my distance from then on, often making a spectacle of myself in the process. According to one secretary, I was mocked as the most naive person on the lot.

It was a common practice among the secretaries to exchange anecdotes about their bosses' lurid activities. No one called it sexual harassment--and certainly not rape. It was business as usual. Show business as usual. Those in charge felt that being successful entitled them to act out their infantile fantasies. And what was wrong with that? they would probably have said. Weren't they also providing opportunities for women to advance?

I once criticized a well-known producer-writer for famously lurking around high school cheerleaders and offering his chosen few--or many--"auditions." He cheerfully responded that he felt like "a kid in a candy store," and how could I blame him for enjoying himself? And didn't I realize how happy these young girls were to get close to someone who could make them a star? Harvey had convinced himself he was practically being a humanitarian. But deep down he knew--and it bothered him--that without his position of power, he would face ridicule and rejection from these Teen Queens who were now fawning over him.

One secretary laughed bitterly when she said, "Show business was made for men who couldn't get a date in high school." It was obviously true for many executives, whose success in show business couldn't displace feelings of inadequacy which plagued them from childhood. It was that nagging inferiority that caused them to take advantage of frightened, vulnerable, or desperately ambitious women. Women they saw as equals were liable to destroy their egos by rejecting awkward, offensive advances.

"What Makes Sammy Run?" screenwriter Budd Schulberg was the son of B.P. Schulbert, a Paramount executive in the 1920s. In his autobiography, "Moving Pictures, Memoirs of a Hollywood Prince," Budd wrote about his philandering father's passive sexual abuse of the women who depended on him for their careers, including the beautiful but tormented superstar, Clara Bow, for whom Budd felt a special fondness, even though he unfairly considered her a "dumbbell."

Budd Schulberg

Not only did executives like B.P. use women to enhance their adolescent sense of "manhood," they used the movies for their personal wish fulfillment. What they couldn't do themselves, they voyeuristically slapped onto the silver screen. Movies became repulsively pornographic, violating every code of common decency, with scenes of unrestrained violence toward women. Hollywood had gone too far, and in 1930 Will Hays was called in as the official arbiter of unacceptable screen behavior. He toned down the sex and violence, but a legacy of slightly more subtle behind-the-scenes abuse remained.

Of course, not every man at Paramount had a terrible attitude toward women. Many intelligent, sensitive, creative human beings worked there. Some became good friends of mine. One of them gave me the best job I ever had at "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," and its sequel show, "Forever Fernwood." The executive producer, Norman Lear, was elderly, but the rest of us were young, idealistic egalitarians. I believe the idea of slipping drugs into a woman's drink would have embarrassed and outraged the men who were forging a New Hollywood.

Unfortunately, Fernwood was not really Forever. It eventually disappeared from the TV map and became only a pleasant memory for those of us who worked there. I was forced to enter the freelance arena. But not for long. Or so I thought.

A sweet old-fashioned husband and wife writing and producing team offered me a job on what would become an inexplicably successful sitcom. All I had to do was meet with the executive producer to get his stamp of approval. Just so he wouldn't feel left out. Things went well. He and I talked amiably about nothing for awhile. Then he remarked that I reminded him of a farm girl. And wouldn't I have fun in Benedict Canyon, watching his corn grow? Not exactly. I mumbled something stupid about vegetables not appealing to me. He looked displeased, and that was the end of that job.

Now I was on my way to meet one of the most powerful women in television--and she liked my work! What could go wrong! Nothing! And nothing did. Marcy Carsey lived in a lovely, but unassuming house in Westwood, not far from UCLA. I met her husband, who was charming, and her child's nanny, who was probably a student. Marcy was attractive in a pleasantly modest, unadorned way. She was soft-spoken and easy-going--not at all tense, brittle, and pulsating ambition as I might have thought. We chatted. I mentioned that Bill Cosby was once the opening act for the Kingston Trio. My sisters took me to the concert when I was a kid and we all fell in love with Bill--as well as the Kingston Trio. Marcy was also a fan, which made me like her even more.

We were getting along so well, I regretted having to interrupt our conversation to view a silly sitcom. But, it had to be done. Marcy showed me to a room, put on the pilot, and left me alone to watch. About half-way through, the nanny poked her head in to ask what I thought of the show. "I like it," I said. She made a face. "Really?!" Her disbelief reminded me of me. When I was in school, nothing about television--and especially sitcoms--seemed worthwhile. But now I was being honest. I would like--even love--any show willing to reward me with a paycheck.

