Case of Stupidity in First Degree

This is the city. Los Angeles, California. My name is Downey. My partner’s name is Friday. I carry a press badge.

July 24, 4:10 p.m.: We were working the day watch on the continually busy sports criminal investigation beat when a call came in from the Chavez Ravine baseball division.

In the parking lot of a prominent athletic facility, three individuals--a 33-year-old woman, an 11-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl--allegedly had been injured by an exploding device, possibly an M-80 artillery simulator or “cherry bomb,” tossed from a moving vehicle occupied by three adult males who had just participated in a game between competing professional teams from Los Angeles and New York.

Our captain assigned us to investigate.

“Who threw the firecracker, Cap’n?” I asked.

“Apparently, one of the New York Mets,” he said.

“Hit anybody?”

“No. It landed at least six feet away.”

“Figures,” my partner said.

“How’s that?”

“Mets haven’t hit anything all year.”

We nodded.

July 25, 11:45 a.m.: We each ate a grilled hot dog for lunch, then spoke to a Mr. Eric Davis, an employee of the Los Angeles Dodgers National League Baseball Club who had been driving the automobile in question.

Mr. Davis told us that he had been contacted the previous evening by his employer, a Mr. Fred Claire, who had telephoned him at home to inquire about the alleged incident. Mr. Davis said that he was shocked to receive this phone call and “thought it was a joke.”

Yes, a “firecracker” indeed had been thrown in the Chavez Ravine parking lot, Mr. Davis said, not by him but by a passenger inside his vehicle, a Mr. Vincent Coleman, 31, of Flushing, N.Y., whom he described as both an opponent and a friend.

“Vince was with me and thought it was a joke. We all did. So don’t try to make something out of it. Everybody throws firecrackers. The guy had a firecracker and threw it six feet from my car. We were laughing about it when we drove off. Every time someone lights a firecracker, you laugh. At least, I do. I’m a humorous type of guy.”

We nodded.

12:05 p.m.: We attempted to speak with Vincent Coleman inside the visiting clubhouse of Dodger Stadium, but were rebuffed in our attempt. Press badges notwithstanding, Mr. Coleman gave us a look that would saw a Louisville Slugger in half and said angrily, “Keep the bleep out of my locker.”

“Did he actually say bleep?” our captain asked.

“No, Cap’n.”

We nodded.

4:45 p.m.: We tracked down eyewitnesses who had been in the parking lot when the M-80 had allegedly exploded. One told us that he “thought it was a bomb at first.”

Another was far more specific.

“It was Coleman, man. He was in a car with Davis and some other guy. He just tossed it out the window and it landed about six feet away. It was one of those M-80s. It exploded big. Right after they threw it, they drove off real fast, laughing.”

I turned to my partner.

He said: “And I know why they were laughing.”

“How’s that?”

“Because they’re humorous types of guys.”

We nodded.

July 26, 9:15 a.m.: As the Los Angeles Fire Department’s arson unit continued a separate investigation, my partner and I checked into the conditions of the three victims injured by the alleged exploding device. The woman reportedly said she had experienced vertigo and a ringing in her ears. The 11-year-old boy had a lacerated shin. The 2-year-old girl’s beautiful face bore ugly red welts. Her parents wanted the culprits brought to justice. So did we.

Before leaving on a business trip, Mr. Davis issued a public statement of apology in which he said he “did not know that a passenger in my car was about to do something that might injure someone.”

We dug into the background of Vincent Coleman, the alleged perpetrator.

“Isn’t he the one whose leg got snagged in that automatic tarpaulin in St. Louis a few years ago?” my partner asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Too bad.”

“How’s that?”

“Too bad he got loose.”

We nodded.

3:33 p.m.: An informant in Queens, N.Y., reminded us that this was the same Vincent Coleman who, earlier this year, had accidentally bludgeoned a business associate, one Dwight (Doc) Gooden, with a golf club.

Our source said: “Somebody also lit a firecracker inside the Mets’ clubhouse after that pitcher who loses all those games, Anthony Young, lost another game.”

“Yeah, but there’s a big difference between Vincent Coleman and Anthony Young,” my partner said.

“How’s that?”

“Anthony Young’s not a loser.”

We nodded.

July 28: 7:11 p.m.: We investigated a report that spray-on bleach, which can cause skin burn and blindness, was aimed at a newspaper reporter by another New York player. According to team members, reporters simply don’t understand a baseball player’s wacky sense of humor.

“You know how guys wear pin stripes at Yankee Stadium?” my partner asked.

“Yeah?”

“They do at San Quentin, too.”

July 29, 4:22 p.m.: Vincent Coleman finally surfaced. He said he wasn’t such a bad guy. “I, personally, in the last few days, have been portrayed as an insensitive, non-caring. . . . “

“Criminal?” I asked.

“Jerk?” my partner asked.

We nodded.

The story you have just read is true. While awaiting the outcome of a intensive investigation by the Los Angeles district attorney’s office, Vincent Coleman continued in uniform for the New York Mets. Pending formal charges, he faced the distinct possibility of being accused of almost incredible stupidity.