When Lawmen Lie - Caution, if you are offended by bad language

When Lawmen Lie
December 15, 2004
The People of the State of California
Vs.
Deputy-Sheriff Robert E. Shaffer
187 PC
Murder
(Please don’t get hung up on the spelling errors or sentence structure!)
This is a true story about one of the blackest times in the
history of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
It is a true story that originates from the Firestone Station in
South Los Angeles and a member of a loose group of
deputies who called themselves “The Wild Bunch”.
Effective, young, ambitious, many times aggressive, mostly
rookies and mostly under-trained and under supervised and
left to ‘take care of business’ in one of the most violent and
‘hottest stations’ in the state if not the country.
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Robert Shaffer 1968
This is a true ‘police story’. A story about the 1st lawman in California history
sentenced to state prison for shooting a burglar while on-duty. It is a story about a
justifiable shooting gone bad, a death, perjury, false testimony and reports, cover-ups,
selfishness, lying, confusion and deceit that actually ruined the lives of many people in
and out of law enforcement. It did not have to happen.
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The story takes place in the late 1960’s, a time so far removed that probably half
the population in the country was not born yet. It is, in some ways, an apology to those in
law enforcement and is a plea for forgiveness.
I had many choices in writing this book. I was told by many, many individuals to
make it a fictional account. NOT to name real people or events, or if I did, to hold back
on what I wrote so I wouldn’t offend anyone. I just won’t do that anymore.
In all likelihood, there will be quite a few deputies who will say that I am lying
now and was lying then so why believe me? I could easily say that I really was Satan
with a gun and a badge just waiting and planning for the right moment to execute some
poor felon caught in the act, but that has never been the case. And what would I have to
loose if I did? Nothing! I’ve served my time.
Holding back would be the easy way out but it wouldn’t be truthful. I do not want
to edit anything but let you read and feel how I was in the 1960’s as a deputy-sheriff in
Los Angeles County. My language then was rough, as was that of many young deputies I
worked with. We even had a few racists. You will see a cycle that will never end in law
enforcement…. covering up. It is inherent in the system, in any system for that matter. It
seems to be the way we are as a civilization.
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Chapter 1
Six Bullets, Six Hits
For over thirty years I have been dragging around an old card- board box
marked “trial transcripts”. From state to state, over 10 moves and even though I wanted
to throw it all away I clung onto it like an outdated piece of favorite clothing. It was a bit
longer than 30 years ago, in 1970, when I became infamous- the first law enforcement
officer in California history to go to prison for shooting a felony suspect while on-duty,
something I have been ashamed of every day since. The shooting was justifiable but my
post-shooting actions were certainly not.
I finally pulled that dusty box from my garage attic and decided to either do
something about it or really toss it out. I opened it up, and the first article I came to was
an old newspaper clipping given to me by my ex-roommate from Santa Barbara,
policeman Tim Merchant, whom I lived with after I was paroled from the California
Department of Corrections in 1973.
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Tim and I used to laugh at that, along with Tim’s brother and my very best friend,
Tom Merchant, an LAPD officer and my neighbor when I lived in South Gate before my
arrest.
Here I am, an ex-convict, parolee, convicted 2nd degree murderer, ex-cop, on
parole and living with a Santa Barbara policeman, who possesses many types of firearms
in his apartment, where I sleep and live, and I always thought a parolee wasn’t supposed
to be around firearms and ammunition. My parole officer told me not to be in the vicinity
of firearms and so did my parole papers. But they all knew where I was living and who I
was living with and said nothing. The California Department of Corrections; my parole
officer, of course since he approved my living conditions; Deputy DA Mayer, the man
who prosecuted me, certainly had to know; Judge James G. Kolts who presided at my
trial, (when he was awake), and anyone who was anyone with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s
Department, including the sheriff. It was no secret, but I could thank Chief Al Trembly
of Santa Barbara for helping me relocate to Santa Barbara after my parole hearing. Chief
Trembly was a shirt-tailed relative of Tim and Tom’s.
Tim handed me the newspaper, a day old copy of the Los Angeles Times, dated
January 25, 1974, folded the pages back in half and laid the article in front me. I thought
at first it was a much older paper, and he was just showing me a copy of the report when I
was arrested, in 1969.
I glanced at the caption, which read, “Officer Planted Gun by Side of Man He
Killed, LAPD Says”. It said “LAPD”, not the Sheriff’s Department. I looked closer and
there was a picture of a clean cut young man, Paul Koerschgen. His photo looked a lot
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better than the one the sheriff’s personnel gave the press when homicide arrested me at
4:30 am after 14 hours of seclusion and interrogation.
The article, written by Robert Kistler and Ken Hansen (it took two of them?),
stated that this officer, armed with three pistols, fatally shot an unarmed South Los
Angeles man six times with unauthorized “dum-dum” ammunition and then planted a gun
by the dead man’s side. Officer Koerschgen, who was suspended, originally claimed he
had shot the man in self-defense. (I wondered how any cop could walk around with 3
weapons without looking a bit odd especially if one were his .38 revolver and the other a
9 mm, which is a bit smaller but certainly obvious).
Police Chief Ed Davis charged him with four violations of LAPD regulations, that
he had been a three year veteran and killed James Otis Baldwin on January 11, 1974, but
after shooting him placed a .25 caliber automatic pistol next to Baldwin’s body in the
front seat to make it appear Baldwin had been armed.
(Now, I have to regress here just a minute and put in my 2 cents worth.
Newspaper reporters are supposed to have some degree of intelligence when reporting
and do at least some basic background work on their subject matter but when it comes to
cops doing something bad and/or reporting crimes involving firearms they just seem to
loose all control of their mental faculties and bias’. There was no such thing at that time
as a .25 caliber automatic pistol that I knew about. The definition of a pistol in those
days was a weapon that fired semi-automatically with each pull of the trigger, expending
the shell casing after each shot, usually into the air. An automatic weapon is one where
you pull the trigger once, hold it down, and if you can hold onto the weapon you are
firing, will empty the clip -- from 5 rounds to 60 rounds or more-- in the blink of an eye
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or maybe 2 blinks. This may not be an important thing to some folks but to me, it shows
credibility in reporting by DOING YOUR HOMEWORK and writing the story right.)
2nd LAPD violation- carrying the unauthorized pistol while on duty. 3rd violation
was carrying an unauthorized 9 mm Browning automatic pistol while on duty (there we
go with that automatic stuff again), and lastly, carrying “unauthorized” ammunition, that
The Times newspaper determined to have been high-powered magnum hollow-point
cartridges in his regulation .38 caliber service revolver. (And again the horrible reporting.
If anyone can get a .357 magnum cartridge in the cylinder of a .38 and close it so the .38
will fire will you please stand up. It just will not fit. It’s like taking a truck tire from an
18 wheeler and putting it on a Volkswagen.) Ok, so you can tell that I have a hot button
when it comes to these things.
The article continued with how he failed to appear before the Los Angeles Police
Department Internal Affairs officers so he was relieved of duty, and that his partner,
Joseph Coffi, 27, was also relieved of field duties. Apparently at 4:45 pm they stopped
the car Baldwin was driving as it matched the description of one used in a gang related
shooting the night before. Baldwin had an extensive rap sheet for other felony arrests,
and at the autopsy there were 2 balloons in his mouth that contained 5.1 grams of heroin.
(That could be why he ran, he may have been trying to swallow them or he couldn’t talk
to Officer Koerschgen without making it obvious he had something in his mouth.)
Baldwin was stopped and got out of his car but then ran back to it and dived into
the front seat. Officer Koerschgen reported he then observed a gun in Baldwin’s hand and
fired, fatally wounding him.
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The story stated all six rounds of hollow-point bullets struck their mark. No
powder burns were found on the deceased, indicating they were not fired at close range.
Coppi was instructed to call a ambulance which he did, and during that time the .25 pistol
appeared on the front seat, blah, blah, blah. Ownership of the .25 caliber pistol was not
established.
I remember telling Tim and Tom, how this poor son-of-a-bitch would go to the
gas chamber for this. I mean, you have to think about what happened. SIX shots-SIX
hits. Most shootings involving police officers in those days, for the whole United States,
showed on average a cop fired like 1.25 rounds when using a firearm. This guy is 400
times over the average, and all 6 rounds hit their mark. That is extraordinary accuracy
and a cool head, in my opinion. And the only bullet that I shot that killed burglar
Roderick Thomas Molette in August 1968 was to the mid-section, just above and left of
the belly-button, hardly where any marksman would deliberately aim if you intentionally
wanted to kill someone.
I took the paper and we talked about how we hoped this guy had a good attorney
and a lot of money cause he was going to need it. How in the world is he going to
explain how he shot SIX times, planted a gun claiming self-defense, and not get the gas
chamber? Or at worst he would get life in prison and then he would become the 2nd cop
in California history to go to prison for shooting a “suspect” while on duty. My four
years of hell in the prison system was still very fresh in my mind and I had pity on that
guy, and I mean real pity.
I threw the paper in a large cardboard box full of my trial transcripts and notes I
had for some reason kept all these years. It was an interesting article but I had a new life
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ahead of me and I didn’t want to bring up all the old shit that ate at me every night since
1969. But it did eat at me, and still does.
Officer Paul Koerschgen, many months later, was only convicted of---possession
of a stolen weapon and never went to prison. (I obtained his sentencing report in 2004
and I had a few emails with Mr. Koerschgen also in 2004---they come later.)
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I used to wonder how some departments crucify their officers (like Los Angeles
County Sheriff’s Department for one, in my opinion) and how others (LAPD for one)
seem to recognize that at times cops do make mistakes and then try to cover them up and
recognize their actions for what they are, and not lie and manipulate those actions into a
much more serious crime, like murder. It may not be right covering one’s mistakes but
that’s the training many of us received as rookies, and we actually believe that kind of
training from a much more experienced training officer is in our best interest. It is not
questioned, only obeyed.
Also, if you look at the evolution of police departments, hollow point ammunition
like Norma’s Super-Vel round, (I think that meant ‘super velocity’ for short) one of the
first manufacturers of hollow-point, lightweight, fast bullets destined for sheriff’s
department use was later produced by almost every other ammunition manufacturer in all
types of loads and bullets, became the commonplace type of ammunition for cops. Police
departments were looking for a bullet that went fast, expanded or mushroomed to
produce what many cops referred to as “killing potential”, made a massive wound after
entering a body but did not exit like a wild-ass ape and possibly hit someone downrange
from their intended target.
Plus on top of that, 9 mm pistols like Berettas, Browning’s, Colts, Smith &
Wesson’s and others are now standard issue for many police departments. If Officer
Koerschgen was using a Browning 9 mm with a 15 round clip he probably would have
emptied the whole clip into the guy, or most of it. In 1974 he would have been Mr. Evil
#2. In 1994 when 9 mm’s seem to be standard LAPD issue it would have been “ho
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hum”. So those who judge cops are accusatory and hypocritical one day and mealymouthed and non-apologetic the next.
I probably think about this way too much but years ago it was almost a preoccupation trying to rehash those fateful events and make the outcome much different.
A great country-western singer named Tim McGraw had a song out a few years
ago called “Red Rag Top”, it was about a young man and a young woman who fell in
love, she became pregnant, had an abortion and even though they claimed to still be in
love they split up. Mr. McGraw’s advice in the song was “…you can’t worry about what
might have been, it’s a waste of time, you’ll go out of your mind”. Easier said than done.
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Chapter 2
May 22nd, 1970
Lots of interesting things happened on May 22nd, depending on what year it was.
In 2001 the Afgan Taliban told all Hindus to start wearing identity bracelets. In 2000 the
United States Supreme Court struck down a law shielding children from sex oriented
cable TV channels, and the Arkansas Supreme Court recommended that President
William Clinton, who liked cigars for many different reasons but did not have sexual
relations with Monica L, be disbarred. And in 1972 President Nixon visited Moscow.
On the above date my trip to hell was one step closer as I appeared before Judge
James Kolts, who basically told me he wasn’t too fond of me and I could go fuck myself.
He sentenced me “as law prescribes”, which was “5 years to life”, denied me bail
pending all appeals, denied a motion for a lesser sentence and a request for a new trial. I
could feel a large, cold steel door starting to close in on me.
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Here I was dressed in my most expensive business suit, silk tie, idiotically
thinking and upon advice of my attorney, to look sharp to impress the judge, who hated
my guts, so he would give me a break.
My advice to anyone in the future when faced with this dilemma is to be as
disruptive as you can but not get bound and gagged, wear old smelly clothes, maybe
shorts and a t-shirt that reads “fuck the system and the judge too”, cause if you’re a cop
on trial and things are twisted and blown way out of proportion like mine were, it won’t
make any difference...you’re going to prison.
Instead of grabbing Deputy DA Mayer and ramming my fist into his face as many
times as I could until I was subdued, I meekly submitted to the court bailiffs to be lead to
a holding room. Punching him out would only be a misdemeanor punishable by county
jail time. I was nice because I still thought like a cop and thought the system of justice I
respected would still help me.
My mother came with me, tears streaming down her face. I kissed her good-bye
and wiped the tears away. My father left the courtroom a very angry and frustrated man,
yelling at a few deputies from homicide and administrative services bureau (our internal
affairs), calling them gutless cowards. They just tried to ignore him and look away.
My father saved the newspaper article about my sentencing. I believe from the
Los Angeles Times, no reporters were mentioned. It quoted Judge Kolts as saying “…
this court cannot condone unlawful violence perpetrated by those who have the sanction
of society to use force to protect and maintain society”. It also mentioned how I shot
Roderick Molett, who was “allegedly” burglarizing a gift shop. A second man was shot,
but not killed. Since Molett was never convicted he will always be an alleged burglar.
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I don’t know whom this second man was I shot, but it’s another case of extremely
poor and inaccurate reporting. If you read the paper you would think I shot two burglars
in the same store at the same time but this is how the newspapers reported courtroom
testimony and other “informed sources” information from the day of my arrest until this
day. Only years later would they get things right.
With this basic introduction to what lays ahead in these pages I will attempt to
portray, to the best of my ability, the sequence of events in my life as a Firestone Station
deputy sheriff for Los Angeles County. Many are from conversations I remembered and
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wrote in a daily notebook, through interviews with those connected to me to the best of
their recollection, from newspaper articles, letters and court transcripts.
Firestone Station, located in South Central Los Angeles adjacent to Watts, known
by the designation FPK1 in those days, was said to be one of the three busiest police
stations in the country. It was torn down in 1993. I think I read in Steve Beeler’s book
“The Firestone Syndrome”, some high ranking deputy used to boast”…I will tear that
station down and erase the horrible memories it has caused like they never happened”.
Yeah.
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Chapter 3
March 2, 2004
On March 2, 1962 “Wilt the Stilt” Chamberlain scores 100 points in a single
basket-ball game, March 2, 1972 Dr Jerome H Holland was elected to the board of the
New York stock exchange, March 2, 1946 Ho Chi Minh is elected President of
North Vietnam. In 1933 the movie King Kong plays in New York City.
My historic event would be web-surfing. You know, sitting in front of the
computer screen at 2 am and typing in any oddball query on one of the major search
engines and wait for what it spit backs. I have spent literally hours going from one site to
another getting bits of interesting and many times, odd information.
It seems about this time, I can’t quite remember the exact day, the name “Bud
Wenke” popped up in a small article congratulating someone else, unnamed, about a
website called www.fpk1.com. There are very few Bud Wenke’s in the world, and the
one I knew is actually Burville Wenke, who really hated the name Burville so it was
“Bud”, a sergeant who worked at Firestone Station and was one of my superiors in the
late 1960’s. “Fpk” was the shortened version of Firestone Park, and the #1 meant that
Firestone Park Sheriff’s Station had the designation of station 1. That meant all cars had
the number 1 before their unit number, so it would be car 11,12,13,14, etc. Lakewood
may have been station #4, with units 41,42,43, etc.
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I followed the prompts to the ‘fpk1’ website, and low and behold there’s this great
web-page controlled by an ex-Firestone deputy named Bill Bernsen. He is the web site
master, and it’s really a well-put together web page, but if he doesn’t like what’s in the
guest book, out it goes. No freedom of the press here. There’s a place where you can
sign in, listing your name, years at Firestone Station, and a brief comment. It was very
tempting because I have not talked to any other deputy from LA County in my era for
over 25 years so I thought, “Let’s test the water” but, it was late and my eyes were getting
tired so I figured I would go back in later on, give it a try.
I didn’t sleep that night anticipating what my entry in his guest book would be
and what kind of response I would get. At 3:11 PM I wrote”…Robert Shaffer..Anyone
still remember?” At 3:41 PM Bill Bernsen wrote…”Shaffer…Yes, most do remember. I
think you owe a written apology to all those who worked FPK.”
But, this was just the beginning of an onslaught of critical messages against me
that told me they just really never knew what happened, and Bill Bernsen got so many
messages that by 3/5/04, at 3:13 PM he wrote, in essence, “Adios, don’t write no more.”
I did though. I wrote Bill Bernsen a very long email about how I tried to apologize but
my letter was refused by Sheriff Peter Pitchess, and tried to explain my actions. Bill
Bernsen did put a separate link on his web page to my comments for others to look at but
it seemed I was the bastard son that everyone wanted to forget about and it was finally
removed a week later.
I haven’t been into his web site since then but I did manage to print a few pages
before he deleted everything with my name on it. I did go to another deputy web page,
www.lasdretired.org for a look at their information. And while looking at that one I came
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across an article about a ex-LA county deputy of 25 years who joined the Riverside
County DA’s Office as an investigator. It was a story about how this investigator, who
while on duty I believe, was trying to stop some guy who was in a custody dispute or
something involving some children, was trying to leave from this house and according to
this Deputy DA investigator, this guy “apparently” tried to run him down. The DA
Investigator “accidentally” shot this person, who later died of the gunshot wound. His
department went over the incident and the investigator told them it was an accidental
shot, although he still felt his life was in jeopardy. He was tried and convicted of
manslaughter and sentenced to seven years in the state prison. Two years for the
manslaughter conviction and an additional five years because he committed a felony
while armed.
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The web-page article, now out of date and gone from the page, described how this
cop, who had a right to be armed, was following the law he was supposed to enforce,
“accidentally” killed someone, so the “being armed while committing a felony” and the
extra five years tacked onto his sentence, should not apply to law enforcement officials
since they are required to be armed and have a right to be armed. The judge didn’t buy it.
I read this and shook my head, but while scrolling the page I came to another
article about a book recently published called “The Firestone Syndrome” by Stephen
Beeler, an ex-lieutenant from Los Angeles County.
I remembered a Steve Beeler in my academy training days, a non-descript
somewhat uncoordinated ex-military man and that same Steve Beeler transferred to
Firestone Station after I did. I wondered if it was the same deputy? Honestly, after all
these years I could not really tell you where in our class photo he stood. His was in the
1st platoon at the academy and I was in the 4th platoon. I sort of remember him around
the station at Firestone, a lanky body following his training officer around, but that’s all.
So I hit the search engines again and lo and behold I get all this great information
about his book and him, including an email address, so I make the inquiry.
I didn’t save all the emails from him but at first it was like he didn’t know me, or, wasn’t
sure if I said who I really was. I asked him where he was in our class photo and he
replied he didn’t or couldn’t find his old photo. He then went on to say he got hurt in the
line of duty and moved to Arizona as a security director for Forest Highlands Golf
Courses but never really answered my other questions.
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In another e-mail I told him I had purchased his book but had not received it yet
from Amazon and I would have thought that since we worked there at the same time my
shooting incident would be a part of it. His reply was ..”Didn’t we work together in the
late 60’s?” Like, who in the sheriff’s department in the late 60’s or early 70’s wouldn’t
know who I was? He thanked me for buying the book and later in another e-mail did say
that I was in it, but to remember it was fiction. My name in his book is Ron Thompson.
After reading “The Firestone Syndrome” I am not sure if I was one of Steve’s “Elitist’s”
or not, but I can say it did bring back the memories; the good ones, the bad ones, and the
very, very ugly ones.
After a few more emails asking about information on other topics Steve Beeler
finally opens up. Maybe he thought I was dead or would never find out about him and
his book. It amazed me that he knew absolutely nothing about my whereabouts or the
time I spent in prison. Out of sight; out of mind. But this was typical, as there were only
a very few of my ‘buddies’ who came to visit me; Al Campbell, Ed Roscyk, an unnamed
homicide detective, friend Tom Merchant and possibly Gary Komers. All those deputies
at Firestone who I would have gladly given my life to defend or protect from danger
basically wrote me off.
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Chapter 4
May 29, 1970
B-27884
On May 29, 1917 John F. Kennedy was born, May 29, 1952 Hank Williams the
country singer divorced his wife, May 29, 1956 Latoya Jackson was born, and on May
29, 1973 Thomas Bradley, an African American, was elected Mayor of Los Angeles. My
day started at 2:30 AM. It began my real descent into hell.
NOTE TO READERS: You will read references to the “N” word, the “A”
word, the “MF” word and of course the “F” word. They are offensive words but they
seemed to be a part of our daily vocabulary. I do recall reading that there are really only
eleven times in history where the “F” word has been considered acceptable for use. They
are as follows:
“What the F@#$% do you mean we are sinking?”---Capt E.J. Smith of the RMS
Titanic, 1912…
“What the f@#$% was that?”----Mayor of Hiroshima, 1945.
“Where did all those f@#$%^&* Indians come from”?---Custer, 1877
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“Any f@#$%^&* idiot could understand that!”----Einstein.
“It does so f@#$%^&* look like her.”---Picasso, 1926.
“How the f@#$% did you work that out?”---Pythagoras, 126 BC
“You want what on the f@#$%^&* ceiling?”---Michelangelo, 1566.
