SEXIS WRONG

Off I went for my arraignment, where I met for the first time
my fellow “conspirators”: Milt Luros, the owner of the publishing
company; Bea, his wife and co-owner; Mel Friedman,
who had called me the day before; Stanley Sohler,
Harold Straubing, and Paul Wisner, who were editors; Bernie
Abramson, head of their shipping department; Elmer Batters,
a photographer; and two other writers: Sam Merwin and
Richard Geis.
The “obscenity” involved a handful of books and nudist
magazines. Mind you, the magazines were the Sunshine and
Health sort of thing: naked people playing badminton, with
here and there a bare bottom or a limp something—it was
difficult to be sure what—flopping around. Nothing, I should
think, to excite anybody, though admittedly I know people
who get hot and bothered reading cookbooks.
The other defendants were named in numerous individual
charges, plus the blanket conspiracy charge, but I was named
only in the conspiracy, which would turn out to be significant
in time.
We appeared before the judge to plead not guilty. I will admit,
I was scared. And miffed. It was as we were leaving that I
first met US Postal Inspector Donald Schoof, the mastermind
behind our criminal case, who took me aside and whispered
in a presumably seductive tone that he could make things
easier for me if I would testify for the government.
Understand, I was no outlaw, no experienced criminal, but an
upright, law-abiding citizen. My only prior legal mishap had
been a distressing incident in which an unhappy wife named
me as co-respondent in a divorce trial, one of the tamer episodes
on Oprah today, but heady stuff in 1956 Dayton, Ohio,
where it was guaranteed to get a laugh. And it did, but it did
not carry the threat of ten years in the big house.
I was furious. Surely they knew from their investigation that I
knew none of these people, and fondle where
he might, Mister Schoof was not going to have
his way with me. Besides, I felt sure they had
only to reread Gloria to see their mistake.
They didn’t, apparently. Our trial began in
Sioux City in October 1965. Frankly, neither
Gloria nor I would have set foot in Sioux City voluntarily—but
federal law allowed charges to be brought where the material
was shipped or received or anywhere in between. It would
certainly be easier to get convictions in Sioux City than Los
Angeles, but sad reality was, none of these books or magazines
had ever been seen in Sioux City; even if they had, they
would have been “under the counter.” No overt forking in
America’s breadbasket.
I have to say that the experience was interesting, if only because
book people are almost invariably interesting. It is not
a business that attracts dummies—as, say, postal inspection
might. Under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed
spending time with these people.
Milt Luros was a graduate of New York’s prestigious Hunter
College, who set out to print quality art books, a not particularly
profitable line. In short order he was printing sexy
stuff—for others, initially, but eventually for himself. His field
of business notwithstanding, Milt was a polite, soft-spoken
gentleman of the old school. I liked him a lot.
I liked Bea too, but she was as loud and crude as Milt was
polished. At lunch her fork was in everyone’s plate, just in
case you got something better. And while she ate yours and
hers, she talked in a shout. Still, she was good-natured and
took a Jewish Mama’s interest in everyone’s personal woes.
Plus, she was very funny. I think she liked me because I always
laughed.
The most fascinating of our group was Stanley Fleishman,
Milt’s longstanding lawyer, and probably the country’s leading
First Amendment attorney; certainly one of the profession’s
most colorful.
Having survived childhood polio, Stanley was left with nearly
useless legs and walked all his life with crutches, which he
sometimes used to advantage in courtrooms. Outraged by
a prosecuting attorney’s question, he would leap to his feet,
forgetting those shriveled limbs. While everyone held their
breath, Stanley swayed, seemed about to fall, and, at the last
possible second, remembered to seize a crutch. By this time
the prosecutor’s remark had lost its sting or was forgotten
altogether.
Milt hired a second attorney, legendary Texas criminal lawyer
Percy Foreman, already known as another Clarence Darrow
(he would in time represent Jack Ruby). A tall, folksy
He took me aside and whispered in
a presumably seductive tone that he
could make things easier for me if I
would testify for the government.
man with a drawl and a mop of white hair in his face, he was
scarcely any less dramatic. There were rumors that he drank.
I never saw the bottle at his lips, but his breath once cleaned
the spaghetti stains from my blouse.
Still, with ten years hanging over my head, I didn’t feel much
inclined to laugh. I was even less inclined as I listened to witnesses
testifying falsely regarding meetings I had attended,
phone conversations, etc. Frightening, and none of it true.
Had the jurors even looked at this material? I can say for sure,
THE VIRGIN DIARIES 227