L.A. Noir (58 page)

Inaccurate though it was in many of its details, the Christopher Commission nonetheless identified what was in many ways the deepest source of tension between Bradley and Gates—namely, the police chief’s extraordinary lack of accountability to the city’s elected officials. That more than anything was Parker’s legacy. Warren Christopher proposed to end it. Under a ballot proposition endorsed by his commission, the Police Commission would select three candidates, rank their preferences, and then send the list to
the mayor to make the final choice, subject to the city council’s approval. The Police Commission would be able to fire the chief at any point, with the mayor’s concurrence. (The city council would also be able to overturn the Police Commission and mayor’s decision with a two-thirds vote.)

Gates immediately recognized that the true goal of the commission was “controlling the police.” Protege of Bill Parker that he was, he vowed to fight it. Otherwise, “the chief would be silenced by the politicians and subject to the mayor’s every whim…. The L.A.P.D. would become politicized for the first time since the corrupt 1930s.”

That it might simply become accountable to the people’s chosen representatives apparently never occurred to him. But Gates did understand that pressure to oust him was mounting. Fed up with being under assault, he was more than ready to leave—but he wanted to leave on his own terms. In late July, Gates announced that he would step down as chief the following year, in the spring of 1992. Until then, however, Gates resolved that he would do everything he could to preserve the chief’s prerogatives for his successor. Capping the police chief’s tenure and changing lines of authority in the department would require a change to the city charter. That would require a citywide referendum, one that would most likely be scheduled for the next round of municipal elections in June 1992. Chief Gates vowed to fight it.

Meanwhile, the lawyers for the officers indicted in the Rodney King beating were preparing motions that would transfer the trial to a location outside of L.A. County. But prosecutors weren’t particularly worried. No trial had been moved outside of Los Angeles since 1978. On November 26, 1991, however, Judge Stanley Weisberg agreed to do just that. He transferred the case to Simi Valley, a bedroom community of 100,000 people northwest of Los Angeles in Ventura County. Simi Valley was conservative, 80 percent white (and just 1.5 percent black), and popular with LAPD retirees. A more favorable venue for the police officers was hard to imagine.

      JURY SELECTION BEGAN in February 1992. At the end of the month, prosecutors faced an all-white jury. On March 2, 1992, one day short of the first anniversary of the Rodney King incident, the trial got under way. In the mind of the public, the Rodney King beating was a straightforward case of police brutality. But in the courtroom, matters weren’t so clear-cut. Rodney King had led the police on a high-speed car chase. As the arresting officers feared, he was an intoxicated ex-con. Tests for PCP proved inconclusive, but officers’ fears were understandable in light of what had occurred before the famous videotape started running. King had thrown off four officers who attempted to “swarm” him and had
then shaken off two attempts to subdue him with a Taser, before charging the police. All of these factors lent credence to the claims made by officers on the scene that they believed they were dealing with someone high on PCP, whom they were endeavoring to subdue without shooting him. On the afternoon of April 29, 1992, the jury acquitted the four police officers on all but one of the charges.

The jury in Simi Valley had been out for deliberation for almost a week. As the days passed, anxiety in South-Central Los Angeles had steadily grown. Watts had come as a horrible surprise, a massive riot whose precipitating incident had been a random California Highway Patrol stop. But by 1992, most residents of Los Angeles understood the possibility of urban violence. When the jury told the presiding judge it had reached a verdict, the court immediately informed the LAPD—and delayed the courtroom opening of the verdict for two hours, a decision that gave the LAPD time to prepare. But with a handful of exceptions, no preparations were made.

For a department that had long been obsessed with its failure to contain the Watts riots, the apparent lack of concern about what might ensue in the event of an acquittal was curious. But even if no operational preparations for trouble had commenced, it would have been reasonable to expect that the LAPD now had the tactics, training, and materiel to respond to a Watts-style insurrection. After all, Chief Gates himself had seen the inadequacies of the department’s earlier preparations. He had also seen the danger of withdrawing from a riot area in the hope that an outbreak of violence would burn itself out. LAPD policy was clear: The department would respond with overwhelming force (which included two armored personnel carriers) to any outbreak of civil unrest, arresting and prosecuting everyone involved and cordoning off the area so that the violence would not spread.