“Where the f@#$% am I?”---Amelia Earhart, 1937.
“Scattered f@#$%^&* showers my ass.”---Noah, BC
“Aw come on, who the f@#$% is going to find out?”---Bill Clinton, 1999.
“Geez, I didn’t think they’d get that f@#$%^&* mad.”---Saddam Hussein, 2003.
There will be a lot more profanity later on, because I want you to understand our
language and the context in which it is used. We were cowboys. We were the ‘wild
bunch’. As retired homicide Sgt. Ray Verdugo would tell me 35 years later…’we were
young and scared and trying to fill a void when the old-salts transferred out.’
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Wake Up Call
“Shaffer, Shaffer, get up, it’s time to go.”
I could hear a voice speaking to me from the darkness of the corridor outside my
jail cell. I rolled over on my mattress and touched the cold concrete floor with my hand. I
open my eyes and fixed them on the small 40 watt bulb that was burning outside my
small 6’ by 10’ cell in what I called the feeding area. I couldn’t see anyone but I knew
someone was still out there.
“What time is it, deputy?” I asked.
“It’s 2:30, Bob, get ready”, he answered, “Get ready, they’ll be here soon.”
Then I heard his keys jangling and I knew he had gone to finish his other nightly duties.
My cell-mates started stirring in their bunks, slowly trying hard to get up and so we
could share our last moments together.
I got to my knees slowly and then stood up and stretched. My back and legs ached
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as usual, since sleeping on the floor was not the most comfortable way to spend time in
the county jail.
I walked outside my cell and tried to touch my toes a few times, but I was
just too stiff to do so. I looked around at the cell I had been sharing with my
comrades. It was called ‘Siberia’, a cell that had housed women prisoners in the old days
at the Hall of Justice Jail, actually the ‘hole’ for unmanageable ladies and
eventually it became Sirhan Sirhan’s protective custody cell after he was arrested for
shooting and killing Senator Robert Kennedy. He spent his entire time here before going
to state prison.
This cell had bullet-resistant steel plate covering the only outside window,
installed in fear of a sniper attempt on Sirhan’s life, and was guarded round-the-clock by
at least two armed deputies stationed at the elevator door who searched every visitor.
Now it had been turned into a special protective custody cell housing presently ex-law
enforcement.
This place housed three small two-women cells (en suite) inside a larger
confinement area. This way the women could go outside their smaller cells for exercise,
one at a time or all together, but still remain confined. It reminded me of a large
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cardboard box with three box-like gopher traps inside of it. It was called 1300-A.
There were two small stools welded to a wall that divided us from the next cell which had
a shower with hot water, another larger cell, Sirhan’s actual cell (he could shower any
time he felt like doing so), two small stools on the other side and a large thick seethrough plexi-glass center and a place where telephones used to be connected so he could
talk to visitors and attorneys..
I slept on the floor because the women’s bunks were made for women, six feet
long at the most, and my 6’7” frame did not fit in them too well, unless I dangled my legs
and arms and head over the sides. It was much harder when I weighed 240 pounds, but
after all these months of confinement I had lost 40 pounds, thanks mostly to that countyjail slop that someone had mistaken for food.
My cell-mates were an unusual group. There used to be five us here, and exsergeant Gil McMullen said we were “The Filthy Five” and should get a “FF” tattoo if we
ever got out. I have mine but I’m not sure about the rest. I had started talking with Ron
Miller, a Hollywood swinger and ex-Internal Revenue Service intelligence agent arrested
for kidnapping a Beverly Hills banker’s son. We talked not only us, but also about the
others we had seen come and go in what was labeled the Hall of Justice Substation for
wayward cops.
It was small talk. No one wanted to mention the fact that I was on my way to the
state prison. I glanced at the graffiti on the walls, with signatures scribbled under some of
the comments. With me in jail for almost six months now was ex-sergeant Gilbert
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McMullen (Mac), a 17 year veteran of the sheriff’s department who put a bullet in his
ex’s head while arguing with her over martial problems in a San Fernando Valley
restaurant while his kids watched in horror.
There was San Marcos, Texas, Chief of Police Wayman Dial, a grand old Texas
boy who somehow got involved with a team of high class Beverly Hills burglars and was
arrested because he wouldn’t shoot the Beverly Hills cop who came to investigate a silent
alarm at the house Wayman and his partners were burglarizing. He just put his hands up
and surrendered. Wayman was already at the Chino state prison getting psychologically
evaluated to see if he was fit for probation and release instead of doing state prison time.
Ex-deputy sheriff Jay Reese Bauer, convicted of eleven counts of armed robbery
in my opinion, should have been shot by one of the liquor store owners he robbed. He
was an ass, in my opinion, and got probation.
On the cell’s ceiling there were some notes from an LAPD cop convicted of rape,
and from Daye Shill and Ronald Hughes, attorneys who defended Charles Manson and
co-defendants, who were incarcerated for contempt of court by the presiding judge at the
Manson multiple murder trial.
Ron, Gil and I started reminiscing about the past months since we first met, on
December 15, 1969. I knew Ron was a cop of some sort, or possibly a plant, because he
was wearing a policeman’s belt to hold up his county jail trousers. The belt was wider on
the sides than it was in the front, to allow a gun holster to be securely fastened to it. I
figured he was a snitch who would try and gain my confidence so I would tell him what
27
happened since my original admission to my ‘crime’ had been taken illegally, without the
presence of an attorney, after I had demanded one during my questioning.
Paradoxically, Ron held a similar view about me. For the first two days we were
at 1300-A together neither of us said a word. Mac did all the talking.
Now we talked about how slowly time goes in jail. Seconds, minutes and hours
have no meaning under confinement. There’s no need to know it’s 8 PM and the Monday
night movie is on. We existed in a motionless time tunnel, where meals were the only
thing to break up the monotony of the day. What time was it? Who cared? When do I go
to court, meaning what month is it, is more important. And I felt empathy when I saw
“Johnny Got His Gun”, played by Tim Bottoms, who was a WWI soldier who had lost
his legs, arms, sight, hearing, and speech and could only lay in his bed and think. That
was us. Just laying around this old dirty cell and thinking and existing.
On the outside I used to consider hot water a common thing, in jail, the inside of a
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup cardboard suffices for a sink stopper so one can indulge in a
shave with very cold water, old Gillette blue blades and no soap to lather with. And cold
was the only way it came, even for our twice a month shower...
Time… well, it’s your name on a court calendar, or for a pre-trial hearing or bail
motion. Time here is suspended, but aging is not.
We got up and slowly paced around the cell like a bunch of circus elephants
following each other’s tails. This was our only form of exercise, and we seemed to talk to
one another much easier while pacing; our words flowed when we were in motion.
28
Ron mentioned how I would miss the wonderful county jail meals, and how in
state prison each inmate gets a large, sugary roll every morning with breakfast and all the
milk one can drink. Our wonderful meals could have been patented for a sure weight
reduction program. Every morning was almost the same thing: One loaf of white bread,
farina, one cup of cold coffee, maybe some dried prunes, a cup of warm milk, and jelly.
Lunch was either cold lima beans, cold spaghetti or noodles that tasted like dish
soap and iced tea without the ice.
Dinner was either one baked donkey dick (sausage), a Gainsburger (meatloaf),
tamale, some fruit, another loaf of bread and more cold coffee.
I would open the bread and throw each slice into the toilet bowl from ten feet
away. It helped keep my Frisbee wrist in shape and gave me the chance to study the aerodynamical construction of a piece of white bread in flight.
When we first arrived at 1300-A months ago our food would come relatively
warm, but it got colder and colder. The morning deputies hated catering to a
bunch of ex-lawmen, and our meals had to be prepared and served under the eye of
the kitchen sergeant to avoid contamination by the other prisoners. Instead of waking
us up they would leave the food cart in the hallway and let the next shift feed us. Usually
that was about two hours after the cart was left unattended. They hated our guts.
29
I’m sure that had a lot to do with it tasting lousy. I just took a few bites from the
things I figured had more protein in them, and when there was an all starch meal, it was
bread and water for me. Of course I did eat the jelly, which was nicknamed the Red
Death, because it also substituted for glue. Anything you wanted to glue to anything else
to was applied with this jelly. I think that’s where the formula for super glue came from.
I threw so much bread into the toilet that it clogged when I flushed and it stayed
clogged for over three months. When I told the deputies about it they kindly told me to
“shit on the floor”. I guess plumbers cost money. When I couldn’t use anyone else’s toilet
I would crap on the newspaper and put it out on the food cart when they came to pick it
up. Man would they get mad. A sergeant came down one night threatening to lock us all
in the hole (which was where I thought we already were) if we didn’t stop. I told him I
thought it was just some left over food and that we were returning it.
The concrete floor seemed to get dirty so fast that we started washing our feet in
the sinks nightly before going to bed. Dirty feet got the mattresses and sheet dirty.
We were only allowed to mop the cell once every ten days or so. When we showered we
would take our towels back with us, throw water on the floor and use the towels as mops.
We used to get hot, soapy mop water (that we all shaved in) but some asshole lieutenant
felt we might use the mop handle, bucket or mop press as an escape weapon, so those
things got ‘lost’ in the mop closet that was ten feet from our cell.
In a way I was glad I was leaving this place. My back pains which never got any
attention here might get some attention in the state prison. For some reason my left leg
30
had started going so numb that I could not even lift it to walk. When I reported to the jail
doctor, he screamed me out of his office telling me he was sick and tired of seeing me
every other day. I had only seen him once before, about two months prior, for high blood
pressure. A jerk but a typical county jail employee.
I was sure the nights at state would be more peaceful too. Here the jail trustees
who did the night clean-up on the floor above us dropped milk cans on the floor all night
long to keep us awake. It was an effective, slow torture. And at state I would not be
hearing the detectives and intelligence men crawling around behind our cells to reset or
retrieve their bugs. We knew the bugs were there because one of Gil‘s friends told him,
and Gil had worked the Intelligence Detail for years. Bugging was one of his specialties.
Gil told me they were there for Ron Miller’s benefit.
There was a reason for the secret bugging. Almost every cop in our “substation”
was questioned without an attorney present, even if one was requested. At that time, there
was no Policeman’s Bill of Rights as there is today, no Association for Los Angeles
Deputy-Sheriff’s. When internal affairs was investigating a cop for a crime, all
investigation was ostensibly of a departmental nature and NOT YET a criminal one,
making the statements sometimes in-admissible in court, but admissible enough in their
opinion to show probable cause for an arrest.
Also, someone probably figured that Ron would talk in his sleep and tell where he
hid the $250,000 in ransom that was never recovered. He always denied the kidnapping.
I told them in these last moments that I didn’t want them following my footsteps
to prison, and although I didn’t mind having someone I knew from the county jail as a
friend in prison, the fewer of us that got there, the better. So far Jay got sentenced to
31
psychiatric testing at the prison, and based on the outcome of his testing he was given his
10 years probation. Wayman Dial was already there, also doing psychiatric testing. I
guess no one figured that I was sick enough to go the psycho route and if I was, no one
ever brought it up.
I figured Gil would get the same psychiatric testing and eventually be released on
probation. Very few alcoholic cops, (and his alcoholism was departmentally related when
he worked Vice and undercover), who kill their wives over martial problems end up in
the joint.
I heard the elevator door open and then I heard the footsteps of the approaching
deputies and the sound of the chains they were going to put on me. I shook hands with
my fellow ex-lawmen and cell mates and then I started getting the shakes. Shit! I was
going to the joint, where every man was my enemy, because in prison, if you’re an excop in the general population, you are fair game.
32
Chapter 5
Prison Bound
“All right, Shaffer, come on out,” a burly deputy ordered.
The cell gate slid to one side and I stepped into the hallway, facing five deputies
who immediately began putting chains on my ankles and my waist, then handcuffing my
wrists together and attaching them to my waist chain.
“You expect me to run somewhere?”
“Get used to it pal, you’ll be in these things for a while.”
I was lead down the hallway to the elevator that took us down to the basement of
the Hall of Justice. In front of the elevator was a police car that took me to the newer
county jail just a few miles away. From there I would be transported to prison.
I went through the booking gates at the Bauchet Street facility and was placed in a
small holding tank by myself. I was told I would be taken by a special detail with me the
only prisoner.
The holding tank I was in was separated from the other holding areas in the
county jail because it was reserved for the ‘heavies’ going to the joint. That’s usually the
33
most violent men convicted, and that meant 10% of those convicted out of the 1% of
those who got arrested. Statistically speaking, that’s not too good.
I couldn’t sit all chained up like I was so I lay down on the floor until other
prisoners arrived. I was then moved outside the tank in front of the deputy’s desk, where
they could keep an eye on me. Eventually I was moved once again, outside another larger
holding tank that was reserved for black militants.
I was on my back staring up at the ceiling when I started shivering, and then I
went into convulsions like an epileptic having a seizure. A deputy asked me if I was all
right, and walked away before I could reply. I didn’t really care if anyone saw me like
that, I just didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone else, hoping they wouldn’t notice
me. I just wanted to make myself ‘go away’.
The convulsions continued off and on for the next few hours. The torture of it was
like facing a firing squad when no one is ready to fire. ‘Send me to prison’, my mind
cried out. ‘Start the execution’, my brain exploded over and over. I knew the system was
out to get me and making me wait was a part of the game they were playing. They didn’t
give a shit about me. The system doesn’t give a shit about anyone. They were going to
send me to that vast garbage heap of criminals and hope that someone would stab or beat
me to death. And to top it off I just knew I wasn’t going to come out of this alive. Well,
kiss my ass you mother-fuckers.
34
At 7 AM, four hours after I was taken from my cell, my name was being
screamed out by someone down the hall. I responded right away so the guy would stop
screaming in front of every fucker here.
“Right here!” I called out. I sat up against a wall and watched him approach me.
He was a black guy in a black suit.
“Here,” he said, handing me a small envelope.
“It’s from the guys who work here. We added it to what you had. Ain’t much but
we figured you’d need it. We just want you to know that not everybody’s like them
bastards that put you here.”
He turned around and walked away quickly, as the state prisoners were being
called to board the big gray bus parked outside the booking area. I couldn’t believe that
the intake deputies and civilians had taken up a collection for me. There was almost
$100 in the envelope.
I was called out by a deputy who took my arm and marched me past the line of
men waiting to be chained and cuffed. He gave me a slight lift so I could get my foot on
the first step of the old bus.
“I’m going on this…with them? Are you sure?”
“What’d you expect, a limo? He answered. “Get on”
From here on out I knew I’d been lied to. When I was going through the sheriff’s
academy, we were lectured that when a cop goes to prison there was a ‘special’ place for
35
him in the system, and that ex-cops are treated differently, housed separately, from other
prisoners. It was all one big god-damned lie. I guess I was too naive then to believe
otherwise. And that special place--- well, cops do have them; they’re called cells at
Quentin, Folsom, Chino, wherever.
This was May 29, 1970, and it was a hot Los Angeles morning. The seat I was put
in was much too small for me. I think my grammar school desk was bigger. The bus was
an older piece of shit, way older than some I had worked on, and it rattled excessively. As
the other prisoners got themselves comfortable, some began bragging about their past
exploits or complaining about the chains, a few saying Lincoln freed the slaves’ years
ago, or that they were political prisoners and didn’t commit any real crime. And with the
way the FBI was working on sending in informants and infiltrators spreading
disinformation, along with every other cop agency in the country, I could almost believe
that story. There were about five white guys on this bus and twenty-five blacks. I
sincerely hoped that I didn’t know any of the blacks.
The Marlin handcuffs started bothering my wrists and then my nose started
running. I couldn’t wipe my nose because my wrist cuffs were hooked to a waist chain so
I had to wipe my nose constantly on my shirt shoulder. The guy next to me, a white guy
wearing gold-rimmed glasses, just stared straight ahead and never blinked. He seemed
catatonic.
The trip from LA County main jail to the intake center at Chino lasted four hours.
I was tired and kept dozing off and falling on my companion’s shoulder. He was still
fixed in a trance, straight ahead. Maybe he was scared about sitting in front of the bus. I
wondered if he was ok, but I didn’t wonder enough to bother him about it.
36
The driver took the freeways east from Los Angeles towards Corona, taking the
Chino turn off. A few odd turns here and there and we were heading towards the men’s
reception center for the southern half of California. I knew the area well since I had
hunted rabbit and pheasant out this way, and in high school we had a few beer keggers
out here.
We pulled up next to a small gatehouse at the entrance to the compound. There
were big buildings and trees everywhere, and rows of chain linked fence topped with
double strands of barbed-wire. Numerous gun towers were sticking up like oil well rigs.
The deputies surrendered their guns to the gate guard and drove through. Men in
blue jeans and blue shirts were working pulling weeds and cleaning up along the
roadway, each of them searching the bus with probing eyes, looking for a familiar face or
an enemy.
The bus pulled up to a loading dock where laundry was being taken off a truck.
Shit, this is reality! The loading dock was but a small part of a very large building with
about six or seven wings attached to the main building. A whistle sounded suddenly and
the men unloading laundry immediately fell to the ground. An officer came out of a small
side door of the building. He waved to the officer in the gun tower, who waved back. !
The deputies stepped off the bus with their paperwork and entered the building.
The men on the ground lay there. The state prison officer walked along the bus looking at
every face in the window. The deputies came out of the building, each with a can of
Coke, and ordered us off. As we started off, the state prison officer began yelling.
37
“OK, you bastards, into the loading dock cell, on the double. This is PRISON,
spelled P R I S 0 N. It is not, I repeat, NOT the county jail honor farm. The man in the
gun tower is god and executioner. When you hear a whistle blow you will immediately
fall flat on your face and remain there until told to do so. The whistle is a sign of trouble,
and there may be shots fired. If you fail to hit the ground you may be considered an
adversary and subject to being shot and we do shoot prisoners from time to time. You are
my enemy, and the enemy of every person who works within the prison system. We will
treat you as such.”
“Listen up. Get into the holding cell so we can remove your handcuffs and
chains.”
I could tell this guy wasn’t into much sensitivity training.
One by one we made it into the holding cell after clumsily stepping out of the bus,
then shuffling along to the steps with our leg chains. A prison trustee (those convicts who
hold jobs in prison) entered from a side door followed by a correctional officer in khakis.
In his large tattooed arms he was carrying a load of manila envelopes. On each envelope
was a name.
“Welcome to the California prison system. It is, I repeat, it is not your local
Holiday Inn”, were his first words.
I figured we were going to be called in alphabetical order so I didn’t move from
my spot in the corner which I was trying to squeeze into as tight as I could. I looked
around from time to time, as did most of the prisoners. When they were looking at me I
38
wondered if it was because of my height, my clothes, or because they knew I was “that”
ex-cop.
Someone yelled ‘all clear’ and the guys on the ground got into the laundry truck
and drove off.
Someone in here knew I was a cop, because word gets around fast. In the county
jail the trustees pick up bits of information and you’re labeled. They know who people
are by the jail movement cards, newspapers, and sentencing papers. And of course, some
deputies open their big mouths.
I was anticipating that someone would make a move on me when the chains and
cuffs were removed. I was so uptight that I would have attacked the first person who
took a step in my direction.
As the guard started calling off names he handed each man a envelope and
directed him to a room behind him. This was the ‘shake-down’ room, or booking area.
It was another room with the benches bolted to the floor, a smelly stopped up
urinal and ‘fuck-you’ written on the walls. I took my manila envelope and sat between a
black guy and a white guy. I hoped neither one of them guys were talkative because it
seemed that everyone around me was talking about their beef, or asking each other what
they were in for, how long, who the judge was, your attorney, and do you have any foxy
sisters. I could see myself telling someone, “Oh, I’m Bob Shaffer, ex-deputy sheriff. I
shot this black burglar while I was on duty, and I threw down a gun and claimed selfdefense. What’s your name?”
39
The white guy next to me was already yacking about his crime. He reminded me
of a big, stupid farm boy who twanged when he talked, saying how he beat the shit out of
his girl friend for the tenth time. She had to testify from a hospital bed she was hurt so
bad.
“Hell, I just wanted her to give some pussy to my best buddy. What’s friends for,
huh? But I’ll get that bitch when I get out. She’ll be sorry.”
We were ordered to put any valuables we possessed in the manila envelopes, and
then to strip clean every thing we had on our bodies. The manila envelopes were
collected by a black trustee who had plucked eyebrows and smiled at the well built black
guys. He carried the envelopes into another room where more inmates were busy typing
away
on small desks. Our clothes were collected, and the officer with the tattoos, Mr. Lilley,
informed us they would be burned. Then came what was the first of at least a hundred
skin shakes.
A skin shake is done on a comp1etely naked person. The ears are looked into,
body hair shaken out and scrutinized, mouth looked into (lift that tongue), soles of the
feet and toes examined, and the armpits and ass-hole. Those with a foreskin had to draw
it back. Not a single thing was left out save an x-ray of the intestines.
We were then processed and booked into the state prison system. This really
consisted of everyone standing around naked, and a few of the white guys were glancing
at the black convicts’ penises’ to see if it was myth or fact. We were then seated side by
side on a long bench, and when the guy on the far end got up to be booked everyone slid
40
his ass down one more space. I had the most uncomfortable feeling that my buttocks were
becoming infected with every kind of imaginable street disease. This may have been a
typical fear for a middle class white, but I had good cause for alarm because there were
some dirty, funky dudes sliding their asses ahead of mine.