When our meeting ended, Marcy walked me to my VW Beetle, which was parked in her driveway. "Are you taking that to New York with you?" she grinned. Then she said something about talking to the guys about me--there were other producers involved, including Cosby. They must've said no, because I didn't get that job either. The show went to New York without me.

When "Cosby Show" became a television sensation, Cosby produced other shows, one of which tantalized me with the possibility of a job. I was called in for a meeting with the female producer--I've forgotten her name and the name of the show--it was that memorable. She arrived late, after what she said was a tough meeting with Bill. It was very late in the day and we were both tired. After a pleasant conversation, she shook her head morosely and said, "You don't want to work here." I did...but I didn't.

After Cosby's major hit ended, he did another show, this time produced by my old boss at "Mary Hartman." He sent me the pilot from New York, and again I allowed myself to dream of a fat paycheck. It didn't happen. The show disappeared fast and left me disappointed.

The "What if..." game haunted me. I wanted to work for Cosby, but what if I had? If I learned what he was really like, it would have been intolerable. Would I have quit? Would I have thrown a fit? Who knows? It's much easier to think about Fred Grant as president.

Deflategate, the Exhibition!

The "Football!" exhibition at Simi Valley's Ronald Reagan Presidential Library shows that deflated footballs have a long and honorable history.

The game's about more than just airless pigskins, though:

Crime and Lack of Punishment at UCLA

Who cares about violence against women?  Everyone?  The media, definitely.  But what about UCLA?  That's a different story--one my partner in crime and I are about to tell.  Partners in writing about crime, that is.

We know of two cases where UCLA covered up violent crimes against women.  One was an employee who was brutally beaten, raped, and left for dead in a UCLA parking lot.  Her husband--terrified by officials--says they tried to blame him for the crime.

It was never reported, as required by the federal Clery Act.

The other victim--not just of an unknown assailant, but of a devastating cover-up by her employer of thirty years--was a psychiatric nurse at the University's prestigious Neuropsychiatric Institute.

When the assault was first reported, police refused to investigate, then later lied about it in writing.

At the Medical Center, doctors ignored the conclusion of the attending physician and transformed a severe concussion from multiple head wounds into "a laceration" from an unconscious episode.

The University obstructs every effort made by the victim or her family in her behalf for justice and compensation for the loss of her health and career.  The victim is left incapacitated, traumatized, and without salary or insurance to deal with permanent physical damage.  And no one seems to care.

In a civilized society, where massive doses of media outrage are directed at victimized women, how can this happen?

Here's how.

It's early Saturday morning.  The psychiatric nurse enters parking lot 8 after working a double shift at NPI.  She wakes up an hour later, lying face down in a pool of blood on the ground.  The campus police station is in plain sight, a few yards away.  The parking office is on the same level, a few feet from where she has lain.  But, for an hour, no one has come to her rescue.

Instinct tells her to flee to a place of safety.  She staggers to her car, blood still dripping onto her face, and drives home.

The instant her family sees her, they know she's been attacked.  They assume the perpetrator was one of the violent patients with whom she works.  They've attacked before, but never this viciously.  And injured staff don't leave the hospital covered with blood.  Family members are frantic.

Dazed and barely coherent, the nurse tells them it happened in the parking lot.  It--something--someone--must have knocked her unconscious.

They call the unit before rushing her to UCLA's emergency room.  Nurse Ginny, who answers the phone, is told to warn the staff and alert campus police because "a maniac is loose in parking lot 8."  Ginny later says that the officer who took her report sounded oddly disengaged.

Two women at the emergency room admitting desk are prepared for the nurse's arrival.  They casually mention that parking lot 8 is always deserted on Saturday mornings.  Inexplicably, they assert, and argue with the victim's family, that she wasn't attacked.  She "just fell."

Two police officers arrive.  They enter the dazed victim's room, spend a few moments there, and leave.  This is to be the extent of their investigation.

A month and eight days later, Manny Garza, Operations Lieutenant for the campus police, writes a letter which the University will repeatedly use--along with falsified medical records--to successfully obstruct the victim's pursuit of a hearing.

The letter states, "UCLA Police Officers responded to the Emergency Room after being called to investigate an on-campus injury."

No.  They were called to catch an assailant.

"They had only a general time and location."

No.  They were told exactly where and when.  If they had walked those few yards, they could hardly have missed the large pool of blood which was later washed away without being tested for DNA evidence.

The letter also says they "interviewed" the victim who "did not know how she sustained the injury."

