My first day working with the Home of the Western White House, as the Cotton Estate was becoming known everywhere in and around the town of San Clemente, wasn’t a workday at all.  After reporting in to the remarkably strange and alienating H.R. Haldeman, there was nothing left of the day.  I went home, preparing some civilian outfit my wife and I thought might please Haldeman since everyone I’d seen at the compound had been wearing a coat and tie.  Anything would obviously be better than my Marine officer’s uniform.  Later in the day, I received a call at home to report to the San Clemente police chief, a call I couldn’t really follow up on or refuse to respond to.  At three p.m. I drove to the police department, built halfway up a big hill overlooking the city, as a part of the fire and administration offices for San Clemente.

I didn’t have any idea of what to expect when I approached the front counter of the police department.  A man with a name tag reading “Bobby Scruggs” sat talking on a desktop radio handset.  I presumed him to be the department’s radio dispatcher.  He looked over at me, didn’t stop talking, but motioned me around the counter and toward a closed door.  I went through the unlocked door and stood in an unadorned undecorated white hall.  At the end of the hall, I could see another door.  Printed on that door was one word; “Chief.”  I went to the door and found it also to be unlocked.  I opened it and stepped inside.  A woman sat at a desk, a big smile on her face.

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