My turn! I was called up to a typewriter manned by an inmate. I went through the
height and weight routine, signed at the bottom line and was sent to the showers at the
other end of the booking room. Once in a while I got a cold stare from one of the black
inmates who worked in the booking room. I showered and stepped out of the gang
shower looking for a towel. The towel trustee looked at me, picked up a dirty half-wet
towel from the floor and tossed it to me. He knew who I was, I was sure of that, and it
was reactions like this, in such an exposed, vulnerable position, that had me wishing I’d
never worn that badge and gun. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! Here I am, in
my mid-twenty’s, a deputy-sheriff only 6 months ago and now facing a life top sentence.
My life is fucked.
41
Booking
I was given a blue shirt and blue prison pants, only the pants were four inches to
short, the shirt three sizes too small, and each shoe a different size, neither one mine. I
looked like Lil Abner, and I figured the clothing trustee knew my identity. They knew my
right sizes as we had to put the information on our envelopes, and I was sure I wrote
34x37 pants, 17 shirt, and 14B shoes.
I figured that little inconveniences like this would probably plague me until my
death so I had better expect them until I was in a position to do something about them.
In the state prison booking center the inmates do most of the typing,
fingerprinting, photos, and general paperwork. A sergeant and one officer supervised
about ten working inmates who were booking our busload. The idea was good because
the state didn’t have to pay civilian personnel to do the job but I couldn’t understand, at
that time, why any inmate would do something to support the system. I probably would
because I was a part of the system and always associated myself with it.
And the prisoner photographer, who set up the prison number board that was
chained around our necks to indicate our prison number, was whistling and smiling while
he worked.
All of a sudden I started to get a pressed in feeling so bad that I wanted to run up
to someone and cry out for help but I didn’t know anybody and I felt on the verge of
going on a smashing rampage, questioning and defying the whole system. I needed
someone to console me, to tell me everything would be all right. I needed a corner to hide
in. I went into the room where the clothes were passed out, pushing my way past the
42
inmate in charge. There were a few guys in there laying on the stacks and shirts and jeans
and they looked at me wondering what the hell I was doing?
I was having a ‘crazy’ feeling. My head felt light and I could feel my heart racing.
My eyes started darting from man to man. I was afraid! I was afraid and I didn’t know
what to attack. I felt that I had to attack something.
I backed tightly into the corner and then slouched against the wall, taking long
deep breaths. In a few moments I started to calm down. I couldn’t believe these feelings.
I had been through so many critical situations on patrol and kept my cool, but in here I
was loosing it. Of course, out there I always had someone coming to back me up.
I saw a man coming towards me and looked up. It was Wayman Dial, one of my
cellmates from the county jail! Wayman stepped up close to me and whispered to me not
to talk to him like I knew him, not to be friendly but just to listen.
“I’ve been accepted here so far, Bob. I don’t want these guys to relate us. Just
follow me,” he said.
I followed him to the printing table where he took my prints. Chief of San
Marcos, Texas, Wayman Dial, taking my fingerprints! I had played dominoes many a
night with him in 1300-A, over many months as a matter of fact. We had talked about
each other’s dreams after getting out, how we got into the mess we were in, our families.
I watched the inmate next to me being printed. He was a small Mexican who
didn’t want his prints to be recognized so while in the county jail he had taken a razor
43
blade and cut nicks from the finger tips. His prints looked like zebra markings. But the
state had many years to get a decent set of prints, so why fight it?
But I’ll tell you, I sure was fucking mad at Wayman. It was hard for me to
believe my ears when he wanted me to act like a stranger toward him. Well, fuck that sonof-a-bitch anyway.
After finger printing I was escorted to the prison barber shop by an inmate who
called himself Harry the Jew.
“I can get you anything you like for a price,” Harry said as we walked along.
“Pretty boys, dope, magazines, anything.” I didn’t respond. I just followed him through
the security gate from the booking area, down the hall to one of the wings that housed
about a hundred or so inmates and up the stairs to the barbershop. I couldn’t believe this.
Here I was, escorted by another inmate through the guidance center to a prison
barbershop. I was completely without an officer’s escort, which I expected to get like I
had in the county jail.
I got my hair cut as Harry waited. I had tipped the barber a pack of cigarettes,
which Harry had given me for that purpose. I had to pay Harry back 300% 1ater, but
without knowing he was going to get a tip, the barber might make a few slips here and
there. In spite of the tip the haircut looked like shit.
Harry took me back to the photography area for my mug shot. Being distraught as
I was, and with little sleep the night before, the results were terrible, though the photo
depicted how I looked and felt. My collar was still tucked under my shirt from the
44
haircut, I had a three day beard, and the photography lights were a blinding flash that
made me twist my face and squint my eyes. But this is how I appeared May 29, 1970 - B27884:
45
While I was waiting for cell assignment, Jack Kirschke, one time prosecuting
Deputy District attorney for the County of Los Angeles, also an inmate, introduced
himself to me and shook my hand. I remembered Jack Kirschke when I was a rookie
deputy working the Technical Services Division department transporting special
prisoners to court and I had once escorted him to superior court. After I was arrested I
saw him a few times in the same holding tank I was in. He was heading to court on his
double-murder charge or appeals and I was going to one of my bail hearings.
Jack was convicted of killing his wife and her boyfriend in his house, when Jack
was supposed to be in Las Vegas. Anyway, his jury found him guilty of first degree
murder and Jack demanded they sentence him to die, which they did. Judge Kathleen
Parker over-ruled their verdict and sentenced him to life. Jack said the judge acted as if
she was always in her period.
He told me I could have a job typing in the booking room, since it would keep me
busy and under constant supervision. I wanted to show the system that I was willing to do
what they wanted, so I agreed.
As I was thinking about my new “job” two guards entered the booking area and
asked me to follow them to the captain’s office for an interview. I was told this would
happen prior to being housed. We walked along the large main corridor where inmates
were strolling back and forth like they were cruising a main street and letting everyone
know how cool they were with their handkerchiefs around their foreheads, their blue
shirts rolled up to show their upper arm size, and their pants ripped at the bottom to give
them that flared look. I was told who I was, and where I was, once again.
46
“Walk down the center line, punk,” one guard said, shoving me towards the
middle. (Only guards could walk down the sides of the hallways.)
“What’s your B number?” one demanded.
“Sir, it’s B—27884, sir.”
“Hey, he says ‘Sir” when he talks to us,” the other guard said. “You been to the
joint before, punk, or in the military?”
“Sir, the special forces, sir.’
I figured these boneheads, must be ex-servicemen, who seemed to adapt to
correctional work more easily than non-regimented, non-military men.
“Beret, huh? Well, you can’t be all bad then. Where’d you serve?”
“Nam, sir.” (Where else would a Green Beret be in the late 60’s and early 70’s?)
Of course it wasn’t true but these guys were something else. I should have told
them, ‘Say man, I’M an ex-cop and I served my time in the ghettos, and you wouldn’t
make a pimple on my ass’, but before we could continue our conversation we were at the
captain’s office.
It’s a good thing too, since the nearest I got to the service was my draft board
medical exams and was slated to be drafted by the Marines.
They walked me into the captain’s private room where I saw an aging man sitting
behind a desk much too big for him and running a comb through what little hair he had
on his head. He dismissed the two guards with a wave of his hand.
47
“Sit” he said, and I did. I looked around his office at the numerous plaques and
diplomas hanging on his walls.
Captain Breen wanted to know what color the man was that I shot. I really
couldn’t believe that he didn’t know already so I figured that this was an ‘honesty’
discussion.
Captain Breen wanted to put me into protective custody for the duration of my six
to eight week stay at the guidance center. “I don’t want protective custody,” I told him,
“because then I would have two jackets to carry, an ex-cop and a PC case. “I’d rather
face ‘em in the yard.” It was a stupid and macho response.
“You know, you’re the first cop to come to prison for this kind of crime in the
state’s history, but God knows I don’t think you belong here. If I had my way you’d be a
free man this instant, but I don’t have that power.
“I’ve had other cops come through here for other crimes, and I still got a few here
today, but they’ve been able to hide themselves. No one knows a wife killer from a drunk
driver who kills a pedestrian, but you have a target on your back. Your beef happened on
duty, and it’s hard to separate your identities as a cop and civilian. You’re probably 100%
cop and that magnifies things against you.”
“House me where I’ll fit the easiest.” I told him. “ I want to be able to look at
each man in the face and at least let him know I’m not a coward. I can fight if I have to.”
“Shaffer” he put down his comb and looked straight at me. ”Inmates caught
fighting in the yard are sometimes shot at. It’s a felony in prison. That’s the law here. We
don’t differentiate between Bob Shaffer ex-cop, and Joe Blow the robber. The man in the
48
tower only sees two men in blue fighting, and his instructions are to shoot, and shoot to
kill if necessary.”
“I’ll still take my chances with the general population and not lock-up.”
He put down his comb once again. “Another question. Did you throw down a gun
after you shot the burglar?”
I thought about that one. Why do people who’ve read my complete file, probation
and judge’s report, and the investigation officer’s report ask me that? The probation
officer’s report, the investigating officer’s report and the judge’s report are not governed
by constitutional issues and rights. What is stricken by the judge at the trial as
inadmissible evidence may be used by the probation officer when determining if a prison
sentence is advisable. The probation officer who did my sentencing report, was, in my
opinion, a jelly-fish of a man. I believe his was guided by his superiors and the DA’s
office. He stated in his probation report to Judge Kolts that I threw down a gun because
the homicide detectives who arrested me told him I did. And that was that. But since I
had appeals pending I wasn’t admitting shit to anyone else cause they were in a uniform
and I wasn’t. And if I won on appeal I didn’t need anyone else saying, “Shaffer
confessed”.
“No, sir.”
“Ok, you can go. But remember, it’s not the ones you’re looking in the face you
have to worry about, it’s the one’s sneaking up behind your back. No movies or yard
activities while you’re here. Stay in your cell as much as possible.”
“Thank you sir, I’ll do that.” I replied.
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I left his office with my two escorts and was taken to my assigned cellblock. The
cellblocks are named after trees and I was assigned to Madronne Hall, which was a “work
crew” block. Some of the others were named Birch Hall, Palm Hall (the hole), etc. We
had to pass many gated checkpoints, the guards opening iron gates at each. If a breakout
and prison riot occurred at least the inmates in the dorms could not combine forces.
Madronne Hall was where Jack Kirschke was housed among those who worked
full time prison details while incarcerated at Chino Men’s Prison reception center. For
one reason or another they would do their entire sentence here.
I was assigned to cell 663, which had thick cement walls, a window facing west,
an upper bunk, a small locker, a table and a chair. The toilet bowl and sink were highly
polished and clean. Unlike the county jail, this was an executive suite.
The Madronne Hall guard who escorted me to my cell explained that the cell was
only locked for count and at night. If I wanted my cell locked all the time I would have to
request it from the dorm guard. “No thanks, I could have been ‘locked in’ anywhere.”
Now I had to make myself accepted as a man, regardless of the consequences. A twentyfour year old scared shitless shell of a man.
I opened the locker and put my state handouts (tooth brush, tooth powder, soap,
razor, extra shirt) in it. Inside there was another toothbrush some tooth powder that
looked like movie heroin, a comb and one stainless razor blade. I made the bed and then
realized how tired I was. It was an aching tired that went through every muscle and nerve,
and to the center of the brain. It was a culmination tired. The uncertainties were over: I
was here.
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I sat down in my small chair and looked out the barred window. I just gazed at the
outside world, knowing fully that there were always going to be bars between me and life
outside. I closed my eyes to rest and think. Suddenly I began to cry uncontrollably and
with heavy sobbing. I’d cried after my arrest and after my conviction, but this time I had
no control. The warm tears streamed down my face, onto my shirt and all over the small
wooden desk. I couldn’t believe it! I didn’t care who heard me. I didn’t give a shit
anymore. My life was over. I am serving a “life top,” and that means if I screw up in
prison it is possible that I may never get out, and either get killed in here or die of old
age. Neither option sounded too good.
“Why? Why? Why?” I cried out, over and over again.
I thought of my wife Marilynn, my family, what few friends I had left, and
wondered what the hell happened to it all. This felt so strange. Going to prison isn’t
what people plan for, especially a cop.
A cop in prison for murdering a burglar. Now I am a murderer, a felon, and a
convict. It doesn’t make any sense. My life didn’t make sense. How could all this
happen? The honor and respect that I had once possessed was now a fleeting memory,
floating in space and lost forever.
How can a cop with a life top sentence relate in this environment? The hell and
mental conflict were torture. I might as well take the razor blade from the locker and
open my arteries and let the blood flow with the tears.
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I opened the locker, took out the stainless blade and put it in the table in front of
me. That way it’ll be over; for me, the state, for the family of the man I shot, and for the
embarrassment I caused those close to me.
After 15 minutes of sobbing, I made an effort to wipe the tears from my face. I
put the blade back in my locker and took a long, deep breath. I knew if I really wanted to
kill myself I could do it. I was educated and I knew where to cut for the quickest, most
effective wound. But suicide just wasn’t me. Then there was a knock on my cell door.
I wiped my shirt sleeve across my face and looked up to see what appeared to be
a good looking, dark-haired guy about 6’3”, outside my cell.
“Sorry, but I thought you might need someone to talk to for a few minutes. I’m
Bruce Wizner. I live in 664, next door.”
He didn’t seem to be threatening so I told him to come on in.
“I . . I’m all right. Just letting go some pent up emotions and frustrations.”
“Yeah, I did the same my first day here. I think just about everyone does sooner
or later.”
I looked at him closer. His eyes were deep set in his head, he was puffing on a
pipe, wearing sandals and I noticed a wedding ring. He looked like a modern day Basil
Rathbone.
Bruce told me that he was on the permanent work crew here, and that I should try
and get a job here for my own safety, since this dorm was a semi-protective custody
dorm.
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Does he know about me? I thought.
This guy was reading my thoughts. “Hey, I know you used to be a cop, and from
L.A. too. And, so does just about everyone in this dorm. You can’t keep secrets in prison,
so although you never tell anyone who you are, presume they already know and go from
there. You’re not the only cop in here. There are two others and an ex-DA. And over at
the minimum side of CIM, (Chino Institute for Men) there’s two LAPD cops in for fraud
or bribery or something like that. They came through here a few years ago.
“You know, there are people who work for the brass who do nothing but scan the
newspapers and cut out articles about high profile cases like yours and they follow the
cases til sentencing, and we have TV too. We saw you on it a few times.”
I just sat there watching him puff away, not replying to anything he said. What
could I say?
“Well, if you need anything, let me know, maybe I can be of help. I gotta go
now.’
“Thanks, I will.”
Bruce left and I couldn’t help wondering if I had dreamed our conversation. It just
didn’t seem likely that someone would want to help me, unless it was a set-up.
So almost everyone in the dorm knew about my past. I wondered what kind of
approach I should take. All I could do was to act as natural as possible, whatever the hell
that was. In a way it was a relief, and paradoxically, a problem.
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Something hit my cell door. I got up and looked out at the main floor below,
covered with bunks because of overcrowding. I then opened my cell door and found a bar
of soap lying on the floor. My first of many probably.
I worried about the lack of privacy. I also wondered who would put up a stink
about me moving right into a cell, ahead of guys who’d arrived weeks ahead of me who
were entitled to one.
It was too tiring to figure out, so I climbed up into my bunk for a doze before the
dinner count and meal release. I was depressed, drained and tired.
I woke up at 6:30 PM, almost two hours late for dinner. I also realized that I’d
missed count, and that meant a disciplinary warning. Count is taken five times a day, but
for the times we are awake we must be at our door with our hands on the bars. Missing
three counts was grounds for punitive action.
Because this concerned me I went downstairs to talk to the officer on-duty. He
was a big fellow, almost 60, with silver hair and a physique like mine. I apologized about
not being at the bars, making sure not to step across the yellow line drawn around his
desk.
He told me not to worry about it this time, as he worked his counts different than
the other officers. His name was Nichols, and he used to be a Pomona cop and had been
in law enforcement almost thirty years. He knew some of the older detectives at Firestone
Station where I used to work, and I guess they told him I was coming out.
“I couldn’t believe it when they told me.” Nichols said. “ What do people think
happens in the streets anyway? In here we’re baby-sitters for over-grown delinquents, but
54
in the streets, you’re a target.”
We had more small talk and then I realized I was at the ‘bulls’ (slang for prison
guard) desk running my mouth, I excused myself and went back to my cell. On my bed
was a lunch bag with some fruit in it. Probably from my neighbor Bruce.
I went to the window and looked at the beautiful orange ball of fire getting ready
to set for the day. That was one of the nicer things about having a cell with a westerly
view. I sat on my desk and starred at the sun going down. I was looking so hard it seemed
I was hallucinating as I could see my face smiling back at me, then other faces came into
view, some happy and some sad, some laughing and many crying. I could see Roderick
Thomas Mollette the burglar, laughing at me cause I was behind bars, Curtis William
Malone, my ex trainee with his scared look; there was my attorney, Burton Marks, the
Deputy District Attorney Ralph Mayer, and Hal Manskar and Bobby Moeller, deputies I
worked with, and I could see MURDER. The letter ‘M’ seemed to play a big part in all
this mess. Then I watched as a calendar raced back to March 1970, then to November
1969, and then finally back to January 15, 1966.
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Chapter 6
January 15, 1966
My First Day At The Sheriff’s Academy
January 15, 1966 the AFL All-Stars beat Buffalo 30-19, January 15, 1970 the
African Republic Biafra disbands after civil war and rejoins Nigeria, January 15, 1972
Joe Frazier KO’s Terry Daniels, January 15, 1973 the Watergate 4 burglars plead guilty
in federal court, January 15, 1976 Sara Jane Moore, would-be assassin of Gerald Ford, is
sentenced to life in prison.
January 15, 1966 was the day I started the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s
academy. I had only applied for this job because it paid $200 a month more than I was
making as an office worker at the Automobile Club of Southern California, where I was
at my top pay in the job category. And the road ahead looked bleak for promotion. And
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my top pay was $425 a month. It’s hard to believe anyone could live on so little even in
the 60’s. Going to the sheriff’s department I was getting a 50% pay increase.
I took my test at the Long Beach, California county courthouse and was the only
one to pass in my group of twenty applicants. I finished the test before the finish bell
rang, and the proctor said the test wasn’t designed to be completed. I wondered how
stupid the other applicants were since I wasn’t a genius by any stretch of the
imagination..
I was given an appointment for an oral exam that would be held at the Hall of
Administration in Los Angeles. When I arrived the room was full of young men, neatly
dressed, talking over hypothetical questions about police work. I had a neighbor, a
deputy, who filled me in on all the questions and gave me the answers that were
acceptable.
A Sgt. Dykhouse and a black man from the civil service commission gave me my
oral examination. They asked questions regarding homosexuality in jail, use of fire arms,
why I wanted to be a deputy, and would I give another cop a ticket.
I didn’t know much about queers or homosexual activity so I told them I would
separate any prisoners I found engaged in homosexual activity and report to my
supervisor, who would probably determine if charges were in order.
The firearms question was would I shoot at a running ‘person’ leaving the scene
of a liquor store robbery.
“No, it might be the owner chasing a suspect. I’d try and run after him. If I lost
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the person running away then I’d know it was a suspect, but at least I wouldn’t take a
chance of shooting a wrong person,” I replied.
Bravo! I knew that was correct, although somewhat conservative in actual
circumstances.
We discussed the recent Watts, South Central Los Angeles riots, which had
proven to be an incentive on men joining at this time. It had probably had an effect on
me, too, because I had wondered why more looters and robbers’ and arsonists weren’t
being shot when listening to the riots live on the radio, and watching the massive amounts
of damage on TV.
The last question was would I give a traffic citation to another cop, or his wife. I
figured that every lawman depended on his brothers in the adjoining agencies. Although
the pay was good the job had few other rewards and policemen had to work together
because they depended on each other, I figured that issuing a citation to another cop
might start a ‘citation war’ between the departments. Solidarity between cops working
black neighborhoods was a cardinal rule, and during critical times I would hate to have
another agency take their time on an assistance call because some idiot cop gave him or
someone on his agency a ticket. The same went for a cop caught for drunk driving. I
would take them home or call a cab or call his supervisor. Although there are policemen
who don’t agree with me, that’s the way I felt, and that’s what I replied.
Obviously I passed so some of my answers had to be correct. I took a physical
examination and filled out some background papers. Weeks later I received my notice to
report to the academy January 15, 1966, at 6 fucking AM.
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The academy was in East Los Angeles, a place most Mexicans would consider the
barrio. I’d gone to East Los Angeles Junior College not too far from the sheriff’s
academy so I knew the territory. I’d also worked at a beverage bottling plant that catered
to the Mexican market producing lime, strawberry, cherry and cola flavored drinks much
like those served in Tijuana and Mexico. I would load and unload the delivery trucks
after school and was the only white guy working there. It was a few bucks a week
spending money.
We were to report to the academy in khaki colored uniforms since we wouldn’t be
real deputies until graduation in 16 weeks. I didn’t know anything about the type of
training it would be and I pictured it more of an academic and firearms training that what
it really was, a scream-a-thon.
On the morning to report “to the hill” there were eight cars in line to go up the
road to the academy, which shared the grounds with the women’s county jail facility. As
I got closer to my turn I noticed two guys dressed like I was but wearing helmets and
screaming at the top of their voices at the drivers.
“Where do you think you’re going, you idiot?” one screamed at the driver two
cars in front of me. When the driver tried to answer the other would yell something like
“…get your moron ass up that road and when your feet hit the pavement you’d better be
running, mister”.
“Yes sir, yes sir,” the driver choked out.
The driver in front of me got the same treatment. What kind of shit is this,
anyway? It looked like military boot-camp.
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It was my turn to pull up to their ‘stop sign’ and get abused. So I was ready. Not
happy but ready.