At least, that was the theory. But as angry crowds gathered at the intersection of 55th and Normandie, the LAPD once again seemed utterly unprepared. Worse, it seemed complacent. Requests to deploy the elite Metro unit in riot gear had been rebuffed on the theory that “riots don’t happen during the daytime.” No tear gas had been distributed; requests to deploy rubber bullets had been rejected; and no instructions had been provided to officers at the 77th Street station, which was located in the heart of South-Central. By 5:30 p.m., rioting had begun. Its epicenter was the intersection of Florence and Normandie. As in Watts, a crowd had assembled near the scene where police were making an arrest—and the crowd was quickly turning ugly. The LAPD now faced its post-Watts moment of truth. But instead of clearing the mob and seizing control of the intersection, as post-Watts operating procedure called for, LAPD personnel on the scene pulled back. By 5:45, the rioters had the streets to themselves.

The mood at police headquarters (known since 1969 as Parker Center) was oddly unconcerned. In recent months, the once-defiant Gates had become disengaged. Everyone expected that he would resign soon but no one knew when. As for Mayor Bradley, who had not spoken to his police chief in thirteen months, he seemed more concerned about the possibility that the LAPD might spark violence by overreacting than about the violence that was already unfolding. Neither man seemed able to grasp the reality of what was happening. When a reporter stopped Chief Gates at half past six that evening and asked how the LAPD was responding to the growing unrest, he paused and then placidly replied that the department was responding “calmly, maturely, and professionally.” Then he left for a fund-raiser in Mandeville Canyon in distant Brentwood. Its purpose was to raise money to oppose Amendment F, the amendment to the city charter proposed by the Christopher Commission that would give the mayor authority to select the police chief and limit future police chiefs to two five-year terms.

      BACK IN SOUTH-CENTRAL, the Watts riots seemed to be replaying themselves. Once again, the rioters broke into the liquor stores first, then the pawnshops, where they found an ample supply of guns. Once again, confusion reigned at 77th Street station. No effort was made to regain control of the street. No perimeter was established to contain the violence. The major routes into South-Central were not sealed off. Meanwhile, the area’s gangs took control of the streets, much as they had back in 1965. White motorists who ventured into the riot zone were dragged out of their cars and beaten. The most horrifying episode involved a white big-rig truck driver, Reginald Denny, who was pulled out of his cab by a handful of black youths, kicked, beaten with a claw hammer, and then nearly killed by a youth, Damian Williams, who struck Denny on the head with a block of concrete. As Chief Gates drove toward Brentwood—and Mayor Bradley drove toward the launch of his “Operation Cool Response”—Angelenos watched in horror as news helicopters hovering overhead televised Williams doing a touchdown-style dance and flashing the symbol of the Eight Tray Gangster Crips.
^*
Not until 8:15 p.m. did Gates return to Parker Center.

In 1965, Parker had pushed early and hard for the National Guard while
Lt. Gov. Glenn Anderson hesitated. In 1992, it was Gov. Pete Wilson who pushed hardest for the Guard. At 9 p.m. that night, Wilson finally prevailed upon Mayor Bradley and Chief Gates to allow him to summon the National Guard. Not until later that night when he went out into the field did Gates grasp the magnitude of the disaster that was unfolding—and the extent of the LAPD’s failure. The staging area at 77th Street station was complete chaos. The most basic tenets of riot control, such as cordoning off the area where violence was occurring, had not been observed. Gates had trusted his commanders, and they had failed him. The chief, who treated his senior commanders much more kindly than Chief Parker had, erupted in rage. Then, like a ghost, he disappeared into the night with his driver and a security aide.

In the early hours of the morning, two officers guarding a church at the corner of Arlington and Vernon were startled to see the chief pull up. Gates asked if they needed anything. One of the officers requested a Diet Coke from a nearby convenience store. “No problem,” said the chief. A few minutes later, Gates’s driver returned—without the soda. Gates wanted them to light their safety flares so that no one would run into their car by accident.

“There’s a riot going on, and the chief is micromanaging how our car was parked,” one of the officers later marveled. He laughed at this advice. The other officer was more upset. She’d really wanted a Diet Coke.

