"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned"
From "The Mourning Bride" by William Congreve
March 19, 1928 — Orville Bond, a guy who lives in the suburban Los Angeles community of Monterey Park, won’t be going home anytime soon, thanks to his wife.
The wife, Lenore Bond, was frantic. Orville drove off in her automobile several weeks ago, and she hadn’t heard boo from him.
Three long weeks went by with no word from Orville.
Was Orville hurt and lying unconscious in a hospital bed? Or worse, was Orville dead?
Lenore didn’t have a clue.
But Leonore has a bit of the gumshoe, private eye detective in her. Somehow she traced her husband to a local hotel where he was shacked up with a couple of teenage girls — eighteen-year-olds from Arizona.
Lenore having no mercy in her heart for a husband who cheats on her with a couple of teenage girls, called the police.
Orville was quickly arrested when discovered in the hotel room with Irene Cooper and Helen Jordan.
Now, Orville swears he intended to marry Miss Jordan. Guess Irene was just along for the ride, or maybe she’d be the matron of honor. Something like that.
Doesn’t matter much.
Since Orville took these girls from Arizona across the state line into California, prosecutors plan to charge him with violating the Mann Act, the interstate transportation of women for immoral purposes.
As for Lenore, she got her car back. Will she take Orville back? What do you think?
For the Love of a Woman
March 1928 -- Thirty minutes with the woman he loves will cost Frank LaBrado another four months in jail and a $200 fine.
Frank was doing time for “daytime burglary,” which was considered less of a crime in 1928 than a nighttime breaking and entering.
I don’t know why; it just was.
Frank was doing his ninety days inside an Arizona county jail in such an honorable way that he was made a trustee.
That meant he had much more freedom than a regular county convict.
One day, Frank went to the jail’s basement to get some coal when he noticed a door to the outside world was open.
Hot damn, Frank must have thought. This is my chance.
So glancing to the left, right, and rear, Frank saw he was in the clear and ran through the door to freedom.
He went right to the home of his sweetheart, a woman who herself had just been released from the county jail. It was there, by the way, that the woman and Frank fell in love, or at least lust. But that’s another story.
So, Frank goes to the woman’s house.
His absence was noticed at the jail fifteen minutes after Frank walked out the open door.
Deputies John Farrell and Carmen Mungia told the warden of Frank’s infatuation with his young lover, and they were dispatched to her home.
Guess what, or who, Carmen and John found at the girlfriend’s house.
That’s right. Frank.
He claimed not to be responsible for his actions. Frank claimed he’d come across some bootleg whiskey inside the jail, got drunk, and made a wrong, alcohol-induced decision.
You’d think this career criminal would know better. It’s not like he was a rookie. Frank used at least four aliases in his work on the wrong side of the law and had a prison record in several California cities.
But he wasn’t thinking with his brain, was he?
Now, Frank will have to live with the consequences of spending fifteen minutes with the love of his life.
More jail time.
Let’s hope she was worth it.
Notice those stories were out of Arizona circa 1928? That is not a coincidence. I discovered the stories in the pages of the Arizona Daily Star, published March 20, 1928, while I was doing research for “Kill. Bury. Forget. A Shocking True Crime Story.
Kill. Bury. Forget. A Shocking True Crime Story
This is the story of Eva Dugan, a woman who was a salon singer, a prostitute, and finally, a convicted murderer.
And, like Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie “Departed” said, “she fell funny.”
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