I happened to be driving a 1958 Chevrolet Impala. Not just any Impala. This one
had 50 coats of black lacquer paint. You could see your reflection. On the side was a
beautiful chrome strip highlighted with turquoise paint from headlights to taillights. It
was lowered almost like a low rider cruiser and there were racing slicks instead of
highway tires on the rear wheels.
Under the hood, well, that was another story in itself. The 348 cubic inch engine
was built to the max by Keith Black Racing Engines, located in South Gate, according to
the dealer where I bought the Impala. Keith Black Engines was just across the road from
where I grew up in South Gate near Wright Road and Atlantic Avenue. His emblem was
on the chrome valve covers. Supposedly the engine produced over 400 horsepower and
for 1966 that was tremendous. Keith Black was known for building racing engines for
drag boats and Chrysler hemi engines were his favorite then, and if anyone could get
1000 plus horsepower from an engine it was Keith Black. (And if you ever want to know
what sheer terror is like, trying going 125 mph in a drag boat, with a full blown engine
just inches, behind you with its dry pipes belching flames and unbearable noise. I did)
The engine sported a high rise intake manifold topped with two - four barrel carbs
that operated on progressive linkage and not vacuum, and it was all hooked up to a B&M
four speed stick hydro racing transmission and a 4.56 posi-traction rear end. In short,
when you floored the gas pedal it flat hauled ass. At an idle this engine would shake the
car like a tiger waiting to spring on its next victim and you could hear the horsepower
sound coming from the dual exhausts. So what if I only got five miles to the gallon on
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the freeway, cause when I was stopped at a red light I knew I would be the first one to the
next red light. I NEVER lost a ¼ mile race to anyone, not even the new Corvettes. And I
went everywhere racing….Hollywood strip, Orange County, San Fernando Valley, Santa
Monica, Laguna Beach, anywhere there was a popular street to cruise and choose your
race. Ever seen American Graffiti? That was me.
So, it was my time to pull up to the two academy cadets from the training class
that had started about eight weeks before mine.
I put the driver’s window down and when one of them started to scream at me he
just stopped and started looking at the Impala that was gently shaking from side-to-side.
“Hey, I know this car” he said slowly. “Ever cruise Harvey’s Broiler in
Downey”?
Harvey’s Broiler was one of THE cruise joints located in Downey, California. If
you had a bitching car of any type and you lived in Southern California you had to go to
Harvey’s Broiler to cruise. They had the greatest looking carhops on roller skates, great
food, ugly bouncers, and cruisers from all over the Los Angeles area. There was no law
against cruising the area but it was certainly a headache for the Downey Police
Department.
“Three of four times a week! I live in South Gate. What do you drive?” I asked.
“62 Pontiac Catalina, light blue, 389, 3-2’s, 4 speed and 4.11 posi’s” he answered.
One didn’t answer with their name or school cause gear-head talk was the only
acceptable language.
“One with the flames on the side or the pearl blue paint?” I queried.
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“Pearl blue paint. One with the flames is a dog.” he responded.
“I know the car. Nice to meet ya. So, what’s up?” I wanted to know.
“Have you been in the military?”
“Nope”
“Well get ready for every son of a bitch up there to be in your face and I really
mean in your face. Academy training is now stress training like Marine boot camp so be
ready and just grin and bear it and whatever you do, don’t look anyone in the eyes.
They’ll have you for lunch. Did you buy snap-on ties or the kind you tie a knot in?” he
asked.
“The break-away, like I was told to buy.”
“Good for you. Head on up but pull that car club plaque out of your back window
before you go up. Pull over there.” He said.
I was a member of the Tartars Car Club of Bell. Today you’d call us a gang.
I did as I was instructed and pulled up the hill to the parking area while watching
the upper classmen haze the other new cadets, and they were running as soon as their feet
hit the pavement. Somewhere in this class, number 110, was Steve Beeler, author of
“The Firestone Syndrome”.
The academy training was ‘stress training’. And I mean stress like you would
almost pee your pants when those trainers yelled at you one inch from your face. We
were always being yelled at and we had to run everywhere we went. It was shiny shoes,
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shiny leather, shiny brass buttons and ‘sir, yes sir –sir, no, sir’. I was to compile a
notebook well over a thousand (!) pages on subjects such as penal code, welfare and
institutions, health and safety, dope laws, arrest, searches, fire-arms, pursuits and
everything that had any relevance to police work and some that didn’t. Sixteen grueling
weeks worth.
I was issued a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver 4” barrel, K598-35l and one set of
handcuffs #169-269, and I had to repeat those numbers a few hundred times in that
sixteen weeks.
I graduated fourth in my class out of about 80 cadets, which was in the top 10%.
Among the few things that stood out from the academy was the riot training. It
was called ‘SSOP’, for the Sheriff’s Standard Operating Procedure for riot training. The
sheriff had to have his title in everything that came off the presses, and we were told this
was a super secret training program. Sentries were posted so no black Muslim/nationalist
pro-rioter (or LAPD snoop) could sneak close for a better look-see. We were also told not
to mention it as SSOP because the ‘SS’ sounded too Nazi like.
Cadets were the rioters and the real deputies came in for about a week and
kicked our asses around. They treated us like assholes but the big emphasis was on
the use of more shotguns and less night-sticks, to counter the problem they had during the
riots of too many night sticks and not enough shotguns. Sometimes I thought the FBI
started the riots so LA police could get appropriations for more riot gear.
We were being used for dummies now and we would use the people for our
dummies later on. This training showed us that whatever justice wasn’t handed out by the
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courts would be handed out in the back seat of a radio car. Like I say, they treated us as
rioters.
One of my weekend training rides also stood out. As a cadet we filled in on
weekend duty at one of the 12 stations in the county. One weekend I would be at
Hollywood Station, the next maybe in Lakewood. Many times we were just a body
occupying the passenger seat and not saying a word. Actually, I was told to just shut up
and look and listen.
I had an assignment at the Pomona station for a graveyard shift. I met my partner
at the briefing, got the shotgun, got in the car and we left the station. My partner, whom I
can’t remember any more, pulled into a very darkened vacant lot, pulled a blanket and
pillow out of the trunk and told me to listen to our call letters and wake him only if the
call sounded serious. For the next 6 hours he slept the whole shift as there were no calls
for us.
When I got back to the academy on Monday I reported this incident to my
training officer, also known as a Tach Officer or TO, Deputy Dunphy (we actually called
him Deputy Dumpy cause he was only about 5’7” tall.)
Deputy Dunphy acted irritated about my partner deputy’s actions and thanked me
for reporting the incident. But on my next weekend assignment in Norwalk, also a
graveyard shift, the first thing from the mouth of my weekend partner was “…you the
guy who snitches on deputies who sleep on-duty?” I couldn’t believe that my Tach
Officer let this get out!
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I’d had about 12 weeks of academy training by this time so I wasn’t really a
rookie cadet anymore. I told my week-end partner that I was out here to enforce the laws
and do a job but if he wanted to get some shut-eye after we did something that’s was Ok
with me, but we weren’t going to sleep the shift away. He nodded his approval and we
made some arrests, wrote some tickets, impounded some abandoned cars and then he
took a snooze two hours. Most of the deputies I worked with on weekend assignments
snoozed because they just weren’t cut out for graveyard shifts or went to school or had
another job in the daytime. Dunphy did not ask me a thing the next Monday.
Another weekend assignment I was assigned to the Lennox Station. By now I had
learned that if you give the devil a ride eventually he will want to drive. Lennox covered
the area to the south and west of the Firestone Station area, from the City of Lennox to
the Manhattan Beach area, and what was called the South Beaches. I think it covered
parts of Inglewood too. It was a very busy station, near the reputation of East Los
Angeles and Firestone but not quite the same intensity, in my opinion.
My assigned partner and I were investigating a ‘burglary in progress’ call at an
electronics warehouse. We got out of the car and were checking the building when all of
a sudden two suspects ran from the rear door to a waiting 1952 Ford sedan. We got in the
radio car and started pursuing them on streets I was unfamiliar with and I couldn’t read
the signs to call in our pursuit position. As we closed the gap to the fleeing car my
partner pulls his revolver out and fires a round into their trunk and yells at me to do the
same. I was surprised at his actions and just did not react. Anyway I didn’t feel justified
in shooting at a fleeing car when we were not in any imminent danger, the suspect’s
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hadn’t attacked us, and I had no idea of their escaping would be a danger to society,
felony or not.
He slows down and they drive off. Then he starts laughing about how they won’t
pull any burglaries in the near future.
“I bet they turned white,” he said.
I am looking at him like …what the fuck are you doing?
I’m thinking the whole world of the sheriff’s department will be out here soon and
I am in deep shit ‘cause we were involved in a shooting incident, and I am still a cadet.
He tells me he is not calling it in, we are not putting anything on paper, cause the burglars
sure aren’t going to report it to anyone, and trying to chase them down wasn’t worth the
effort for a mere burglary charge anyway, and for me to just keep my mouth shut. And
that’s what I did. I got home early Monday morning, cleaned my equipment, put on a
fresh uniform and headed to the academy for classes.
About the time class #110 was finishing up their training there was some civil
unrest and possible riots in the South Central Los Angeles area, close to the Firestone
Station near Watts. We had been given the notice to be on alert, to be accessible for
immediate deployment to the area. I had no real idea what was happening.
The staff wasn’t sure if we were ready for a riot situation but we were called out
anyway. We were notified late one evening to report to the academy ready to go. We
rode four deputies to a car in a long caravan from East Los Angeles to the Firestone
Station, where we were assigned perimeter duty and roof observation duty. Most of us
were scared shitless. Only the deputies in my class who had prior police experience
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elsewhere seemed to be braving the situation. I was praying for NOTHING to happen. I
was too new to be involved in a full scale riot and my prayer was answered. We packed
up the next morning and left to return to the academy and be dismissed for the day.
Before finishing this episode I would like to say that the sheriff’s training officers
absolutely NEVER had anything good to say about LAPD or their training. If LAPD’s
academy went 17 weeks, the county would go 18 weeks. The sheriff’s department was
playing one-upmanship every chance it got. Our last week or so was with the LA County
Fire Department training facility. In that week we probably attended class 15 hours out
of a 40 hour week and the rest of the time we were on a perpetual 15 minute break just to
say our class did 16 weeks of training.
On May 6, 1966, class #110 of the LA County Sheriff’s Academy graduated at
the Hall of Administration. Our instructions were, “...don’t fuck up in front of the sheriff
and don’t shake his hand too hard.”
After the ceremony we were ‘deputy-sheriffs’, members of a quasi-right wing
organization that had amongst its ranks racial bigots, token niggers (an expression used
by our Tach Officers) and token Mexicans and some real lames who only got by because
they had an influential member of their family already working for the county or because
the county had to fill existing vacancies with a warm body.
We were told we were suppressing communism through enforcement of the law;
we were the wall that divided democracy from anarchy, (I think about that time Pink
Floyd’s “The Wall” album was out) good from evil, and whatever garbage was burned
into our brains through one of the best propaganda machines the system has built. We
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were not free thinking men, and the peer group pressures in the department are the
strongest known.
We were god-like chauvinists, with the power of life-and death, freedom or
incarceration, malevolence or benevolence at our immediate fingertips, through the pencil
or a Smith & Wesson. But, we were men, right or wrong. We had developed a theory that
coincides with the theory that keeps this country the strong sociological structure it is.
Everything bad said against the police was left wing commie propaganda, and that the
American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) was ‘pinko’, and the only way is the ‘right’ way
or no way at all. And if you were gay, look the fuck out.
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.
We got our choice of assignments on graduation. The county jail, the county jail
or the county jail. So I took the county jail, which most deputies do for a few years before
going out on patrol. The brass felt that a few years experience made for more mellow
deputies when eventually assigned to patrol duties, not like LAPD who sent graduates
high on ego and testosterone right into patrol. Or, like then Sgt. Hansen used to say,
‘like screaming ass apes’.
So, Rudy Walker, Lou Schumacher, Glenn Wright, and I, who were all in the 4th
platoon, drove to the jail wards at the Los Angeles County General Hospital, and we all
thought the same thing when we got to that huge, smelly hospital. Why the hell did they
send me here?”
Class 110 had a graduation some place in Pasadena, I can’t remember the name of
the restaurant. We were told to dress business-like, which I did. A few of our training
deputies were there, already hammered (that’s drunk). There were about twenty newly
graduated deputies (heavily armed), with crew cuts, most trying to hit on ANY babe who
walked in. It was so bad we were rocking and rolling with each other! That’s how I
remember it. Very dull.
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Chapter 7
Los Angeles County General Hospital
Sheriff’s Jail Ward
We entered through the side door where the emergency admitting was located.
Sick, old people were everywhere. In every hallway; on gurneys, in chairs and even in the
elevators. The odor was enough to make a person want to gasp for fresh Los Angeles
smog-filled air.
We walked to the elevators which were manned by a short real old guy about 5’2”
tall wearing thick glasses. He motioned us on, closed the doors and punched number 13,
a floor that didn’t exist on many elevator number pads back then.
We looked at each other for a bit and I noticed a Star of David tattoo on his
forearm and some numbers below the tattoo. This guy had been in one of the Nazi
concentration camps. His nametag read “Abe”. He said nothing.
We got off at the 13th floor and were met by Sgt Richard Titus, a high strung
balding man in his forties. He was the jail ward “commander”.
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Sgt. Titus told me because of my size I would work the graveyard shift. He
wanted bigger guys on it since there was less deputy supervision for the 100+ prisoners
who were on the ward. And the jail ward was the weakest link in the jail division. We
were a long way from the county jail or any police response in case of a break out or riot
and we didn’t have all the sophisticated electronic gates and hardware. Just an old
fashioned jail key, that locked and unlocked the main entrance to this part of the hospital.
On my first night I met Dennis Boyd, who later became of my partners. He had a
few years on the job already, was in his 30’s and volunteered that he was married but
played around, was going to night school and studying for the sergeant’s exam. That was
all the conversation we had for our eight hour shift. He went back to reading one of his
college texts in between bookings and ward duties.
Our duties were to admit those arrested by the various county departments who
were hurt bad enough to be hospitalized. That could be from gun shot wounds, stabbings,
car crashes or beatings. What ever. They had to be in such bad condition that they could
not be booked at any of the regular jails. We booked them into the system and then
turned them over to the medical staff that was assigned to work this ward. We also had
prisoners spread throughout the hospital, recovering from their injuries or childbirth.
They were chained to hospital beds on various floors and we had to make bed checks a
few times a shift to make sure they hadn’t escaped. The daytime shifts were responsible
for also making sure county jail inmates who needed medical attention beyond what the
jail doctors could handle were sent here. It could have been dentistry work, cast removal,
surgery follow up or therapy of some sort. They were glorified hospital attendants
pushing prisoners around on wheelchairs. But-carrying a .38.
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I joke a lot about the glorified hospital attendant thing but we did have an
important function in making sure the staff was protected, the prisoners received their
hospital and medical attention and that they did not escape custody. On my shift there
were no escapes.
The next night I met Gary Komers, maybe 30 then, also known as the ‘Blonde
Beast’. Gary was a gregarious lout, very liberal minded (he said he smoked pot but
denied it years later) also married, also played around every chance he got, also going to
college, and he made up for Dennis’ taciturn condition. This guy would not shut-up and
his favorite thing was discussing philosophy, DeKartes, Plato, Ptolemy, Kant, Neitchze
and whomever and ‘how do we know we are really alive’ shit? He was well built and
very quick with the reflexes. I think he was in love with the head nurse, a beautiful dark
haired woman named Maureen O’Connell. And she was beautiful.
We worked a three man rotating shift. Two nights I was with Dennis Boyd and
two nights with Gary Komers. I worked 4 days on and 2 days off with weekends off
every six weeks. After getting to know these guys, and finding out what the graveyard
ground rules were, I found myself fitting in pretty good. You might say that they played
an essential part in molding my cop personality. New partners always check each other
out, meaning what regulations can I break that you won’t squeal about and vice-versa.
It’s a game where each one finds something out on the other. That way, neither one can
say anything without jeopardizing his own position. It’s a cop rule.
With Dennis Boyd it was the intern parties. Dennis would leave the jail ward to
check on the prisoners chained to their beds in other parts of the hospital. Not all inmates
could be treated in the jail ward. But Dennis didn’t come back in his usual half-hour.
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After about three hours he called me to find out how everything was going, and he gave
me an extension he could be reached. I figured he was bullshitting with some nurse. He
was doing much more than bullshitting.
He went to an intern’s party, scored with a nurse, and made it to her room with
her for more party. When he came back five hours later he looked as if he had been
mugged by a nymphomaniac. Lipstick all over his neck and face, hair messed up and
clothes wrinkled. He had no excuse and I had something on him. Me, the rookie of the
shift, left alone for hours, a serious violation of security and grounds for immediate
termination, thought it was kind of cool you could get laid while on duty, and drink too.
And get paid $625 a month!
So, the procedure on party night was we flipped a coin. Instead of going out in our
uniforms now we would change into civilian clothes and be a bit more comfortable.
Next came sleeping on duty. Both Gary and Dennis were going to school in the
daytime and needed nights to sleep and study. I let them sleep in the sergeant’s office as
much as possible. I tried sleeping in there but I had nightmares of being caught. At first
Gary would say he wanted to go in there to use the typewriter and sit in Sgt Titus’
comfortable chair, but when I noticed the light was off I figured what he was doing. He
always said to call him in case something came up that I couldn’t handle. And I figured
when I started college again I could do the same thing, and since they were actually my
supervisors I gladly went along.
Some nights we met at a place called Garfano’s Pizza. It was a left wing
nurse/student hangout near California State University-Los Angeles. I thought we were
going to a left-wing coffee house but it turned out to be a left-wing pizza parlor. Gary
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liked it here ‘cause he could get into his political discussions and usually win the
argument. Garfano’s had posters of Black Panthers yelling “off the pigs” plastered on the
walls. We would drink a few beers while Gary would get a few phone numbers, and then
go to work. At times I swear I was almost as high as the drunks I was booking. That was
how easily it was for me to follow my leaders.
Gary was cool, plus he drove a 1965 yellow Corvette Stingray with the 327 cubic
inch 365 horsepower screaming engine with solid lifters. I wanted one!
Our locker room area was a small broom closet outside the jail entrance near the
elevators. If you wanted one you could grab anyone that was empty. None had locks on
them and every one of the ones I looked into had bottle of whiskey, scotch, gin or vodka
in it. Deputies here usually didn’t come to work in civilian clothes unless they got lucky
with a nurse and wanted to party after shift. Otherwise, most of the time we wore our
uniform in with a jacket over our uniform shirt. It looked as if everyone but the day shift
had a hit or two once in a while. And this was a jail facility!
Eventually even I kept a bottle of booze in one of the lockers and Gary or Dennis
and I would have a few on the slow nights and turn our smuggled FM radio. We would
listen to a popular jazz station where a black deputy, Jim Herrin, who worked a 2nd job, I
think it was at 105.1 FM, KBCA and his introduction song was “Killer Joe”
We would turn the office lights off and put our drinks in styro-foam cups. I can’t
remember how many times I passed off my scotch as iced-tea to other cops who were
booking prisoners. And at these times I would sneak into the sergeant’s office and put on
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one of his clean shirts, pretending I was the sergeant in charge. It fit a bit tight and made
my 18 inch biceps look even bigger.
I seemed to have fallen into this routine of violating regulations pretty easily.
Even though we had no real direct supervision I should have known better but I did want
to be accepted and liked by these guys. I GAVE THE DEVIL A RIDE AND HE WAS
SLOWLY WANTING TO DRIVE. Gary and Dennis had a few years seniority on me
but it didn’t bother them that we were really doing anything wrong. They both had
worked the men’s central jail for a few years and to me they were mini-gods. And the
shift before us from 2 PM to 10 PM was just as bad if not worse.
One night Gary just returned from an intern’s party pushing a large laundry
hamper. I had been to one of the intern’s parties and they usually had kegs and kegs of
beer and the party usually stopped when there was more beer on the floor than in the
kegs. I know he was sometimes a bit eccentric but this topped them all. I figured he had
a nurse in the basket or was playing one of his practical jokes because he was drunk and
laughing his fool head off. I looked under the sheet and he had a large beer keg, spigot
and all. He had taken it from the intern’s party, saying there was more booze being
spilled on the floors than being consumed, (see what I mean) so they wouldn’t miss it.
We called up all the ward nurses, attendants and the duty doctor. Everyone but the
prisoners for a glass of brew, and outside the jail gate was a sign indicating it was a crime
to bring booze into a jail facility! I think it was a felony, I’m not sure. Gary would laugh
and slap me on the back and say, “Apple core, Baltimore, who’s your friend, me.” (Gary
did remind me many years later he was ‘off-duty’ when he did this.)
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That was a squirrelly saying he would come up with that had to do with two
chipmunks in a Disney movie. When they would fight and make up one would say
“Apple core, Baltimore, who’s your friend? Me,” and then hit his friend with a rotten
apple core.
Most nights Dennis or Gary and I would talk for the first few hours before they
went to “study”. We hit on things like certain jail procedures, police procedures, escape
prevention, the Vietnam War, which both Dennis and Gary were against, family life and
bull crap in general. Many nights the conversation would bring up a deputy who used to
work this shift named Charles Alan Stowell, known as Charlie. They would tell me he
was the biggest womanizer and bull-shitter they ever met, bar none. Although married he
was having a strong affair with one of the nurses on the ward, one Gary Komers
nicknamed ‘Half-man’ because of her strong physical appearance, and she fell in love
with Charlie hard but she was strictly only good head to him. Years later she committed
suicide cause she was in love with Charlie and he really didn’t give a shit about her plus
he was still married. At least that’s what I heard.