Gates did not return to the command post until 6 a.m. that morning. Only then, on Thursday morning, did the LAPD request assistance from the sheriff’s department, which was prepared to lend the department up to five hundred officers. That night, the National Guard at last began to deploy. Not until Monday morning, May 4, was the violence finally stopped. By then, fifty-four people had died, more than two thousand had been injured and treated in hospital emergency rooms, and more than eight hundred buildings had burned—four times the number destroyed during the Watts riots. Because of the LAPD’s failure to cordon off the area where the violence started, the looting and violence spread much farther than it had in 1965. Venice and Hollywood saw outbreaks of violence. Homeowners in posh Hancock Park and elsewhere hired mercenaries to protect their neighborhoods. Ultimately, property damages exceeded $900 million.

As the historian Lou Cannon has noted, there was a terrible irony to what had transpired:

By failing to respond forcefully to the riots, the LAPD had shown, in effect, that it had already lost its independence.

On June 2, just a month after the riots had ended, the voters of Los Angeles made it official. Prior to the riots, Warren Christopher had drafted Charter Amendment F, which limited the police chief’s tenure to two five-year terms, stripped civil service protections from the chief’s position, and allowed the Police Commission to remove a chief for reasons other than misconduct. Charter Amendment F also targeted the protections Parker had won for the rank and file, adding a civilian to the department’s internal disciplinary panels and generally weakening procedural protections for police officers. Yet despite the unfavorable publicity that had followed the release of the Rodney King video, Amendment F’s electoral prospects had been uncertain. That changed after the riots. The vote now offered voters a chance to weigh in on the performance of Chief Gates. On June 2, 1992, by a two-to-one margin, voters approved Christopher’s charter amendment. Daryl Gates retired three weeks later. The system Bill Parker had created was finally dead.

^*
Former intelligence division chief Daryl Gates would later insist this was much ado about nothing: “Many of those ‘files’ were 3 × 5 index cards used to reference files which contained only newspapers clippings.” Even if this is true, that still meant that the LAPD had collected, by Gates’s own estimation, “highly sensitive information” roughly 100,000 “subversives.” This was intelligence gathering on a very large scale. (Gates,
Chief
, 226.)

^*
Denny lived only because four other neighborhood residents—African Americans all—saw what was happening on television and rushed out to the intersection in question. Finding Denny, one member of the party, a truck driver, drove him to a nearby hospital, where a team of five surgeons [two of them African Americans] managed to save his life. (Cannon,
Official Negligence
, 308-309.)

THIS BOOK BEGAN five years ago, when I went to Los Angeles to report a story on LAPD chief William Bratton for
Governing
magazine. I had lived in Los Angeles previously and had been fascinated by its history. As a result, I was more interested in the history of the department than I might otherwise have been. I soon found myself pondering a puzzle: How did the police department of James “Two Gun” Davis and “Bloody Christmas”—the
L.A. Confidential
LAPD, as it were—suddenly become the
Dragnet
LAPD? How did a department that had answered for decades to corrupt politicians come to answer to no one? The more deeply I read, the more convinced I became that the answer was bound up in the life of Chief William H. Parker.

I knew Parker only as a name, an esteemed but controversial police chief whom criminologists associated with what they call “the professional model” of policing. To his many admirers, he was a saint and a prophet. To his many detractors, he was an “arrogant racist” who nearly destroyed the west’s greatest city. I approached him as a person. For that initial introduction, I must first thank Sgt. Steve Williams and Regina Menez of the William H. Parker Police Foundation, and Parker Foundation president Kenneth Esteves for generously opening the archive records to me. Retired LAPD officer Dennis DeNoi was an early and enthusiastic guide to their contents. After a week of reading in the archives, I was convinced that the story of Chief Parker’s LAPD was central to the history of Los Angeles and determined to write about it. My agent, Jill Kneerim, offered encouragement and wise counsel from the start. She pushed this book in all the right ways.

The Los Angeles Police Department was exceptionally supportive from the beginning. The Police Commission, the city attorney’s office, and Chief Bratton gave me access to internal departmental records from the period,
making me only the second outside researcher so favored. I gratefully acknowledge their help and support. Todd Gaydowski, records management officer for the City of Los Angeles, facilitated my every request. Mary Grady, Richard Tefank, and Tamryn Catania were unfailingly helpful.