No.  They could not--and did not attempt--to "interview" a patient, lying in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.  If they had interviewed her, she would have said she was knocked unconscious.

"The officers inquired if she was the victim of a robbery.  She indicated that no property was missing from her purse."

No.  She didn't have a purse.  It was a backpack, which no one had checked.  But if the officers had checked it, they would have ascertained that the backpack would have cushioned a fall and prevented injury to the head.

"Based on the limited amount of information provided and no indication that a crime occurred, the officers concluded that the incident would be documented as an injury investigation."

No.  A crime was reported.  The officers had a duty to go to the scene.  They had a duty to look at the head wounds, which could not have been sustained in "just a fall."  The wounds were not just an "indication that a crime occurred," but proof of it.  This specious police letter is in itself proof of a failure to investigate.

None of this matters to UC administrators.  Lies are the only weapon they have against efforts to hold them accountable.  The victim's only weapon is truth.

During her three days in the hospital, the nurse continues to feel dizzy and nauseated.  She has trouble processing her thoughts and starts having nightmares.  Her attending physician finds nothing wrong, other than the after-effects of an assault.  Before releasing her patient, Dr. Meserve, who also uses parking lot 8, and has fears for her own safety, urges the victim's sister to check on the police investigation into the crime.  The campus police tell her the "investigation is ongoing."

The victim's outside doctor, who also teaches at UCLA, tells her he is being harassed by UCLA to send her back to work because she suffered only "a laceration."

He corrects this misrepresentation in several FAXES, which UCLA claims to have lost.  He gives his patient copies which say he still felt tremendous spasm in her neck, that she was lucky to be alive, after being "Mugged in UCLA parking area--unconscious--hospitalized--dizzy...neck injury."

About a month after the "incident," campus police detective Duenas also concludes that an attack occurred.

When the nurse can't cope with the insomnia and nightmares, she seeks help from a therapist.  The therapist learns that no investigation ever occurred, and the police never acknowledged that a crime was committed.

Stunned and incapacitated, the nurse asks her sister to file a complaint with UCLA, the Regents, the California Nurses' Association, then-Assembly member Sheila Kuehl, and the Department of Education, which oversees violations of the federal Clery Act, which demands that campus crimes be posted.

Detective Duenas calls and sets up an interview.  His is the only actual response.

At the meeting with the nurse and her sister, Detective Duenas apologizes for the lack of security which allowed the crime to occur, but, he says, the campus is "just too big" to be properly policed.

Damming words indeed.

He also apologizes for the lack of a proper investigation, and promises to post the crime on the police website.

This never happens.

Unfortunately, says the detective, it is unlikely the "assailant" will be caught a month after the "assault."

He asks the nurse and her sister if they have a theory of the "crime."

Manny Garza's letter, which is a total misrepresentation of the interview, says the sister was "adamant that her sister was the victim of assault.  She even offered two theories, one of which was a conspiracy..."

A "conspiracy," huh?  The sister sounds a little goofy, doesn't she?

But, several more than "two theories" were offered, and no conspiracy was ever suggested.  However, this letter begins to look like one, doesn't it?

One theory overlooked by Mr. Garza was the violent ex-patient or current patient scenario.  The nurse and her sister recounted their return to UCLA to pick up MRIs.  A former patient accosted them on the sidewalk and behaved in a dangerously inappropriate manner.

Another suppressed theory had the victim unknowingly witnessing illegal activity.  A drug deal, perhaps?  Everyone seemed to know parking lot 8 was "deserted" on Saturday mornings.  It was also open and free to the public.

Later it would be learned that body parts from UCLA were being illegally sold.  Were they transported from parking lot 8, perhaps?

The so-called "conspiracy theory" alluded to in the police letter actually worried the victim and her family.  But it had nothing to do with a conspiracy.  They felt it might have been a straightforward murder attempt, perpetrated in behalf of a man who accused UCLA of murder.  He accused the nurse of lying to cover up for UCLA's crime!

This, and another theory involved more of UCLA's failures to protect its employees.  And worse.  But those will be dealt with at a later time.

The letter calls the Detective Duenas meeting a "follow-up interview."  It says, "The investigators advised her that we would not likely determine the cause of her injury and there was no further information to follow-up on."

No.  There was no such conversation!  The issue was not "the cause of her injury."  That was irrelevant, especially a month later.  The issue was insufficient security, and the refusal by police to investigate.  Why didn't they investigate?  That was unnerving.