And anytime they would go out drinking with Charlie he always seemed to pick
up some babe, whether she was good, bad or ugly looking. To Charlie it didn’t seem to
matter. He got laid. And according to them he could tell the stories.
Charlie Stowell quit the sheriff’s department after a few years and joined the
California Highway Patrol and went to Sacramento to their academy. He was the deputy
whose position I filled, and Dennis and Gary were trying to figure out if I could fill
Charlie’s shoes. They both said he had a son who had some sort of medical problems
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that only a doctor in San Francisco or Sacramento could treat. Either they didn’t know
what the condition was or they wouldn’t say.
Their stories were always “Charlie this”, or “Charlie that”. It seemed the three of
them were very close.
After four or five months working the jail ward a lone California Highway Patrol
appeared at the entrance gate about 2 am. I thought he might be bringing in an injured
prisoner but I saw no one else. The officer was about 6’2” tall, blonde short hair, a squint
look from one eye, a waist line they seemed larger than his chest size, but not by much,
and kind of a chunky face, and certainly not really good looking. I think he was also
wearing glasses.
He stood there a second and then grabbed the bars to see if the gate was open and
said something like, “come on guy, lemme in”.
I opened the gate. He asked if Denny or Gary was working and I told him Dennis
was in the back studying and he said he would go knock on the sergeant’s door.
While I was trying to tell him he needed to leave his firearm with me to put in the
safe, he walked to the safe, started spinning the dial and opened it.
“You must be Stowell” I said.
“Rep rookie, that’s me”, was his sarcastic reply.
I let him lock his .357 revolver in the safe and he walked back to the sergeant’s
office like he owned the jail wards and I could hear the two of them greeting each other
with boisterous joy.
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About an hour later the two of them came out of the sergeant’s office laughing
and smelling of alcohol (there was cognac in the sergeant’s desk drawer), CHP Officer
Stowell retrieved his .357 revolver and Dennis let him out, with both of them telling to
the other he would see him again soon, or to call him. Apparently Officer Stowell had
finished his highway patrol academy and was assigned to the South Central Los Angeles
office. Most Southern California CHP rookies were. It was good training grounds ‘cause
there were lots of drunk drivers in South Central Los Angeles.
Later I told Gary I thought Charlie was an ass. But it seemed that every time
Gary and I went drinking or to the beach Charlie Stowell would show up. And after a
while he lost his air of superiority and really turned out to be one funny fellow, and it
wasn’t an exciting night unless Charlie was along.
A few months later Charlie quit the highway patrol and rejoined the sheriff’s
department. In fact, it was just under a year because if you rejoined within 12 months
you didn’t have to take the physical or any exams.
He was reassigned to the jail system but at the main central jail and he hated it.
He was always calling me to switch places but I didn’t want any part of the main jail as I
would be a small fish in a big pond and life was easy here.
There was one incident that had a lasting effect on me, in respect to what a cop
can get away with that probably few other persons could, except maybe a sports or movie
celebrity.
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It had to do with a deputy who worked the 2 PM to 10 PM shift on the jail wards.
His name is Arthur Archibald, who was 6’ tall and weighed maybe 260 pounds and was
very, very black. “Arch” was what he was called. He was a slow walker and a slow
talker who transferred in from the Firestone (Watts area) station before I had been
assigned there. Patrol had sort of burned him out and he wanted something of a slower
pace was what I was told. One night after some heavy drinking, Arthur was attempting to
drive his car south on the Harbor Freeway in the South Los Angeles area. Behind him
was a California Highway Patrol two man unit, watching his every weave and lane
change with curiosity, probably thinking, ‘well, here’s another drunk nigger’.
They pulled Arthur over and out of routine asked him for his identification, and it
seems Arthur told them they could go fuck off. (Neither officer was very big because I
saw ‘em days later after the incident.)
One of the highway patrolmen opened Arthur’s car door and tried to yank him
out. That was all he did was try because Arthur did not budge. But he did get out and
Arthur showed them how big he was and decided he wasn’t going to take their shit,
‘cause I think Arthur thought he was only being stopped because he was black. That was
a good one. The fight started and Arthur turned them every which way but loose, using
all three southbound lanes. Apparently a passing Los Angeles Police unit going the other
direction saw the fight and radioed for assistance on their behalf, but before any of the
twenty-odd police units arrived, one of the highway patrol officers got his plastic baton
out as they were loosing this battle fast, and gave Arthur a two-hander’s worth on the top
of Arthur’s head a few times. (Ever see the Rodney King incident tape?). Arthur finally
went down for a ten count.
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For some reason, Arthur has not identified himself as a Los Angeles County
deputy-sheriff. He was handcuffed and placed in the back of their patrol car and searched
for weapons or drugs. . And when they found his sheriff’s badge the whole picture
changed. He was no longer a drunk nigger but a brother lawman.
Among the twenty or so units who responded to the “officers need help” call, one
of the units to arrive contained a Firestone Station detective named Tom Looney,
(remember this name) who knew Arthur from Firestone patrol, and managed to wheel
and deal and secure Arthur’s release to his custody. Personally, I don’t know how the
highway patrol officers covered that in their logbook but I’m sure they covered it very
professionally. Something like “….stopped a drunk driver who kicked the shit out of us
until 15 more cops arrived and we beat him silly and arrested him but let him go cause he
was a cop.”
About a week after this incident I came to work early and found Arthur waiting to
go home, still wearing a few small bandages where he took stitches from the beating, but
before he could leave, some highway patrol officers came in to book an injured drunk
driver. One of the officers was the one who clobbered Arthur, and he was apologizing for
hitting him so hard. He kept telling Arthur if had only shown his badge none of it would
have happened. I couldn’t help laughing in front of both of them. Here was this
California Highway Patrolman, about 5’7” tall, telling this huge deputy-sheriff he was
sorry to hitting him and Arthur just kind of nodded and smiled and said is was ok.
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Jim LaLoggia
In the two years I was there a few other deputies had transferred in. One was Jim
LaLoggia, a very handsome Adonnis-like Italian guy. In the summer time, Gary, Jim and
I would get off work a 7am, go to a liquor store (this is California so you can buy booze
at any supermarket at almost any hour- hurray for free enterprise!), mix a ½ gallon of gin
or vodka in some sweet mix and go to Hermosa Beach or Redondo Beach, drink til we
were ready to crash, and get the best tan cause we wouldn’t wake up for 5 or 6 hours.
Jim had an apartment in Hermosa Beach I think, so after we would wake up we
would go there, get some more sleep, get up, have something to eat, go out drinking some
more. To Tony’s On The Pier, or to Pancho’s or Cisco’s for dinner and dancing, drink
some more and then go to work!
We did this over and over and had the best, darkest tans you can imagine.
Sometimes Gary and I would invite our wives for dinner, most of the time not. Jim did
not believe in using a sun block (he probably has skin cancer by now), and one afternoon
Gary took his sunscreen and squeezed out “I am queer” on Jim’s back while he slept. He
never knew it. His back is a beautiful Italian dark bronze except for his sexual
orientation but only for a short time cause after a few days in the hot sun he was bronze
all over but he never caught on to this prank.
Even though we may have consumed a lot of alcohol we did keep in shape. We
constantly ran on the beach, lifted weights, I could easily bench press 350 lbs (we had
dumb-bells at work for arm and shoulder exercises) and I was active in aikido,
(pronounced eye-key-doe) a soft martial art made famous my actor Steven Seagal in his
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action cop movies. All this besides going to night school at East Los Angeles College.
And if I said I was going to East Los Angeles College while talking to some very good
looking beach babe with a nice ass and big tits, it would sound like I was going to UCLA.
Eees LA. Of course I was saying it after consuming all this alcohol so slurring was no
problem. But usually Jim got the best of the beach babes ‘cause he could honestly say he
wasn’t married. Gary didn’t care and still scored and I would try so hard it never worked.
The only scoring I did on the beach was in my dreams and one afternoon I work up with
a hard-on sticking out my swim shorts! Jim got tagged later on when my wife Marilynn
introduced him to one of her co-workers who actually possessed the most awesome
figure with the most awesome large breasts, a very thin but shapely waistline and a most
beautiful face plus very long dark hair. Gaaaaaaa,…..What most guys only see in
Playboy and Jim is having sex with her and he tells us her tits are better than we can
imagine. But he also tells us marriage is not an option with him. Sure Jim.
They eventually got married in a Jewish ceremony (Jim was catholic I think but
for her he converted or took some Hebrew classes or something. I think he had to agree
if they had kids they would be raised Jewish. For her I would have crawled on broken
glass for 10 miles.) Don’t know what ever happened to them.
Richard Seamon
Richard Seamon transferred in from the main central jail because he heard it was
cushy here. He wanted to be called Dick for short. And he was short. And even after a
few years on the department he still had a crew cut hair cut, was about 5’8” and 150 lbs.
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Dennis Boyd transferred out and Dick took his place. Now, how you would like
the name of “Dick Seamon”? We used to tell him that was what he was, dick semen.
Gary would call him “stains” for short. He was a good natured guy, smiling and
laughing, and took our shit but it was all friendly. He was going back to night school and
the jail wards had a good reputation for study and sleep time. He was a good deputy.
Dick drove a ‘68 Chevy El Camino pickup that had a 327 cubic inch engine with
300 horsepower and a 4 speed transmission and he thought it was ‘king shit’ of the
highway. About this time I had sold my 58 Chevy Impala dragster and bought Gary
Komers’ 1965 yellow Corvette Stingray, with black leather bucket seats, AM/FM radio, 4
speed but best of all it had a 327 cubic inch engine that sported 365 whopping
horsepower with a big Holley 4 barrel carburetor, Duntov racing cam and solid lifters.
This car not only was a penile symbol but it hauled ass. 60 mph in 1st gear, 100 mph in
2nd gear, and one day when I got it finally to 4th, on the freeway on the way to school, I
was hitting over 140 mph! It redlined at 6500 rpm’s! I didn’t worry about a speeding
ticket cause they had to catch me first.
Gary decided he wanted to buy a Porsche. He would pronounce it ‘pourshaaa’ but
we just said ‘porsch’ to bug him .I think it was a 912. He said it was more sophisticated
than a Corvette and cornered better, which it did, but was NOT faster. So I bought his 1
1/2 year old Corvette for $2750 1966 dollars. A dream come true.
Getting to the point. Dick would brag about how fast his truck was so I got so
tired of listening to his shit I told him we would drag race south on the Long Beach
Freeway on our way home one Sunday morning. In those days the freeway NOT packed
on Sunday mornings at 7am.
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I lived in South Gate and I think he lived in Lakewood or Downey. I told him he
could even “call it” when we were to start. We would slow to about 30 mph, he would
give the “go” signal and we would take off.
We slowed down to 30 mph, he yelled, “go” and away we went. I power shifted
from 1st to 2nd about 60 mph, at 90 mph I shifted to 3rd, and I could see him way behind
me with his new Chevy truck blowing blue smoke out the exhausts. And he was WAY
behind me. I slowed up and he caught up, yelling out his window that his 4 speed
transmission was not a Muncie 4 speed like mine was and it was unfair to start at 30 mph
because he was already tacking about 4000 rpm’s and he had to shift immediately into
2nd, while I was still bulleting down the freeway in 1st.
I yelled out my passenger window for him to pick any speed he wanted, and he
could start first like we agreed. He picked another speed where I think it was fast enough
for him to begin in 2nd gear, but I was still in 1st, and we did it again.
I pulled him again like he was dragging a 500 lb anchor but this time I did not
stop to find out why he was so slow. I went through the gears to 135 mph and kept on
going until I got off the freeway on Imperial Blvd, my off ramp to go home. At 135 mph
the Corvette just purred along.
The next time we worked together he just look at me and smiled and didn’t say a
thing about how fast his Chevy truck was.
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Joe Monarres
Joe Monarres was a transfer in from the famous Firestone Park, south central Los
Angeles sheriff’s station. He was like Arthur Archibald, a bit burnt out from patrol plus
he wanted to go back to school too. You can tell we did have a reputation about easy
work and going back to school. He was interested in getting promoted to sergeant and
this was the place to be.
I asked him why he spelled his name like he did cause he certainly was a
Mexican, a big one too, and he said he was from the educated French class of Mexicans
but he preferred to be called a Spaniard. Spaniards with French backgrounds took out the
‘z’ and replaced it with an ‘s’ for status purposes.
Joe’s wife’s name was Guadelupe. Pronounce that slowly…G u a d a l u p e, ah!
What a romantic name, cause I was hot for Mexican girls and that name is as hot as
Mercedes.
When I was about fourteen years old one of my Mexican school buddies
introduced me to his thirteen year old step sister. Long black hair, the nicest breasts I had
ever seen at that age, and she liked me. She was my first actual make out partner and we
would go into my bedroom and sit on the bed and kiss and kiss, and when she would say
she wanted to do something else I thought she meant she wanted to stop kissing and go
someplace or do something else so I would stop. I had a boner that wouldn’t quit but
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what she meant was “let’s go to the next stage and get naked.” I wasn’t too sharp about
sex.
He used to pork her a few times a week and she liked it and wanted me to do the
same. Hell, in those days (the 50’s) I didn’t even know what a pussy looked like much
less that’s where my dick was supposed to go. She did show me her beautiful brown
breasts with those dark nipples and they drove me crazy but she soon lost interest in me
cause I suppose I was a dork when it came to sex. She wanted to masturbate me and the
thought of a girl grabbing my dick was frightening…then. I think this is where I got my
sexual “imprinting” hot-button for beautiful Mexican girls.
When Joe worked he was always the best dressed with shiny shoes and no
drinking on the job. And I liked his war stories about Firestone and the camaraderie he
experienced and still experienced when his old partners would book an injured prisoner.
And it seemed that the prisoners booked by the Firestone deputies to the hospital ward
were beat to shit, but I think the prisoners booked from the East Los Angeles sheriff’s
station were just a tad bit more fucked up.
When West Hollywood deputies booked someone in they would offer their
prisoners a glass of Perrier water but East LA and Firestone deputies were usually pissing
on their prisoners.
When Joe’s old comrades would come in he would ask me to go check on the
prisoners on the other floors. Seems he didn’t want me around on the conversation.
One night he sent me out and took his 2” .38 from the safe and handed it to me.
We had the option of taking a 2” and sticking it in our pocket or putting on the Sam
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Browne belt with full regalia, holster, .38, cuffs and whatever. I took his 2” and left for a
half-hour to check on the prisoners.
When I got back he looked at me and started shaking his head telling me what a
stupid ass I was. When I questioned him he told me to examine the .38 closely. It had no
bullets in it. He took them out to see if I would do what any good cop would do (or
Marine cause that’s what he was, an ex-Marine) examine the cylinder.
I was fucking frothing at the mouth mad and he just laughed. I wanted to smash
his face to a pulp but I got over it and he and I became buddies of sort having dinner at
each other’s house. He would show me how he and Guadalupe made enchiladas with “El
Pato’ sauce and when he came over I would show him how this white boy could BBQ
thick T-bone steaks.
Joe eventually gave me the guidance I needed to straighten out cause he thought
Gary Komers was a loose cannon and a big mouth moron. He would shake his head and
walk away when Gary would start on one of his discussions about “how do we know we
are alive? I think therefore I am” stuff.
I got rid of the scotch and started dressing sharp again, cut the moustache and the
long blonde hair growing over my shirt collar. Joe had his shit together and that’s what I
wanted. He was a positive influence to have around and a smart cop.
About two years after being on the jail wards I decided to transfer to the hotspot,
Firestone Station. It was close to my house in South Gate and the training would be wild
and furious and maybe a fast track to sergeant. Joe had set me up with an interview with
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one of the station lieutenants, who couldn’t figure out why anyone wanted to volunteer
for Firestone when it had the reputation of taking deputies who were on their way “out”.
Gary tried to talk me into staying on the jail wards and to study more, graduate
from college then study for the sergeant’s test and go out to patrol as a sergeant. It made
sense but I was eager for the real world of fighting crime. I was sorry to leave the friends
I had made at the jail wards, because all-in-all they had more to do with the way my cop
personality was molded than any other people I know. I left a note saying good-bye to
Joe Monarres, Jim LaLoggia, Richard Seamon, Ralph Gatewood and Sgt. Titus. For
Richard Seamon I left an empty scotch bottle in his locker. I think Gary had already left
to join the district attorney’s office as an investigator. It was a surprise move because he
didn’t tell a soul that I could remember, that he was even considering the move. It
certainly was a step up for him. From a jailer to a DA investigator but always my good
friend.
The day I left my replacement arrived to do his indoctrination. His name was Jay
Bauer, a deputy I would meet later under much different circumstances.
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Chapter 8
Firestone Station
April 15, 1968
April 15, 1850 California Slave Fugitive Law enacted, April 15, 1896 Booker T
Washington gets an honorary degree from Harvard, April 15, 1947 Jackie Robinson
debuts for the Brooklyn Dodgers and April 15, 1955 McDonalds opens in Des Plaines
Illinois.
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On April 15, 1968, I drove my yellow 1965 Corvette stingray into the cramped
parking lot adjacent to the Firestone Park sub-station. I couldn’t help but think how the
parking lot reminded me of the parking lot at the Los Angeles Coliseum for a Rams game
- total chaos. There were radio cars and personal cars parked in every which way that I’m
sure solving the puzzle on getting out would take a genius intellect. It was a Rubik’s
cube nightmare
I knew that I wasn’t going to park this yellow beauty on the street so luckily, I
found a vacant spot near the gas pumps so I parked it, grabbed my gear and headed for
the rear swinging employees doors. I felt fucking great. Unlike Steve Beeler’s
experience in The Firestone Syndrome I did not experience any negativity from my car to
the watch sergeant’s office. The station was only five miles or so from my house, all the
municipal courts would be local, and because it’s one of the major crime areas in Los
Angeles, I knew I would find all the action and training I could handle. I was a bit
anxious and scared at the same time.
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I went to the watch sergeant’s office and introduced myself. The sergeant gave me
a few station questionnaires to fill out and assigned me locker number 231, 33 left, 10
right and 42 left. The name Shaffer was on the tag.
“This locker is for your own private and personal use. Don’t give out the combo
and don’t let anyone else use it. If you do you will be subject to disciplinary action”,
were his instructions.
After giving me this stern warning, when I opened it I found Charlie Stowell‘s
uniform and gear in it, which meant it was now for ‘our’ personal use only. I couldn’t get
over how the county had a budget more than many states and I have to share a locker
with a guy who acted like he was my superior and a know it all too!
I stowed my stuff and went to check the shift schedule for reporting time. I didn’t
have to report until the next day so I headed out the doors deciding to go get a beer. On
the windshield my Corvette was an “illegal parking” ticket signed by the administrative
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sergeant. While I was reading it another deputy came by informing me that the peasants,
meaning me, had to park their cars on the street and subject them to mischief, vandalism
and theft. I couldn’t see leaving this magnet for car thieves on the streets around this area
even if it was a cop-shop so I guess I was going to have to put up with the parking tickets,
or get here early enough to find a legitimate space.
The next day I came an hour early so I could familiarize myself with the station
and to read the crime reports of the previous week or so. And, I figured I might meet
someone I knew from the academy who might help break me in. I decided to have one of
my annual cups of coffee, so I wandered into the cramped, small break room that was
already filled to capacity with three other deputies and a nice looking station secretary.
It reminded me of the parking lot. I also noticed that all conversation ceased when
I walked in and all eyes were on me.
“New here?” one asked.
“Yeah, my first day.” I replied.
“Well, I’ll tell you nicely, this coffee room is off limits for fish (rookie) deputies.
Don’t come in here unless accompanied by your training officer. So forget the coffee and
get out.”
This was the attitude Steve Beeler wrote about in The Firestone Syndrome. More
of him being an asshole than anything else. I wouldn’t call this elitism, just stupidism.
I stood there and starred at this guy for a few seconds. Here I am, a deputy who
has to duck under doorways when I have my helmet on, 50 inch chest, 32 inch waist, 18
inch biceps and I wondered who this asshole thought he was telling me what I can’t do. I
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wear a badge like he does so I’ll just tell him to shove it up his ass and find out what he
does. By now I was a brown belt in aikido, no easy task in those days since it was how
hard you work not how much you pay for your belt examinations and I was sure I could
take this tub of lard to the floor in about 3 seconds or less. I loved hand-to-hand. I lived
for hand-to-hand.
“Well Mr. Deputy, I think I feel like a cup of coffee whether you like it or not,
that is unless you think you want to try and stop me” I replied.
We both just hard-eyed each other but he didn’t move which I thought was
unusual because cops didn’t like to be challenged, even by another cop and I expected
him to do something, anything, please.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Charlie Stowell trying to get my attention
outside in the hallway. He was shaking his head ‘no’ and kept motioning for me to come
out and since Charlie was the only familiar face I knew. I looked back at Mr. Tub of
Lard, swallowed, and left the break room.
“Bob, I’m sorry I didn’t see you earlier. I got to explain why that happened. You
see, no one is supposed to talk to you until you’ve proved yourself to the old salts.”
“What?!?” This wasn’t what Joe Monarres told me, but of course he took the
bullets out of his gun and gave it to me to use so he’s probably laughing at me again.
Now this could be the ‘elitism’ Steve Beeler alludes to.
Charlie grabbed my arm and motioned we go into the locker room to talk freely.
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“Listen, the only ones who can talk to us are our training officers and other new
deputies, who are still on training status. It’s an unwritten Firestoneism, and unless you
follow these weird rules you’ll have problems in training.”