I owe a particular debt of gratitude to the first researcher given access to the LAPD’s departmental files, Arizona State University professor Edward Escobar. Professor Escobar pointed me to one of the city’s most valuable historical resources, the LAPD scrapbooks housed at the City Records Center atop the Piper Technical Center downtown. Professor Escobar also invited me into his own home for a week to review copies of LAPD files from the 1950s and 1960s that were deaccessioned by the department in 1999. His personal collection now constitutes the most complete repository of official records from this era. I greatly appreciate his hospitality and admire his trailblazing work in the history of Chicano Los Angeles.

At Piper Tech, I passed many fascinating months in the company of city archivists Jay Jones and Mike Holland, who patiently explained to me the intricacies of Police Commission and city council minutes and their associated files, while keeping me fueled with delectable home-roasted coffee. Todd Gaydowski was my guide to the LAPD’s chief of police files. Former Los Angeles archivist-turned-L.A. City Historical Society-dynamo Hynda Rudd also offered encouragement and advice. To Todd, Jay, Mike, and Hynda, my sincere thanks.

Other archives also offered valuable assistance during the course of my research. The staff of the Newberry Library in Chicago provided enthusiastic assistance working with the Ben Hecht Collection. It was my week in Chicago that convinced me that Mickey Cohen, as both a product and a leader of the underworld, was the central antagonist in Parker’s story and an essential part of the history of Los Angeles. Back in Los Angeles, UCLA’s Special Collections was a home away from home. The Joseph Shaw, Harold Story, and Norris Poulson Collections all added greatly to my understanding of midcentury Los Angeles; interacting with UCLA staff was a daily pleasure. My sincere thanks to Angela Riggio, Genie Guerard, Robert Montoya, Aislinn Catherine Sotelo, and everyone there who helped me. Six weeks at the Huntington Library exploring the papers of former mayor Fletcher Bowron made me envy academics. My thanks to Laura Stalker for making that possible. In Washington, D.C., John Martin and the staff of the Library of Congress helped me do an amazing amount of West Coast research from the East Coast.

Los Angeles Police Historical Society executive director Glynn Martin offered generous support and gentle corrections throughout. Former LAPD captain Will Gartland helped me connect with numerous veterans
of Parker’s LAPD. Thank you to Arthur Sjoquist and everyone else who spoke to me. My special thanks to Joseph Parker, former chief Daryl Gates, former acting chief Bob Rock, former deputy chief Harold Sullivan, and Parker-era Police Commission members Frank Hathaway and Elbert Hudson. In Houston, Joseph and Jane Parker shared their time and reminiscences generously. Their recollections made Chief Parker come alive.

Among the pleasures afforded me by this book was the chance to return to Santa Monica. Numerous friends, old and new, welcomed my family back to our old neighborhood. Ashley Salisbury repeatedly offered her sharp editorial eye as well as her delightful company; Marc and Jessica Evans offered friendship, encouragement, and dazzling generosity in all things. Yong-nam Jun brightened many a lunch at Philippe; Eric Moses provided insights and company; Andrew Sabl and Miriam Laugesen, a home to live in. Ana Lopez and Marva Bennett took care of our family like their own. From New York, Michael Cohen offered excellent suggestions and much-appreciated support. Robin Toone spared me from several legal errors.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to my editor at
Governing
, Alan Ehrenhalt, and his wife, Suzanne. Thank you for your support, your excellent edits, and for giving me a job when I returned to D.C. My editor at Harmony Books, John Glusman, pushed me to find the story (and waited patiently while I did). This book is better off for it.

Finally, thank you to my family. To my parents, John and Sally, without a lifetime of support, I would never have attempted to write this book. Without your many trips to Santa Monica, I would never have succeeded. Oliver and Tom, what wonders you are.

The last paragraph goes to my wife, Melinda, who moved back to L.A. and made innumerable sacrifices over the course of five years so that I could write this book. I am profoundly grateful for your support, friendship, and love. It is to you that this book is dedicated.