"We are considering the incident closed," the letter says.  It wasn't, and it never can be, not as long as UCLA continues to lie and inflict further pain on the victim with this cover-up.

"Thank you for your letter..." outgoing University President Mark G. Yudof wrote, "...regarding the University's investigation into the cause of the injuries for which you were treated..."

"...the cause?"  Haven't we already established that "the cause" was never an issue?  And it certainly was never mentioned in the many letters written by the victim and her family.  But that was always the response they received.

The UC President goes on, "I understand that William Cormier, UCLA's Director of Administrative Policies and Compliance, has responded to you on this matter on February 4, 2013, April 3, 2009, and March 13, 2009.  As I hope you will understand, the Regents and I have nothing further to add to what he has already said."

And what had William Cormier "already said?"

"This confirms that the UCLA police found no evidence of a criminal attack, as you assert took place in connection with the injuries you sustained in a UCLA parking lot structure..."  Finally, "We regret the injuries you incurred at UCLA, but the University considers the matter closed."

And in the February 4, 2013 letter:  "I regret that you remain dissatisfied with the University's investigation into the cause of the injuries for which you were treated..."

They really made use of that police letter, didn't they?  And it's looking more and more like a conspiracy, isn't it?

Three months after the incident, Cynthia Cohen, UCLA's Director of Human Resources, is conducting her own investigation and discussing compensation with the victim for the loss of her ability to work.

More time passes.  Eventually, Cynthia Cohen says she will conclude her investigation by reviewing the interview with Detective Duenas.

That's the last this nurse ever hears from Ms. Cohen.  Did she see the discrepancies between that meeting and the police letter?  Or was she not allowed access to campus police?

Six months after the incident, Octagon, the claims administrator for the University of California, is investigating.  That goes on for months, with no apparent success.

It's now early August.  The nurse is virtually bedridden and terrified by her deteriorating condition.  Without a salary, without compensation for her losses, resources are being seriously depleted.

The family calls Octagon to urge a more rapid resolution.  But the University replaced Octagon with Sedgwick as their claims administrator.  No one informed the nurse.  And, for days, Sedgwick can't find her files.

It is now August 9th, nine days before the one year anniversary of the "incident."  Nine days before the statute of limitations denies the nurse her day in court.  The claims administrator denies the claim without investigating so that the victim can file a lawsuit.

This isn't so easy.

The family frantically seeks help.  Even Gloria Allred is contacted.  She doesn't respond.

In a panic, the family files suit on its own.  It also files complaints with numerous elected officials, including the Attorney General, District Attorney, City Attorney, and then-Assembly member Sheila Kuehl.

A Sheila Kuehl staffer curtly insists that the University did nothing wrong.  To prove it, she sends the nurse a copy of the police letter.  The family reads it, refutes it, but hears no more from Sheila Kuehl's office.

The family asks the court for a brief delay based on the new evidence of malfeasance in the letter, and the need to find an attorney.

In a surprise appearance, the University's attorney argues against what should be a routine continuance.  But the delay of even a few days, says the attorney, would constitute an unfair financial burden for his clients.

The judge agrees.  And the case is thrown out.

The family writes more complaints.  Much later, then-Congressman Henry Waxman's office contacts the University in behalf of the nurse.

He writes back, "According to our liaison at UCLA, she has spoken with the General Counsel, Mr. Joe Mandel, and was informed that because you have a pending lawsuit, he can not comment on the situation."

No.  There was no lawsuit.  But calling and writing to Congressman Waxman did no good.

After years of escalating health problems, the nurse is hospitalized and undergoes more than fourteen hours of surgery.  During her nine days in intensive care, she and the family learn from nurses that her medical records are false.  It was not just a bureaucratic error that caused UCLA to refer to "a laceration."  The medical records state she suffered "an unconscious episode" and received "a laceration" as a result.

"I have been lied to, and lied about for too long," says the nurse.  "It has made my life an unrelieved hell.  I wrote it all to the usual suspects, like UC President, Janet Napolitano, but nobody responded.  At least," she adds with a grim chuckle, "I didn't have to read again that UCLA is unable to determine 'the cause' of my injuries."

The Night Tony Randall Recued the Swedish Seafarers

I recently heard the news that Atticus Finch is now a bigot.  How could this be?  "To Kill a Mockingbird was one of my favorite novels in high school.  Atticus touched my heart and inspired me; he convinced me to pursue my education in U.C. Berkeley.  How could a gifted author allow the beloved her she created go bad?

