Keen Eye May Turn Golf Heckler Into Jail Birdie

Like millions of other golfers, Phil Walden watched the recent U.S. Open on television. So did Charles Bell, his golfing partner and fellow deputy district attorney.

When a police officer was called to escort a heckler off the course at Brookline, Mass., Walden leaned forward for a better look. And, when Jack Nicklaus commented that the heckler was known as Kodiak Charles, Walden was already on his feet, approaching his TV.

About that time, the telephone rang. It was Bell, who was up in Lake County and similarly captivated by the emergence of Kodiak Charles, a.k.a. Charles Samir Abdennour, 28, a well-known pest on the PGA Tour.

In April, 1987, a judge in Vista sentenced Abdennour to three years of probation after he admitted skipping out on a $2,523.17 bill at the La Costa Hotel & Spa during the Tournament of Champions.

He had bluffed his way into first-class accommodations by assuring innkeepers that Nicklaus was picking up his tab. He arrived from Los Angeles in a limousine, also billed to Nicklaus.

As part of granting probation on a felony conviction for fraud, Superior Court Judge David Moon Jr. ordered Abdennour to pay restitution and a $100 fine and to stay away from Nicklaus and other golfers on the tour.

It is unusual for TV cameras to focus on a heckler’s removal from the course, and it seems certain that, without Nicklaus, who had been eliminated from the tournament and was finishing the weekend as a commentator, no mention would have been made of Kodiak’s name and history.

But, once Walden, who supervises the district attorney’s North County office, and Bell, his top assistant, were back at their offices in Vista, they checked with Judge Moon to see if Abdennour had paid his restitution (he hadn’t) and with the Brookline prosecutor to see if Abdennour had been taken into custody (he had).

At the request of Walden and Bell, Moon revoked Abdennour’s probation and issued an arrest warrant. Brookline officials put him on “hold,” meaning he will be shipped to Vista for sentencing after he goes to court in Massachusetts on a charge of disturbing the peace.

“We’ve got to protect our golfers,” said Walden. And what does Walden want for his quick work?

“Just one thing,” he said. “I’d like one round of golf with Jack Nicklaus at Augusta before next year’s Masters.”

Reduced to Ashes

The battle against smoking continues on many fronts.

A recent hot spot has been the Superior Court building downtown. When smoking was banned in the hallways six months ago, signs were posted and ashtrays removed.

Scofflaws found other places for their butts, including a metal gizmo bolted to the wall at about eye level near Department 35. After all, it look s like an ashtray.

It is not an ashtray, however. It is an electronic security device, with a tiny keyboard shielded by a metal plate. It opens up the locked door to an inside corridor when court personnel punch in a secret code.

After several judges and clerks reported scorched and filthy fingers, a small but emphatic sign was posted:

“This is not an ashtray. This is a security device. People stick their fingers in here.”

Cramp-aigning?

To the victor go the interior decorating spoils. That’s long been the rule of the San Diego City Council.

Newly elected council members generally have two impulses.

One is to start dreaming of higher office, and the other is to remodel their digs, usually to make them roomier and more comfortable.

No sooner do the polls close than the hammers and saws appear on the 10th floor of City Hall, followed closely by furniture salesmen and carpet installers.

So it was not unusual that freshman Ron Roberts ordered a $12,000 redo of the 2nd District suite he inherited from Bill Cleator.

But, in the process, Roberts did something virtually without precedent on the council.

He reduced the size of his personal office. To make room for his secretary and other assistants, Roberts had an inside wall brought in 5 feet, cutting his office space by about a fourth.

Gone is the area he at first devoted to his baseball memorabilia: the glove from Steve Garvey, the bats, the books, the balls from various Little League games.

Naturally, Roberts’ self-effacing move has created suspicion.

“Showoff,” grumbles an aide in a competing office.