What the hell. But it should have been called a Firestone cro-magnanism. I don’t
drink coffee that much anyway so we drug our ass to the briefing room to read reports
until roll-call. Near 10 AM the room started filling up with the worst dressed group of
deputies I ever saw. About half of them did wear combat style boots which made sense
to me, as the alleyways were dirt in this area and dress shows like mine didn’t last long.
A few had Colt .45’s tucked in their waistband, besides carrying their .38 service
revolver, and one even had a Smith & Wesson.44 magnum revolver INSTEAD of his
departmental issue .38 Smith and Wesson. That’s ballsy and very against departmental
regulations.
I asked the deputy carrying the .44 magnum why he did away with his .38 Smith.
He said that if he was going to shoot someone he would be shooting to kill, right? And if
you are going to shoot to kill why not use something that would actually kill them and
not just piss them off when he shot them. He also explained that the ballistics for the .38
were horrible, that the 180 grain bullet only went about 850 feet a second and that you
could actually see it for split second when target shooting. And, if the government went
from a .38 to a .45 in the Philipino Wars that should tell you something about the
ineffectiveness of the .38 Smith and Wesson. Plus the .44 magnum was a 220 grain,
jacketed soft point bullet traveling about 1500 feet per second and would have no
problem penetrating car doors, engines, front doors, brick walls and so on. I was
impressed.
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One of the deputies carrying a Colt .45 in his waistband chirped in and said the
.45 was better than the .44 magnum any day cause it has more knock down power and
less chance of exiting. He always put his .45 under his citation board, hidden from a
drivers view, but cocked and locked. He said it would appear to anyone in a car that his
revolver was securely tucked in his holster and that he was at a disadvantage, which in
reality he was not. Then he stood up and opened his handcuff case and instead of
handcuffs there appeared to be a small pistol, he said it was a .25 semi-auto with the
handgrips removed so it would fit in the handcuff case. His backup, in extreme
emergencies. Interesting. The briefing sergeant took all this in with little interest.
Then these two deputies started spouting off ballistics, powder efficiency, loads
and whatever. They were speaking another language to me, as the Smith & Wesson .38
revolver was the first revolver I had ever possessed. I didn’t own it, the county did and
knowledge of bullets and loads was foreign and not an interesting subject for party
discussion. I knew how to shoot it and kept fresh bullets in the chamber.
After introductions and briefing I was introduced to my training officer, a very
dark skinned black guy named Lewis Cornelius. He was 5’8” and all of 140 pounds
soaking wet, maybe 130, but dressed as sharp as they come, even polished shoes. And
here I was 6’7”, 240 pounds, bleached blonde hair and fair but well tanned skin. We were
a white Jeff and black Mutt.
(Other deputies referred to him as ‘Corny’ or ‘Spook’. To me his name was
‘partner’ for almost two months. He was a sharp deputy and knew the area real well and
was up on the laws of arrest. His problem was he never had anyone as a partner who
liked to do police work.)
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He was a ‘background’ deputy. No one really knew he was around. His arrests
were mediocre and his working ability considered average. It wouldn’t be that way for
long though.
Deputy Partner showed me where the hot-sheets were kept (a list of the most
recent stolen cars), where to check out a shotgun, had me get my notebook, his
briefcases, and struggle out to the parking lot looking like a native supply bearer from an
African movie.
We went through the procedure for breaking down the shotgun and checking the
firing pin, the rounds for freshness, and the barrel for leftover cigar butts. We tore the
back seat out looking for contraband left by previous deputies, checked the tires, the
spare, and finally the radio, emergency light and siren. It was an absolute daily function
as our lives and the public depended on it.
He got in the drivers side and I got in the shotgun side, fastened the seat belts,
wrote the mileage down, reviewed the briefing notes on wanted suspects and recent
crimes, took our helmets off and threw them in the back seat----for now and then drove
off.
As we headed for our reporting district Deputy Partner explained to me about our
‘danger signals’. Danger signals are codes or words used by cops telling his partner that
he is in trouble or in a critical situation after making a pullover. For instance, if Corny
was to approach the driver of a car we pulled over, and if during their conversation he
referred to me as ‘Lew’, that was my signal that he had a gun pointed at him, and my
explicit instructions were to open up, fire all six rounds without asking what the problem
is. Just shoot for your life, or his life. If I was the victim of a like circumstance, I called
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him ‘Bob’. But in either case it was open fire immediately, call for help secondary, and
ask questions thirdly and fill in the blanks fourthly.
Deputy Partner’s first rule of thumb after leaving the station was to get coffee and
donuts—period. And that was even if we had two or three calls to handle (except
felonies). I didn’t say anything about my coffee problem so I wasn’t going to object to
him blowing one-half hour on coffee if he wanted to. He was my ‘boss’.
Our unit was called 15-B (Fifteen-Boy), we were a public relations car that
patrolled the Watts-Willowbrook area of Los Angeles. This car came into existence after
the riots of 1965, and our main function was to contact local businessmen and residents
and PR the shit out of them. We actually waved to the kids and old folks and would chat
with ladies waiting for busses. And we stopped in on businessmen who liked having us
around at different times of the day, and they were usually the ones who would give us
something to eat or drink. We got free coffee and donuts at Winchell’s, free ice-cream at
a local dairy (that we would share with the area firemen), free pop and cigarettes at a
small market at 117th and Willowbrook, free eats at McDonald’s at Rosecrans and
Central Avenue, and free-bees anywhere they could be had. All while smiling and
waving. You really couldn’t refuse them, as the merchants would get pissed off thinking
we didn’t care for their generosity. We didn’t ask for a thing, it was just given.
Getting handouts from businessmen is like receiving a dividend check in the mail
from your insurance company.
Its roots go back so far in law enforcement I doubt if anything will stop it. The
merchants WANT to have you drop by, because it lets the thugs know that a cop could
drop in any minute, and that prevents robberies. I’m sure there are cops who over-indulge
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in handouts, but handouts are usually a lesser evil a cop puts up with in high crime areas.
And the more handouts a businessman gives out, means all the more policemen coming
by and checking his place out.
There were also some negative instances about free food. In this area there was a
certain routine when a new eating place opened up. If the deputies were charged for the
food, the word got out and some deputies choose not to hang around the place or make
patrol checks. In the south central area it doesn’t take long for the punks to know where
the police aren’t, so that made it an easy mark for a robbery. After the robbery a unit
would go back and eat again. If the owner lost a substantial amount of money, or got his
head split, the meal was free or at least half-price. And if half-price wasn’t good enough,
deputies would stay away longer, and after a few more hold-ups, anyone with a badge got
the red carpet treatment.
There’s a two-sided view on this issue too. Many businessmen would rather give
away a few things than hire a security guard which would cost them plenty of bucks, and
when handouts are so ingrained into the system, its a futile attempt to stop it. For
instance, the McDonald’s on Central Avenue got held up one time, and the manager got
shot in the chest with a .45. When he got out of the hospital he gave cops everything he
could, be it LAPD, highway patrol, other municipal cops or deputies. He only requested
the police sign their name and badge number on the receipt, and although no one signed
their real name, that McDonald’ has had fifteen deputies and other officers eating there
daily. But when a call came out that there was a problem at McDonald’s, every car in ten
miles rolled to the location. No one wanted to loose this food spot. I’m sure that in this
new millennium things have changed.
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While riding with Deputy Partner I had the feeling that he was taking things slow
and easy until I could get myself acquainted with the area. He would ask me occasionally
what street we were on but I was ahead of him, looking every time we turned a corner.
We weren’t given any felony calls in this unit, some misdemeanors, but mostly
we rolled to back up other units. Like I said, we were one of the public relations cars,
probably funded by government excesses.
We did write citations and I noticed every time Deputy Partner got out of the car
he had his 6” .38 Smith and Wesson out of his holster kind of hidden behind his right leg.
He told me later this was standard operating procedure, day or night.
Making the first arrests with a new partner is a touchy time because new
deputies are afraid they will get into something bigger than they have been trained to
handle, meaning they might get lost during a pursuit, or not be sure they know how to
take care of the punks that hassle them, or get their ass kicked.
So, the first few weeks we just cruised around, waving and smiling, stopping into
one of the local grammar schools and walking the halls or waiting for recess to let the
kids play with the siren. It was a good feeling doing this, plus Deputy Partner got to meet
some very attractive teachers, and he ate that up, in more way than one.
We had an easy shift, 10 am to 6 pm. Life couldn’t be any better but it was too
easy.
Our first bust was relatively simple, at least for Lewis it was easy. We were going
south on Mona Blvd. from Imperial Highway when we observed two Mexicans and a
black kid in a 60 Chevy 4 door. Besides looking way too young and hardly being able to
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see over the steering wheel, Lewis’s intuition told him to stop them for a more thorough
inspection.. When we got close enough Lewis mentioned the license plates were on the
hot sheet as a recent stolen. Remember, no computers back then, we had to read the ‘hotsheet’ every time we stopped car.
He told me to put my helmet on but to unhook my seat belt. Nothing worse than
thinking you’re going to bail from your patrol car and the bottom half of your body is still
on the seat and your top half looks like Stretch Armstrong.
“Get ready when they turn the first corner.” He said excitedly.
I figured they would try and split because no one in their right mind is going to
just stop for the police while in a stolen car.
The driver turned west on 117th Street, and then three doors sprung open and the
occupants looked like they had been ejected from a James Bond car.
It’s weird because you watched this driverless car crashing over the curb and
tearing up some poor bastards lawn and shrubs and you were helpless. And as we bailed
out, all I seemed to see was the soles of their shoes with the Catspaw trade-mark. I could
barely see the pair of legs making it up a driveway across from where the car was
abandoned, and I was out before Lewis stopped the radio car. I threw off my helmet
because it was in the way during a foot pursuit, and when I got to the driveway I could
see ‘Catspaw’ jumping from the driveway fence into a rear yard. He had a good head
start.
Lewis passed me up while climbing the gate, and I could hear our suspect just
ahead of us climbing another fence. However, the owner of the house decided he wanted
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security so he built a 10’ fence around his back yard. As we rounded the house into the
back yard Lewis pulled his revolver yelling, “Stop, or I’ll shoot you son of a bitch.”
This Mexican kid who didn’t look older than 12 turned around and replied, “Fuck
you,” and dropped over into the next yard,, and the one just starting to climb the back
fence, the black kid, turned white, put up his hands and screamed, “Don’t shoot!”
Lewis grabbed the black kid, looked at me and said, “Get him partner,” pointing
to the Mexican who was running like a 440 yard sprinter and way the hell ahead of me..
“Get em shit”, I thought.
I started over this fence in time to see him climbing over a fence that bordered
Ralph Bunche Junior High School. Damn, he was over the second one before I knew it,
but I pressed on. I started running to beat hell, over the second fence and through the
school yard. We ran through a physical education class and I watched as a female teacher
tried to stop my suspect. I could picture myself, blowing my whistle and idiotically
yelling at this fool to stop like she was doing.
He knew I wasn’t going to shoot at him because I could have nailed him at the
beginning easily. So it was a footrace to the finish. I watched him cross the school ball
field and start climbing the fence at the other end, falling before he got to the top.
‘He’s tiring out’, I hoped
.
I used to do three miles almost every night in under five minutes a mile so I knew
I could catch him without all the obstacles, but the fences were a problem and time
consuming.
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The kid jumped down and crossed Alameda Blvd. towards the factory area in
Lynwood. I would loose him for sure in the maze of buildings.
As I got to the fence I saw this black cowboy riding a horse and practicing rodeo
barrel racing maneuvers. I yelled at him and motioned him to come my way.
“Give me your horse, I got to catch that kid.” I yelled.
“Dis here is a new horse dat I got today and he’s spooky.”
I am not disparaging his way of speaking but control of the English language and
pronunciation in this area was just a bit different from the all white high school I
attended.
“OK, see that kid? Ride him down.”
“Sure man,” and off he went like the Lone Ranger, not even looking both ways
before crossing busy Alameda Blvd.
On Alameda Blvd. I flagged down a pick-up truck and told the driver to ‘Follow
that horse’ as I got in. I figured he thought I was crazy trying to catch a horse back rider
on foot.
“Follow that horse?”
“Yeah, you’re deputized. Go.”
“I’m a deputy?” he quizzed.
“Yeah, but just for this, now go!”
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As my new partner and I rounded the corner I could see the Lone Ranger and the
Mexican kid in a vacant lot at the end of the block. The Mexican had something in his
hand and was making menacing gestures at the horse, so the rider pulled in the reins and
started back.
“He got a knife and was going to cut my horse.”
“I’ll get him now, thanks a lot.” I told him.
I told the driver to proceed to the weed-covered lot and drop me off and also go
call the local police and tell them a deputy needed assistance with a felony suspect he was
chasing on foot. Remember, no cell phones then either.
I ran into the center of the lot and realized I would never find him since some of
the weeds were over my head. I pulled my revolver I think for the second time in two
years ready to defend myself, from its holster.
“All right, I see you, come out or I’ll shoot.” I tried this routine twice to no avail
and after a few minutes decided to give up figuring he was long gone by now. I holstered
my .38 and started walking towards Alameda Blvd., but I saw someone climbing out of a
trash can at the other end of the lot about 200 feet away.
The chase was on again so I started off after him but he turned around and saw me
coming. We ran though back alleys, yards, across streets, through three laundromats,
three laundromats! and one butcher shop. I had no idea in hell where I was but I figured
someone would call Lynwood Police Department and tell them some cop is chasing a kid
all over town and the cop looks like he’s getting tired and frustrated. I could picture
someone putting pins on a city map keeping track of my progress.
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When I thought I had lost him again I decided to call it quits. My body was
getting wore out and my feet were hurting in these dress shoes. I wish I had some military
boots or tennis shoes, something with more support. I saw a pay phone across the street
and went to call the station to have Lewis pick me up. Before I crossed the alley I was
near, I just peeked around the building and low and behold, there was my suspect leaning
against a tree catching his wind. He didn’t see me but he apparently decided he had been
in the open too long, so he headed for an unlocked garage.
As I started sneaking up the alley towards the garage, five radio cars pulled up
and out jumped the reinforcements. Even Lewis was there, with our other suspect cuffed
to the car door so he couldn’t split.
I know the other deputies wanted to be helpful but they, including me, stormed
the garage through the front door and no one watched the perimeter. The only thing we
found in the garage was his Pendleton shirt, under a rear window. Was I fucking pissed!
No one was paying attention to the rear of the garage. I ran my ass off to catch this punk
and he still got away. I went to our unit and plopped into the back seat and lay down.
Lewis got in, called an‘all-clear’ to the radio dispatcher and we started back to the
station.
Lewis asked our suspect who his partners were and he told us he had just picked
them up, meaning we know we got the driver of the car. I wasn’t sure because these
greasy taco-eaters all look the same squinched down in the front seat with only their hair
sticking above the seat.
Next came my first experience in radio car interrogation techniques. It wasn’t like
watching Adam 12, the PR Tv weekly about LAPD, more like watching Rinko on the
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Hillstreet Blues or Sippowitz on NYPD Blue. Lewis slowly pulled his baton from the
front seat cushion area with his right hand and then all of a sudden began rapping the kid
in the chest with it, while steering with his left hand.
(I think I just saw my partner, a sworn deputy-sheriff, strike a handcuffed juvenile
prisoner with his baton. Yes, I am sure I did. Well, I suppose I should have him stop the
car so I can arrest him for assault with a deadly weapon, assault under the color of
authority, cuff him and take the both of them to the station with the biggest ASSHOLE
arrest of the century and I will become the most POPULAR deputy-sheriff in Los
Angeles County history! Yeah, Lewis Cornelius, you’re under arrest. Nooooo, I don’t
think so.)
“Oops, I’m sorry. Did I hit you? There was a fly near you’. He comically said.
“Who were they?” he asked.
“I don’t know, the nig, oops, was hitch-hiking with the other Chicano. I just
picked them up.” The kid replied.
Lewis turned around to me and said I should read the kid his Miranda rights so I
removed the Miranda card from my shirt pocket and started telling him that he had the
right to keep silent, etc, etc, while Lewis started in again and after the tenth or so blow we
had the other two suspects names complete description and home addresses. Lewis then
radioed that to the other units still looking for them and within the hour the other suspects
were picked up. And were they pissed they got ratted off.
“By the way,” I said. “You did understand your rights and waived an attorney,
right?”
“Right,” the kid replied, tears on his face.
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So this was my first foot chase and field interrogation, and I can say that I felt
good about it. I watched Lewis bash this kid with his nightstick and extract an illegal
confession but I wasn’t about to run to the watch commander and demand he arrest Lewis
for battery under color of authority or get me another partner.
I had my first rule violation (and crime) against him that could cost him his job if
I reported it, but I wasn’t going to. We were partners, and perjury amongst partners is one
of the most basic unwritten rules of law enforcement. And anyway, I liked the way Lewis
worked. I was told at the academy that beating a person was OK when it came to saving a
life because life is more important than constitutional issues, and Lewis just showed me
that beating a guy was an important way to get a confession and throw the punk in the
slammer even though it was a simple car theft felony, and they were underage to boot
which means no jail time.
The weeks and months rolled by and we were making a bit of a reputation for
ourselves. Our philosophy was to arrest any person for any arrest-able crime we could
find in any of the city, county or state codes or federal codes. And I do mean any arrestable crime, chicken-shit or not because some chicken-shit arrests of ours lead to actually
capturing many felons wanted on warrants. It was real training for both of us, and we
were showing the other deputies that a person didn’t have to commit a BARRM crime to
go to jail in Firestone (BARRM crimes are burglary, arson, robbery, rape, mayhem, but
pronounced barroom). Nor did a victim have to have 15 stitches in an assault before we
arrested a suspect. We hooked people up every chance we got and we were making some
good busts too.
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Firestone Station was supposed to be one of the busiest cop-shops in the country,
and many times we left the station 4 or 5 calls behind as did many units. Because of that,
many deputies just didn’t mess with traffic violations or misdemeanor crimes, and a
victim had to be severely beaten before the suspect would be arrested. You would file a
report and let the detectives follow up and make the arrest, if they had time. There just
weren’t enough deputies to patrol the area effectively.
Some say we were making chicken-shit arrests but the county was paying us to do
something in our eight hour shift, so they were just getting their money’s worth.
When Lewis felt at ease with me (although I had to still call him ‘partner’ and not
Lew or Lewis) he said he wanted to hit a gambling house at 118th and Willowbrook
Avenue. It was an empty house that had a dice table in the kitchen and the place was
always full of people, guns, knives and dope, mostly heroin.
We pulled up in front with two other deputies and walked in, much to the surprise
of the four guys inside playing cards and not paying attention. Uniformed cops never
went inside this place, only vice cops. The bedrooms and bathroom were full of junk and
there were turds all over, almost wall-to-wall, and the smell was stagnating. Even the
toilet had shit in it, un-flushed. But this was an old trick to fool narcotic cops, since no
one would put his hand in a toilet of shit to search for heroin balloons. I didn’t either. I
just flushed it while someone was gasping in the living room.
While one deputy stood outside we hassled the four occupants for ID and a reason
for being in the house, I walked over to the phone and cut the wires since it was rumored
the big-time phone bets went over this phone, and the number was missing from the
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dialer. Yeah, we had phones that you actually had to stick your finger in a hole and
dialed that were not digital or push button.
I asked Lewis for a private conference, showing him the dice table. I figured these
guys entered this place to commit either 1) grand theft, 2) petty theft (stealing the dice
table or unlawfully using the phone), or some other felony (conspiracy to gamble), thus
they qualified for a burglary arrest. Or possibly they came here to shoot heroin, certainly
a felony.
None of them knew who the owner or renter of the house was so we started
hooking them up. While we were putting them in the cars a neighbor came up and told us
it was just wonderful what we were doing, as they were too afraid to complain about it
personally. This man also told us the owner of the house was in Mexico and that these
guys just took the place over. It was a nice thing to hear.
So, for two straight days almost every shift in Willowbrook, and those units
passing this way going to or coming from the station, stopped by this house and arrested
anyone inside of it for burglary. About fifty burglary arrests later, this house was
temporarily out of business, and a lot of cruds got another mark on the California
Criminal Identification and Investigation rap sheet. Out of the arrests that were made the
detectives told me that they cleared up hundreds of other crimes and warrants checks
revealed two were wanted for murder out-of-state. Now that’s what I call ‘good police’
work!
After six weeks in a day public relations car we were ready for a graveyard shift,
and two days before we transferred shifts we experienced the most brutal rape to occur in
this area in years.
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This wasn’t what I wanted to write about but this was a most dangerous situation
for the victim. The, call originally came out as a ‘battery’ complaint of some sort, the
dispatcher wasn’t really sure what the call really was, and the address was in the Athens
area, which is a middle class neighborhood of South Los Angeles. The homes in this area
were very nice, with beautiful yards and landscaping. Only the apartments that bordered
the city boundary looked shabby.
Lewis asked me if I could handle it by myself, and I told him I could. It was just
a ‘battery’ complaint. He said he wanted to monitor the radio, which meant he was tired
or bored. Actually, we should have never split up like this until the nature of the call has
been determined, but, it was Sunday and peaceful.
I knocked at the door and received a reply to enter. The house was furnished very
nicely, better than my own. I saw a woman sitting at the dining room table crying into a
white hanky, and a man was standing beside her stroking her hair.
“What happened?” was a good opener.
“She’s been raped! Raped!” he yelled. “And you better catch the niggers who did
it before I do or I’ll kill them!”
This couple is black, and when a black calls another black a ‘nigger’, the
definition is something less than human, according to my black partner.
I was stumped on this one so I figured I better call Lewis in because I never wrote
a rape report before, and I’m sure there were things he would want to ask. I opened the
front door and called him to come in. I could see the expression on his face meant ‘shit
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you can’t even write a simple battery report?’ but I knew that expression would change
soon.