I dug up my old copy of the iconic book and began to leaf through it.  What I discovered revived memories of the night Tony Randall seized the opportunity to become a hero.  Really.  Sort of.

It wasn't the book, but the postcard I found tucked inside it that brought the story to my mind.

The incident began with a phone call I expected and did not want to receive.

"When are you coming to see the play?" Tony asked.  He and Jack Klugman were doing "Odd Couple" in the theater.

I wanted to say, "Never!" I can't help it; I don't like plays.  I usually get bored, or annoyed.  I feel trapped.  And you can't really get up and walk out.  Although, this time...

"I can't afford the theater," I whined.

"Silly girl!  You don't pay when you're with The Star," he said.  He often called himself, "The Star."  It was a role he played for our amusement.  His caricature of the self-important celebrity also provided a usefully commanding persona capable of controlling every situation.  It put him in charge.  Like this time.

Tony picked me up the next evening.  And he was right--I didn't have to pay for a ticket.  Neither did he.  Inside the theater, we approached a small crowd that had gathered.  It looked like the casting call for a beach party movie.  I definitely didn't belong.

The gorgeous, sun-tanned group was crowding around the young man Tony knew, who was either the stage manager of his assistant.  I've forgotten which.  A lovely blonde who spoke with a soft Scandinavian accent was the focus of his attention as we joined them.  We learned that Carina had been an exchange student who lived with the family of the stage manager, or he was the exchange student with her family in Sweden.  I've forgotten that too.

She and her friends were taking time off from school to work on a ship which transported cars to foreign ports.  The stage manager had invited them to see the show when they reached Los Angeles.

Tony played official greeter to the foreign visitors and impressed them with his charm, even though they had no idea who he was.  Then he bade us farewell, leaving firm instructions with the stage manager to accommodate us with good seats.  Which he did.  We just didn't have them for long.

When the play started, the Swedish group was delighted to see their greeter appear on stage.  "He's the actor!" one of them murmured.

Hans, a shy, but exceptionally good-looking member of the crew, leaned over to me and whispered, "Is he your father?"

Without warning, a grim-faced older man in a suit loomed over us, making a gesture with his hand that strongly implied we shouldn't get too comfortable.

"You can't stay in seats you didn't pay for," he growled in low, menacing tones.

The young Swedes were mortified.  It didn't bother me; I was happy for the chance to move around.  What I bitterly resented was the embarrassment my new friends were suffering.  And why?  There was no queue waiting for those seats.

Before we knew it, we were being marched to the rear exit--like naughty grade-schoolers herded to the principal's office--then around to the stage area.  This cold-hearted official deposited us at the side of the stage, where, remarkably, we had the best seats in the house.  Except, we were standing.  The whole stage was visible and we were closer than anyone in the audience.  I actually preferred it, but...

This didn't last long either.

Tony's character, the famously anal-retentive, fastidious Felix Unger, was delivering a line when his head turned to the side for a moment.  He noticed me.  His eyes flashed.  The Star was angry.

When the scene ended and the curtain went down, Tony stormed off the stage.

"I will not go on until my friends are seated!" he thundered.  And off he went to his dressing room.

The Star was imperious.  The Star was autocratic.  The Star was also a hero to us exiles.  Moments later, we were being escorted back to our seats by a contrite official whose only wish was to be worthy of our forgiveness.

My friends beamed with relief as we finally settled down to enjoy the rest of the show.  None of it, however, could have been as memorable as the performance Tony gave for our benefit off-stage.

I had been re-reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" when the postcard arrived from Japan.  Carina wrote, "...We were pleased to see Tony Randall starring in one of the movies we had on board the ship...Please say hello to him for us."

I did.  He feigned modesty and waved off my praise, but I could see how much he relished the reminder of his heroic--if somewhat theatrical--rescue of the Swedish visitors.

Carina's postcard remained a forgotten bookmark near the end of "To Kill a Mockingbird."  Now I remember why I didn't finish it.  I didn't like it all that much.  The character of Atticus wasn't as convincing as he had been to an impressionable high school girl.  He seemed contrived.

Harper Lee's "new" book was actually written before "To Kill a Mockingbird," but it gathered dust for decades.  Is it possible that the Atticus of "Go Set a Watchman" is the character written from the author's heart?  And was "Mockingbird" written grudgingly--cynically--just to please her publishers?  Or was Truman Capote really the author after all?

I won't read the "new" book.  And I'll try to resurrect the Atticus of my early high school days.  Heroes are hard to come by.