“At that intersection,” the man explained, “the traffic officer goes off duty at five-forty, and walks two blocks over to the main boulevard to help handle traffic there. We’re shorthanded, and we have to do the best we can.”
“You listen to me,” Bertha Cool demanded. “I’m a taxpayer. I’m entitled to this information. I want it.”
“We’d like very much to help you get it.”
“Well, how am I going to find out about it?”
“You might call the hospitals and ask them if a patient was received for an examination sometime between six and seven o’clock last Friday night. I take it, you can describe the patient?”
“Generally.”
“You know her name?”
“No.”
The traffic officer shook his head. “Well, you might try it.”
Bertha tried it, sweating in the confines of a telephone booth, reluctantly dropping coins into a pay telephone. After having expended thirty-five cents, her patience was worn thin. She had explained and re-explained, only to be told, “Just a moment,” and connected with some other department to whom she had to explain all over again.