“She’s been raped.” I told him as he walked up to the porch.
His expression really did change. Now he looked like Richard Pryor with a shiteating grin and I knew his methodical investigative techniques were clicking around in
his head.
Lewis sat down next to her and spoke in a low tone.
“Mam, I know what happened was a bad thing and I’m going to have you to tell
me exactly, I mean exactly, what happened. I want to make sure I have it as complete as
you can tell me. It’ll be hard but I’ll need it that way.”
Lewis was educated back east somewhere and he spoke with a New England
accent, which was very unusual to hear in Watts. And when he talked in a low tone it
came out even more.
Mrs. Adams (not her real name) said she was in her backyard watering the grass
and shrubs while her twoyear old daughter was playing in the front yard. She was getting
tired so she turned off the water and rolled up the hose, and entered the house from a
rear-side kitchen entrance. She walked through the kitchen and towards the bedroom, and
surprised a masked day-light burglar ransacking her dresser drawers. She figured him to
be about 16 and around 160 pounds, and he had stockings on his hands to prevent leaving
finger-prints and a silk stocking on his face.
“What you doing in here? Get out!”
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A very startled burglar jumped back and looked up in surprise. He had a claw
hammer in his hand and he raised it over his head threatening her.
I will try and use the vernacular she described.
“Shut you mouf ‘fore I kills you, bitch.” (Bitch is a very popular street word
designating any woman-- mother, wife, sister, etc.)
She said at that time she wasn’t very scared of his threats.
“Why, you ain’t going to do nuttin, I’m goina call da cops.” She replied.
Just as she finished saying ‘cops’, another burglar crept up behind her and put a
large knife under her chin against the throat.
“We gonna kill ya,” he whispered.
Now she was very afraid.
“No, please go. Take what you want and just leave. I won’t call no cops.”
“I know you won’t cause I cut the fucking cord to the fucking phone” the one
with the knife told her.
These two were very dangerous and very thorough in this respect. It’s not too
often that daylight burglars go to those extremes unless they have other things planned.
The punishment for day light burglary is not a bad an at night, unless a burglar
arms himself, which one did.
“Yeah, I’ll take what I wants, lady,” the first one said, “take off your clothes, we
gonna fuck ya.”
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“No, please, no. Don’t do nothing like that, my little girl is out there.”
“Shut the fuck up. we gonna fuck you, bitch!”
The burglar behind her withdrew the knife and pushed the point against her back,
and the one in the front held the hammer closer to her head. This was enough to scare her
into submission, and save her life. She was pushed completely into the bedroom.
“Take off ya clothes or we kill you little girl.” One said.
“Yeah, right in front of ya. We smash her brains out.” The one holding the
hammer replied (and they did mean it).
“Oh, Lord no! I’ll take them off.”
With trembling hands she started to take off her blouse. She tossed it aside and
began to unclasp her bra. After taking it off she dropped it to the floor and began to unzip
her pants. The one with the hammer stepped up and began fondling her breasts with his
free hand, and pinching her nipples until she cried out in pain. Then she said he put his
mouth on them one at a time and started to suck them.
“Hurry up, lady, hurry up,” he said.
When she was finally naked in front of them they grabbed her and threw her on
the bed. She was turned over on her back and while the smaller one kept the knife on her
throat the bigger one began tearing up the sheets and tying socks together to make
bindings. She was tied to the bed spread eagle with two sets of bindings.
Then the ‘boys’ took off their masks and clothes.
“The smaller one looked like he was only ten years old,” she cried to Lewis.
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The big one crawled on top of her and began to kiss her breasts and then her
mouth. When he got an erection, he inserted his penis into her vagina, went up and down
as in sexual intercourse, climaxed and got off her. The younger burglar climbed on top of
her, began making pumping motions but no erection.
“Kiss her tits, it’ll make it hard.” The bigger burglar said.
He did so but only got a partial erection, not enough for insertion.
“Have her suck on it!”
He then sat on her chest and pulled her head towards his penis, making her put it
in her mouth until he was erect. Then he laid back on her, felt around with his hand to
find her vagina, and inserted himself. He started going up and down like his friend, but
got off in a few minutes without climaxing.
The two of them decided they hadn’t enough sex so they each grabbed a breast
and started sucking and also took turns playing with her vagina. The larger one had her
orally copulate him, and then they each raped her once again.
“The small one, he shuttered when he finished, like he came.”
Finished, they dressed and began ransacking her house, tearing everything apart
that would tear, but more on a destructive level instead of looking for something to steal.
Soon it was quiet in the house. She freed herself but didn’t move for about thirty
minutes, afraid they might be hiding to see what she would do. Confident they left, she
dressed and ran to a neighbor’s house to call the station, and then her husband who was at
his place of business.
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Lewis advised her husband take her to their family doctor for a check-up and
smear. It was of the utmost importance to have a physical examination and semen
specimen.
After they left Lewis just looked at me and said, ‘whew’.
Then he called the station telling them what we had, and what we were going to
do. Lewis said we were going to ‘catch turkeys’. That meant we would be doing some
legwork instead of using the car. Lewis felt we should canvass the neighborhood asking
people if they saw our suspects anytime that morning. Footwork is seldom done by patrol
deputies, many would 1éave that to the detectives yes, but we wanted to make a quick
arrest. And if field deputies could do more legwork there would be less work for the
detectives, and then probably less detectives.
We started a house-to-house canvass asking if anyone had seen our suspects as we
described them. Possibly our punks were local hoodlums, and someone noticed them.
After thirty minutes or so we got our first break. It was really a break because
door-to-door interviews are tough for uniformed deputies who don’t want to let people
know what really happened, and especially a rape of one of their neighbors.
The particular woman who probably solved this crime was the mother of two
young daughters, and it seems that one of her daughters girl friends was talking to the
two we described, around the time Sunday school was out. Her daughters didn’t know
their names, but directed us to their friend’s house. The mother insisted on coming with
us to point out the house, and advised us the girls’ mother probably wouldn’t let her talk
to us because her son was in prison for robbery.
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We took the woman home and returned to the house she pointed out. It turned out
the mother and both daughters were very cooperative, and gave us both names and
addresses of our suspects, only asking that they never be named. That was no problem at
all, as far as I was concerned.
The ironic part of this was when the girl mentioned Wilson Jones (the big one),
we knew his partners name at heart--Donny Andrews (the small one). The only thing we
had to settle in our minds was whether or not Mrs. Adams could describe Jones better. He
had recently acquired a 6” scar over his right eyebrow from a run-in with a neighbors
shovel, as we handled the disturbance call just a week or so ago.
We returned to her house after she came back from her doctors and when asked
about a better description, after thinking a minute or so, she described a large pink scar
over the big one’s eyes. That was all we needed. We drove cautiously to Jones’ house.
Not because we were scared, but because Jones and Andrews just might be found
anywhere in the neighborhood. They used to go around throwing stones through house
windows to ascertain if anyone would come out and chase them. If no one came out, they
went and burglarized the place. But Mrs. Adams’ house had no broken windows.
Wilson Jones lived three blocks from the crime scene, in the last unit of a triplex
that bordered the alley, with his mother, six siblings and two dogs with very large teeth.
We opted to come up the alley and park near the house in case we had to make a
dash for the radio for some reason. We had to use Mace (chemical spray) on the dogs to
open the car doors, as they had this thing about snapping at our faces.
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Lewis knocked on the door with his baton, hard enough to take the door off its
hinges. When the door opened we just invited ourselves in. The house was small and
dirty, 110 degrees, and something was cooking on the stove in a large caldron that looked
like witches brew. I thought it was maybe voodoo stuff.
We had to forcibly remove Wilson from his bedroom with his mother yelling, “He
been home wif me all day.”
It was obvious to me that she’s been questioned before by the police. We
questioned Wilson for a few minutes. He was still wearing the same clothes Mrs. Adams
described. She described him perfectly, right to his really big buck teeth.
Wilson Jones is a big-dumb semi-retarded, or just stupid, super delinquent. He’s
had extensive experience with the police and his answers were vague and non-committal.
Lewis and I looked at each other and then we reached for our handcuffs. He
started to handcuff Mrs. Jones.
“Mrs. Jones, you’re under arrest for interfering with our investigation by lying to
a police officer. You’re going to jail.” Lewis told her.
I began handcuffing meathead, who was just smiling about the whole thing.
“No wait! I don’t know where’s been. Get him out a here and don’t bring em
back. I’m tired of feeding the slob, he scares me and he causes me so much trouble.”
I took a tight hold of Wilson’s arm and led him out the door. As we stepped off
the porch he tried to get one of his dogs to attack us, but Lewis just conked it on the head
with his baton and they both took off, tails between their legs.
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I tried to get Wilson into the car and had to push his head into the door two or
three times, then Lewis advised me it would be easier if I opened the door first.
When we were all in the car, Lewis started off slowly down the alley.
“Where’s Anderson live?” I asked.
“Who’s Anderson?”
With that Lewis slowed the car down and stopped. He reached for his baton and I
got out of the way since I knew what was coming. He swung his baton and hit Wilson
across the throat and then on the side of his head a few times..
“You dirty little bastard! You rape that woman and seem to think it’s all a game.
Let’s shoot him partner and dump him in the alley. No one will ever know the difference
or even care” Lewis yelled.
(Except about twenty or thirty people.)
Then he pulled his revolver out and stuck it in Wilson’s face, who looked at it like
it was the end of the world. (Lewis got this trick from an LAPD officer who used to carry
a blank starter pistol and pretend he was shooting his suspects when they didn’t answer to
his satisfaction.)
“God, no. We raped her, honest we did. Don’t shoot me, please, please.”
We parked in the alley and after advising him of his rights, asked him to waive
such rights and tell us his version of what happened. He didn’t leave out one detail, even
including the part about killing the daughter, and the whole pathetic thing was he and
Donny couldn’t make up their minds whether to beat her to death with the hammer or
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poison her with contaminated chocolate they fixed up. Their sole reason for killing her
was they never killed anyone yet!
Wilson directed us to Donny’s, via the alleys. We cuffed his ankles and then put
him in the trunk so we wouldn’t have to worry about him. Lewis took the front and I
watched the rear. As soon as I heard Lewis knocking, Donny came tip-toeing out the
back with his shoes in his hands. I grabbed him and took him to the front, just as his
mother was opening the door.
She demanded an explanation as we invited ourselves in. I was surprised at her,
as she stood in front of us with a flimsy nightgown on revealing everything she owned.
She made no attempt to get a housecoat or to cover up, and she looked pretty good too.
We told her the whole incident of the day, according to Wilson Jones’ version,
and Donny, like Wilson, still had on the same clothes.
She looked at her son, and I swear I heard her say, “Didn’t I tell you to come to
your mama for things like that? You didn’t have to rape that woman.”
I put the cuffs on Donny and started to take him out.
“Oh,” his mother said, “the stolen property, or at least I think it’s stolen is in the
garage.”
After putting Donny in the car and taking Wilson out of the trunk, I opened the
garage door. It looked like the den of Ali-baba and the Forty Thieves. The place was
stacked with typewriters, chairs, tools, toys, rifles, radios, and much more. It took four
radio cars to haul all this stuff to the station for safekeeping, and the recovery of it solved
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hundreds of burglaries, a few robberies, and one rape. The report was written so good that
we got a commendation on it and the arrest.
During booking, I talked to each suspect alone, telling each that the other one
snitched first, and the statements came voluntarily once again. The only statement I
couldn’t use was Donny’s statement that Mrs. Adams was a lousy lay. I wanted to smash
his face in.
(On court appearance in the juvenile division, the ‘boys’ giggled when Mrs.
Adams had to repeat her assault. Mr. Adams had to be restrained by the bailiff, and
searched for weapons before he could enter the courtroom.
(The commissioner found then both guilty as charged and they were remanded to
the custody of some boy’s home until they were eighteen. A court doctor testified that
little Donny, who was only 10 years old at the time of the crime, did not have the
capacity to ejaculate and doubted if he ever got an erection. Wilson Jones laughed at this.
Wilson was only 12 years old. Neither of their parents attended the hearing.)
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Chapter 9
Corny and Shaffer- Partners
Lewis let me start calling him “Lew” once in a while about now. He and I were
working as a great team together, and he asked me to be his regular partner when I was
off training status. I whole-heartedly agreed because I knew we would stay on graveyard
for as long as we wanted, and we both liked the nighttime hours and you could make
more money than a captain with all the overtime “court appearance” money. You can be
sneakier, and not identified as easily as a cop, and there is more leeway when it comes to
nightstick and alley curbside justice not that we did such things.
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I am going to continue with the experiences I had then because they will lend
light to my actions later on. One of our first graveyard shifts out we received a burglary
call at Ranch Market, corner of Slauson and Compton Avenue. It was a market halfway
between a mom and pop operation, and a super-market, and the alarm went off every
morning the newspaper delivery man threw the bundle of papers against the door.
We followed the departmental procedures pretty good, each taking a section of
the market so we would have good visual perception. We would hold this position until
another unit arrived, then they would assume our positions and we would look for the
possible entry location.
After I was relieved I started around the back to where Lew parked the car. Being
cautious as usual, I peeked into the rear entrance glass doors and I could see two men
with their arms full of stuffed grocery bags. I was really surprised they were so careless
because other assisting units were arriving with their tires screeching and the deputies
yelling at us about what we had.
I stepped in front of the double thick glass doors, aimed my shotgun at them and
told them to freeze. They were about twenty feet from me and the bead on the front of the
barrel was covering one’s face. I could have let loose with my 00 buck and wiped them
both out. They took a look at me, then at each other, dropped the grocery bags spilling
cigarettes and liquor on the floor, and started running towards the rear of the market, out
of my sight.
If I had let loose with the 12 gauge I would probably have killed myself when the
pellets bounced back not being able to penetrate the 1’ security glass doors. It was a
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weird feeling because now they had the advantage and would find some dark sport to
hide or wait and ambush us.
I tried the ‘halt or I’ll shoot’ bit, but they kept running. I yelled at Lew that I saw
two guys inside, and Sgt. Dave Bullis, who had arrived to supervise the situation radioed
in that we had suspects inside, and we got some more reinforcements. Dogs weren’t
available at that time so it was up to us to go in. We had plenty of help but other deputies
arrived so they could be subpoenaed later for court overtime as a witness.
(We worked like that with the court overtime because when I started at Firestone
if you worked overtime you did not get paid for it, but maybe would get “time off” days
instead. The only problem was if you have a few hundred hours on the books there may
not be the manpower to give you the time off. And I think someone quit the department
and demanded to be paid for overtime, which the brass denied but ended up loosing in
court. So over time was great. All those deputies who worked the day shift now wanted
an evening shift so that court time became overtime pay instead of while you were onthe-clock.)
Lew and I searched the building and rooftop for over thirty minutes and couldn’t
figure out how they got inside. It was so frustrating because Sgt. Bullis kept asking me if
I saw what I said I saw. I pointed the goddamn shopping bags to him and told him no
ghost put them there. He still wasn’t satisfied.
It was very possible that our burglars were trying to break ‘out’ after hiding
somewhere before closing time. By doing this a burglar has more time to collect goods
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and make a getaway long before the first police car arrives, which is usually five minutes
after the alarm circuits are triggered.
Lew was on the ground and I was on the roof with Art Franzen, and we decided to
break a skylight and drop down from the roof. Now you might not think this feat is superhuman but consider this: A cop has to drop into a darkened building after some dipshit,
not knowing where that dipshit is. This puts the cop at a distinct disadvantage right from
the start. The burglar usually knows where he is in relation to the building, he knows
where you are because of the noisy equipment you wear, and what door you usually come
through.
Every last move a cop makes searching dark buildings just might be his last
move! With a gun in one hand, and maybe a flashlight in the other, your eyes are trying
to search out every piece of area for suspicious activity or something out of place. It
makes a cop sweat with fear, cause he’s scared and on edge.
Opening the doors was out of the question. In the ghetto areas doors to anything
that have valuables behind them are bolted, chained, fastened, and hooked with anything
a proprietor can get his hands on. The doors to this place would have to be rammed with
a tank with a tractor blade substituting for the front bumper, like the one the FBI used on
the Branch Davidians in Waco Texas. (Oops, sorry FBI.)
I felt pretty comfortable with Art being inside with me. Art was 6’2”, broad and
mean, and he had a good reputation for taking care of business with his fists. ‘Fuck the
sap and night-stick’ he would say, ‘I got twenty pound fists’. And he used them regularly.
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Art and I covered every inch of that store, top to bottom without finding a trace of
anything unusual or suspicious. While we were taking a breather a few other deputies
dropped from the skylight to give us a hand. Seems we were taking way too long.
While some others rechecked the front of the market again, Art Franzen, Lew and
I started checking the storeroom again.
“With all this shit it’ll take us a week to get through it all ,“ Lew whispered.
I thought about that for a moment. Where would I hide if I were a burglar? I
picked out the narrowest passage between the rows of stacked foods and started pushing
my big frame between them. When I got to the end of the passage, I stopped and
recollected my thoughts. I started to use my eyes to ‘see’ instead of look, and I spied ten
black toes sticking out from behind a card-board box in a corner about 10’ from me. I
found them!
I snapped my fingers at Art, letting him know I found pay-dirt. He came up
behind me and I pointed to the toes but he didn’t see them. If you didn’t look just right
they were almost invisible.
“Move out you son of a bitch or I’ll blow you up.” I yelled.
The toes didn’t even wiggle, so I figured they got caught with that trick once
before. I started pulling boxes down so I could see them better, and started a chain
reaction of falling boxes, which knocked down the stack they were hiding behind. They
were huddled arm in-arm in a space so small I wouldn’t think 10 pounds of potatoes
would fit in it.
“Hey, you mother-fuckers, come on out.” I demanded.
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I was so close that I started spitting on them but neither one moved or opened an
eye. I think they figured if they couldn’t see us we couldn’t see them. Art said he wanted
to shoot off one of their toes but they still didn’t move. Next to us was an open box of
quart jars filled with hot peppers, so I picked up a jar, aimed for a bushy head and let fly.
The bottle missed hitting above them showering them with glass and peppers. They still
didn’t move.
Another deputy arrived, I can’t remember who it was and yelled “You son of a
bitchen niggers, come out of there!” Then I started hearing coins hit the floor
near their area and I figured they were emptying their pockets. I picked up another jar
and aimed again. This time I hit one in the head breaking the jar and showering them with
glass and juices. They both moved out fast, like a couple of scared rabbits, but the wolves
were too close and we put the snatch on them. Now it was ass-kicking time. I had the
bigger of the two, holding him by his natural hairstyle. I threw him to the floor, kicked
him hard in the chest, turned him over and cuffed him as tight as I could. I would say for
our protection this was a standard operating procedure. I mean, I didn’t kick the crap out
of him like he deserved.
First, you have to be rough sometimes to get the word across that you mean
business. Second, a slap, kick or punch in the ribs works wonders with most burglars who
still might feel things aren’t really under control, and who just might jump all over you if
you’re not careful. Third, tight handcuffs are a form of curbside justice, and one of the
only ‘legal’ punishments that police have left. Handcuffs weren’t made to feel
comfortable and no one says you have to put them on loosely. (And when I was arrested I
got the handcuff treatment too.)
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I picked him back up again, knocked him down once more. This sort of signaled a release
in the other two deputies cause they started in on them too. We became brutes, true
enough, but the only thing that distinguished us from other concerned citizens was our
uniform.
The big guy was kicked, punched, slapped and thrown all over the stockroom. He
was screaming for us to stop, but this the way of telling him that his crime didn’t pay, and
that he should pull his capers in someone else’s area because if he got caught again, he
would suffer the same thing. It does leave a psychological mark.
After pounding on this one for a while, we switched to the second suspect. I think
he was hoping we’d be too tired for him, but he received the same treatment as his coheart. I hope you all don’t think criminals like this are just put in handcuffs and lead
away peacefully. Maybe in the cartoons.
When we finished with the punishment phase we started out front with them, but
were met by two detectives and two more uniformed officers, who said they wanted to
interview our suspects first, and they commenced with a few punches and kicks. Now,
they weren’t beat to a bloody pulp or anything like that, just, well, beat upon. After they
were through we carried our criminals out front where the owner was unlocking his Fort
Knox doors.
The owner was as happy as a lark that we caught someone, but Sergeant Bullis
wasn’t too happy. He knew what was going on, not because he had partaken in the ass
kicking, but because of the way our suspects were crying that we beat the hell out of
them. Sgt. Bullis looked like he was in pain himself, but he still had enough of a sense of
humor to tell them they should be glad that no one really mistreated them.
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Another unit took our prisoners to the station as Lew and I had to inventory the
stolen property and find out how they got in. We eventually found a small window that
was pried open. It was partially covered from the outside that prevented us making a
closer inspection before. What I could never figure out is why did so many bunglers (as
we called them) simply pull the electronic wires for the alarm system apart? Some would
rip them off the terminals, like they were under the impression the wires were some sort
of flimsy barrier to keep them out instead of a closed circuit that notified the police when
the circuit was broken. Better for us, I guess.
I grabbed a 7-Up from the cooler and started to drink it, but noticed the stare I was
getting from Sgt. Bullis. I knew what it meant. I pointed to 50 cents that I left it on the
counter and Sgt. Bullis gave me a big smile. (I found out later on that almost every
deputy there took something-- booze, cigarettes, lighters--while the owner was watching
and not saying a thing.)
Just before Lew and I left the owner stopped me and shook my hand, ‘forcing’ me
to take a $20 bill he put in my palm. A $20 tip of any source in 1968 was big money. I
said thanks but it wasn’t necessary and he got a stern look on his face and said, “it is very
necessary for me”. So I shrugged my shoulders and kept it and climbed into the car, not
telling Lew about it. I figured Lew probably got one too and there was no need to bring
the subject up.
(In court months later, the two snarled at us in the hallway and tried to tell the
judge about the beating they got during the burglary. The judge said he wasn’t interested
in hearing about such things, and sentenced them to six months in the county jail. Not a
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bad sentence in that respect as they were both repeat offenders and could have been
sentenced to state prison.)
As a law-and-order person I would have to justify the kind of conduct I was
doing. First, that was the way I was trained. That may not be the best answer but it is a
frustrating and demanding job, and in a way it is demanded of you for station acceptance.
I did not do it every time I arrested someone, but I would guess it happened maybe 25%
of the time, unlike some other deputies who did it 100% of the time. I think I knew of
only one deputy at the station who did not get involved in this conduct and he was a very
strict Mormom playing by a different set of personal religious views.
Second, curbside justice many times is better punishment, in a cop’s view, than
what the courts impose. We used to get very bitter when let’s say, another deputy got the
shit beat out of him by some scumbag, and that scumbag’s attorney somehow got a
bleeding heart judge who ACTUALLY believed the suspect actually had a disadvantaged
youth and abusive parents and was NOT responsible for his own conduct.
Third, it kept the reputation of the sheriff’s department a respected one to the
criminal element, because hoods and punks knew we meant business, and wouldn’t take
shit from any person. Some cops may read this and strongly disagree and I would just ask
this question: If you were at war, would you want to be defended by the Marines or a
reserve unit of the air force ROTC? Not a put down to the air force, just a fair question.
And in reality, unlike the military that eventually does end real wars, law enforcement is
a career twenty to thirty year battle. Why do you think cops are so fucked up personally,
mentally, spiritually and physically after a few years on the job.
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(Maybe jumping ahead of my story might make this point clearer? So I will relate
an experience or two that happened in the City of Cudahy, author/deputy-sheriff retired
Steve Beeler’s hometown. Cudahy is a small city that rents its police and fire protection
from the county, and is about five miles at least from the nearest Firestone car who might
have to assist it. It was also a city that was about 1 mile square with 20,000 apartment
dwelling habitants, mostly those they were referred to as oakies and assholes, it used to
be said but not by me. There wasn’t a night gone by when the unit over there was getting
their brains thumped out by some cowboys who just loved to fight.
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(Well, one night MY trainee (Curtis Malone) and I were assisting a one-man
Cudahy unit who kept having trouble with this 250 country boy pound steer-wrestler who
liked punching his wife’s face in, and also kept the apartment building awake. We met
before going to the upstairs apartment and got our plan together. We were going to treat
this guy to a knuckle sandwich when he opened to door. Well, his wife answered first,
and this guy actually caught us off guard and chased us to the bottom of the stairs. At the
bottom we turned around and met him head on, protecting our selves from this madman.
He was swinging away with everything we had and we were fighting back, many times
getting in each other’s way. The other two seemed to have either lost their balance or got
knocked down and the cowboy took aim at me. He punched for my face but I deflected it
with an “outside block” and as his momentum took him past me I karate chopped him
twice across the neck bringing him to his knees and then the other two pounded on this
guy with every thing they had til we could get the cuffs on him. And while we were
protecting ourselves, the guy broke his neck.
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(This was a small problem, but not one that couldn’t be solved. The Cudahy
deputy reported that in arresting this turd on the second story stairway, he tried to escape
and fell down the stairs breaking his neck. That was the easiest explanation cause if he
wrote we did it with physical force those things follow your jacket around forever, for
any defense attorney to examine in the future. He did receive his injuries in a legal way
so to speak. And the guy later agreed because he couldn’t remember what happened.
Now this follows rule three I think..
(One other time I assisted in an ‘officer needs help’ call in Cudahy (Crudahy to
us), things for us were worse. Two deputies were called to quiet down a party that had
been going or for days in one of the apartments in a complex that stretched 200 yards
long, and the party was almost in the back.
The two deputies, both very experienced and tough, knock on the door where the
music is coming from and are greeted by ‘fuck you’ and ‘try and stop it asshole’. Finally
some guy comes to the door and one of the deputy’s grabs him and then the whole
apartment came storming out on top of them. The deputies were knocked down the stairs,
tried firing at one of them, really anyone!, missed, and then they got the shit kicked out of
them by about ten dudes. Some neighbor, with a compassionate heart, called the station
and told them a couple of deputies were being killed in Cudahy but she didn’t give a
good address or location so it was chaos getting there.
(At least ten Firestone cars rolled Code Three like madmen and came to the
rescue. The deputies were still knocked out cold, still being kicked in the face and their
equipment and revolvers stolen. The assisting deputies, (including yours truly, yes, I
committed assault under the color of authority) grabbed whomever we could with
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whatever we could, and split some heads and faces open. And it didn’t stop. Malone beat
our prisoner, who had already been smashed in the forehead with the butt of a shotgun by
someone else, until he looked worse that the deputies he had beaten. We took our time
going back to the station so he could feel the pain, and when we took him in, he tried to
escape INTO the station and ran head on into the swinging rear doors near the booking
cage. (Steve Beeler in The Firestone Syndrome does describe such things). Then sergeant
on-duty nicknamed ‘The Rock’ because of his strong build and size, literally gave us a
ration of shit for bringing in a guy who was still able to walk! And every party-goer
suffered the same fate. No quarter was given.
The reason behind beating some hillbilly puke, who knocks a deputy unconscious,
falls under rule # two and maybe three. Why, because every cop knows that beating the
shit out of a cop hardly ever drew jail time. Although it is a felony in California, it was
treated like a bad case of simple assault and these guys would walk with maybe a week in
the county jail or maybe a few months at best. Most judges felt you were there to get the
crap kicked out of you. And I think it was only a felony because some small cops were
able to shoot these big brutes that throw them across parking lots, instead of a
misdemeanor where you couldn’t use deadly force to affect an arrest.)
So, back to the story. One evening shift Lew and I were assigned to the Torrance
area in car 18. The county had a small strip in Torrance that the city didn’t want to annex
usually because these areas were high crime or low tax base or both. This happened to be
the night that the Forum Stadium in Inglewood was hosting a title boxing match between
two boxers of the same ethnic persuasion and was wrecked by an angry mob of people of
Latin extraction (we called them ‘beaners’) because of a decision against a Tijuana boxer.
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The Forum is the sports arena the Los Angeles Lakers played quite a few of their
games in. Beautiful structure with lots of parking.
We could hear the dispatcher advising our bordering station, Lennox, to assist
Inglewood PD at the Forum with a major disturbance, and as any good cop does we
started heading towards the Forum through the thick fog that was blanketing the night;
plus on foggy nights using the emergency lights and siren only confused other drivers, so
we had to take our time to get their safely.
Near the off-ramp we noticed two Highway Patrol units just parked. They also
got the ‘assist’ call but were waiting for more units to arrive, which was smart because
they felt the more cops the better before going in, as the Highway Patrol were hardly ever
used for disturbance calls because crowd control is not their forte’. People of Latin
descent were swarming all over the streets like army ants. The corners of 90th and Prairie
Avenue was a solid mass of bottle throwing taco bending assholes, and the only way we
gained entrance was when I fired a round from my shotgun over their heads. Once we got
into the parking lot I wondered why we hurried to get here or to come and assist without
being asked at all. It was a fucking war zone. (Because we were good cops!)
The parking area near the main entrance to the Forum was a shambles that looked
like the last scenes from the movie ‘The Terminator” when the building blew up. There
were two limousines on fire, one being turned over on its roof as we pulled up. Glass,
stadium chairs, debris and cement chunks were all over. And policemen, running madly
in every direction, and from many departments, were trying to protect the firemen who
were being assaulted by flying missiles thrown mostly by the Tijuana crowd (their man
lost).
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It was weird to stand in the middle of this during a foggy night and hear the
Mexicans whistling, as TJ Mexicans do when they are displeased with something.
Hundreds, in not thousands of people whistling in the fog at the policemen and firemen,
and many of them were still loitering around the Forum trying to pull down signs and
light fixtures. Visibility was about 100 feet if that.
Lew decided we better start earning our pay before some sergeant or lieutenant
from another station made us join his squad for crowd containment. He figured if we
were on our own and looking busy, which we could do, we wouldn’t be bothered.
But before starting out I asked Lew for his tie clip and removed my tie clip and
clipped them on my collars. Now I looked like a lieutenant and no sergeant was going to
tell us what to do and hopefully no other lieutenant would stop me about anything. I
knew that most deputies wouldn’t stare at collar insignias but only realize there was some
thing ‘brassy’ on them, and since we were the only Firestone units here (I hoped) no one
would recognize us for what we were.
So, Lt. Shaffer and his black driver, (this is not racist. Lew could have put them
on but declined to do so) from ‘downtown’ was surveying the situation to make sure
everything was under control. It wasn’t. As we stood on the sidewalk near the main
doors, we had to laugh at the complete lack of cohesiveness and planning among the
different agencies trying to control this out of control mob of foreigners, predominately
Spanish speaking, who where literally destroying this multi-million dollar sports arena. It
was a nightmare at best.
We watched the debacle from the upper level ramparts near an entrance. In one
part of the parking lot was a squad of Lennox deputies with their sergeant numbering
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about ten. They were in a crowd control formation standing shoulder-to- shoulder with
their batons in front of them. They looked impressive as they took a step at a time in
unison. They were walking around the Forum in this crowd control technique which
didn’t make any sense, the parking lot is gigantic. And every once in a while they would
meet up with another squad of deputies, in the same formation, walking towards them. As
they passed each other I had to chuckle. They were trying to clear this huge parking lot
by walking in circles, and all the people did was to step out of their path and watch the
deputies walk by and probably wonder what the hell the deputies were doing. It would
have taken a hundred cops to clear this area.
In other areas were the various ‘ants’ from many other departments, Torrance,
Redondo Beach, Inglewood, whomever all except LAPD, (their charter and insurance
wouldn’t let them assist outside the city unless they are attacked) going this way and that
way chasing individual people who would throw a rock or bottle. Utter chaos.
Lew and I started clearing rioters from the doorways and foyer area who wanted
that last souvenir to take back to Mexico without paying import tax. I ‘ordered’ two
deputies who looked like they wanted something to do to come with us. We just walked
up to them, rapped them across the head or shoulder with our baton, kicked them in the
ass, and threw them over the side onto the parking lot below, which was about an 8’ drop.
If they didn’t speak English at least they knew this to be a sign that we wanted them to
leave the area. We would accompany this with “adios senor dipshit”.
A few Inglewood PD officers saw us and decided to join in and copied our actions
and I guess I can be thankful about that. I’m sure we would have been mobbed in just a
few minutes after throwing the first three or four over the rail. But now there were seven
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of us so we started going in a circle inside and around the corridor of the Forum, busting
heads and throwing these punks out. Other rioters noticed what we were doing and
decided they should leave in a big hurry. The last beaner, er, person of Latin extraction
we threw off the balcony was more concerned about his camera than landing on his head.
He hit butt first holding his camera high in the air. Maybe he was taking a picture
of us throwing him overboard?
The seven of us secured the corridor around the main doorways and decided to
stop and watch the wild action going on in the lot and across to the residential areas. Still
a lot of mob action and a few gun shots or firecrackers or maybe both. Mexicans
throwing cherry bombs and cops shooting back …at anything. Things were looking better
so we decided that Lt. Shaffer and his driver better get the hell back downtown to make
out a full report to the sheriff. None of the Firestone deputies had arrived yet so we were
still safe. (The Firestone brass decided to bunch up and form a caravan and come en
mass. While they were waiting, we were doing.)
There was a very big uproar the next day in the papers about this riot. It was the
amount of damage versus the amount of arrests. No arrests were made that I ever heard
about! No one was arrested for vandalism or malicious mischief, or assault or arson or for
destroying the limos! But, I’m sure a few hundred Mexicans woke up the next day with
some massive headaches and body aches, and justice was well served as far as I was
concerned. Lew just chuckled..
The problem with making an arrest in this kind of situation is there was no place
to take your arrested person. If you took him to your car you would have to stay with
him, meaning one less man in the field. There was no bus to book them on, and no one
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decided who was going to take custody of any prisoners. Inglewood PD was running all
over, plus it was their show not ours. None of them said to arrest anyone, we were
having ‘too much fun’ as the country-western song goes. The Sheriff’s Department just
came to assist as did the Highway Patrol and other local cops. I’m sure Lew and I would
have hooked up as many as we could have instead of throwing them over the balcony, if
someone from Inglewood would have told us to arrest, but no one did. No one cared to.
Lew asked me this night if I was carrying a back-up gun. I told him I had a .25
caliber Colt in my handcuff case instead of my cuffs. I had my cuffs dangling from my
rear waistband but Lew always thought this was an extra pair. I asked him if he had a
back-up and he said he had a 2’ .38 strapped to his ankle. End of conversation.
Chapter 10
Other Great Adventures
What I am going to try and relate are a series of incidences that I was involved in.
I wish that I could remember more distinctly the dates so I could relate them in some sort
of chronological order, but at this time that’s impossible. Most of my notes when I was
writing in prison were confiscated as contraband and destroyed.
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One evening upon coming to work, I noticed a county workman doing some
welding on the booking cage door. The ‘booking cage’ is actually a holding area where
arrestees are detained, booked, fingerprinted, given their phone call and whatever.
Afterwards, they are walked back to the jail part of the station where the security is more
secure. The cells are real iron and barred. The booking cage is a wire mesh containment
area near the infamous swinging doors many arrestees tried to escape through head first,
and just across the hall from the watch sergeant’s office so he can observe what’s going
on.
I asked what happened and found out that some 300 lb nut kept throwing his body
against the iron reinforced door until it finally gave. Then for some unknown logical
reason after he busted out, he walked to the lobby and told the deputy answering the
phones that he busted out. Apparently no one could hear this rhino breaking out. The
desk-deputy immediately requested assistance over the station PA system, and every
available deputy in the station responded to give this dope a few lessons in boxing
techniques. Which he failed in.
The door is a heavy wire mesh with a few reinforced bars to give it some strength.
It isn’t one of the typical iron doors that is pictured in most prison scenes.
After briefing, I happened to comment to Sgt. Russ Owens that I felt I could kick
my way out of the repaired booking cage, even though the welder had put more
reinforcements. I had almost five years of aikido, which is a martial art, and felt that I had
knowledgeable experience in kicking and also the powers of concentration to put all my
efforts in such a kick. In reality a simple front push kick should do the job.
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Sgt Russ Owens is a gambler from the word ‘roll the dice’. He wanted to bet me
$10.00 that I couldn’t kick it open. I was so sure that I felt I could do it with one kick. It
was a put-up or shut-up deal. I gave it some serious thought and decided to shut-up. I
only had $5.00 on me, (this is 1968 so that’s like $60 today) and I had enough everyday
problems without getting a beef for kicking the booking cage door open. Russ called me a
sundry of names for being cowardly but he did say that I was cautious.
I decided to forget about it. I checked out a shotgun and went out into the parking
lot to check out my police unit and get prepared for a nights work. As I sat warming up
the car, I kept thinking about that door and whether or not I could kick it in. It just
bugged me to the point that I shut off the engine and went back inside.
“Russ, all I have is $5.00, so you’ll have to settle on that,” I told him.
Russ replied, “Fine with me, but you’ll loose anyway.”
“One thing I want to know,” I said. “Are you sure the lieutenant ISN’T in the
station?”
“Sure I’m sure. I saw him leave in a unit, and I’m in charge now and I say that
you have the OK to go ahead and try. You won’t get into any trouble.” (Anyone ever hear
that before?)
We put our money on his desk and I went and locked myself in the booking cage.
A few deputies gathered around to see what would happen. I looked at the gate and
turned my mind on for some concentration and thought. I was standing about three paces
from where I wanted to kick. Usually, in kicking open a standard wooden door, the spot
to aim for is near the door handle or even the door handle itself. But this was a steel
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plated lock and kicking near it would probably fracture my leg. I could see that the place
to hit was in the middle of the gate that would cause the door to bend and to ‘pull’ the 1”
thick steel lock from the jamb.
I let go with a loud ‘ki-ya’ (scream to you all), which is supposed to help
psychologically. The sole of my boot (yeah, I started to wear combat boots just to kick in
doors easier) hit the gate and it popped open so easily that it almost hit Russ square on in
the face.. In fact, there was so much momentum that the door swung open, crashing
against the doorstop, swinging back and locking me in again.
My yell was so loud, it attracted deputies from all over the station. They probably
thought there was another madman in the booking cage to be taken care of. No madman,
just a mad deputy.
I asked Russ if he would unlock the gate for me, but he was so dumb—founded at
what happened, that he couldn’t answer. So I just backed up and kicked out once more,
but this time I caught the gate before it locked me in again. Just as I closed the gate,
which was bowed like a badly warped 2 x 4 and in sorry need of repair who was to walk
around the corner but the watch commander. The guy that Russ said was out in the field
in his radio car.
The lieutenant who looked like he was ready to eat some nails, demanded to know
from Russ what the hell was going on, and I just wandered off into the sergeant’s room
and picked up the money off the desk. As I walked out of the rear door I could hear Russ
telling him that the gate needed testing after repairs because one would never know when
someone dangerous might try and get out again Apparently it pacified the lieutenant
because I didn’t hear anything about it after that.
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(The next night that I came to work the door was really fixed. There was angle
iron welded all over it. The door was so reinforced that no one, but no one would be
physically breaking their way out).
This was just a typical day in the typical antics of many hundreds of incidences by
many deputies who worked Firestone. Nothing serious, just a little fun.
After collecting my money, my partner for the night, as indicated by my field
notebook, was Larry Brakebush, (a guy who would eventually make Captain and get
involved in some scandals while at Norwalk Station some twenty odd years later). Larry
was nicknamed ‘Mr. Superbombastic Asshole.’ In other words he was a super know-itall with an attitude.
(On graveyards when I was working the area near 103rd Street and Central
Avenue, where some of the worst of the1965 Watts riots took place, I liked to stop in at
the LAPD 103rd Street substation near Will Roger’s Park. I made a habit of ‘buying’ (not
getting for free) some donuts and taking them in, and I liked checking on the two officers
who had to keep their lonely vigil on this small outpost in the most criminal hardened
neighborhood. Even years before ‘community stations’ appeared 20 or so years later.
Plus, one of them was a classmate of mine at Cerritos College.
(Most of the time these guys had some good information and pictures on people
wanted in the general area. LAPD seemed to supply their officers with much more and
accurate information to its field officers than the sheriff’s department did, and these guys
were a good source for me, as I passed it on to my partners and neighboring units.)
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After Larry and I and the two LAPD cops finished the donuts and chewing the
fat, we noticed a Buick Rivera driving with its lights off on Hooper Avenue. We caught
up to it at 90th Street and turned on the emergency lights and the spotlights. As soon as
the driver stopped he rolled out of his seat to the pavement like something he’s been
practicing. First thing I thought was ‘set-up’. I remembered the story about the two cops
who got the drop on them and were driven to the onion fields in Bakersfield and one got
executed on the spot. Joe Wambaugh wrote his book “The Onion Fields” about this
incident.
I was ready to start shooting but I didn’t yet see his gun. Then I saw him throwing
small objects under his car to a corner street drain. We both ran up and grabbed him,
throwing him across the hood of his car. It turns out he’s a heroin user and he was
throwing his junk down the drain, which we couldn’t retrieve.
Because he was sort of nodding off and had fresh puncture wounds still oozing
blood from the inside of his arm, we arrested him for driving under the influence of
heroin, a felony. The stuff hadn’t been tested but that was the charge.
I thought this was a good enough arrest for the start of the shift, but Larry wants
to play super cop and interrogate this guy as to his source of drugs, and there’s one thing
I learned and that was not too many addicts will turn any information over to ‘harness
bulls’ (street cops). They deal with the narcotic detectives for lesser sentences by turning
in names or making a buy for them. And trying to control heroin in Watts is like trying to
control the amount of cars in California without smog devices--impossible.
`I let the dispatcher know we were 10-15 (that we arrested a suspect) and would
be transporting to the station, but Larry had some different ideas about our route back in.
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Close to the station he pulls into an alley and turns off the lights and engine, and starts to
grill this druggie about his source of heroin. In a whisper he asked the prisoner to lean
closer to the front seat to listen closely, and when our prisoner does so Deputy Brakebush
hits him in the mouth with his .357 magnum.
‘Ouch,’ I think.
“Aaagghh,” the druggie shouts.
Now I had to think how I was going to cover ten broken teeth in my report.
Larry asked him again for the information but our druggie wouldn’t respond. So
Larry actually jams his revolver into the guy’s mouth and starts to push it in. This poor
bastard starts to gag and the only thing Larry did was cock the hammer.
(There may be some people who will say this is all bull-shit and that I’m on a
revenge kick, but I’ve been waiting over 35 years to tell this.)
I could see it all now, the gun ‘accidentally’ discharging in his mouth, blowing
out the back of his head, much like the incident in “Pulp Fiction” and the rear window,
and Larry shitting his pants and then asking me to cover his ass somehow, which I would
NOT do for this prick. (And this guy makes Captain.) Larry asked for the information
once again. No response. Then I figured what I would put on my report ‘...when
transporting our suspect to the station, he leans over the front seat and with his mouth
(since he’s cuffed) attempts to disarm my partner and/or his service revolver, by eating it,
barrel first, and to keep the suspect from doing such an act, Larry tries to retrieve his
revolver, and it accidentally went off into the suspect’s mouth blowing his brains out.’
No, I don’t think even a retarded monkey would believe that, and there were a lot
of retarded monkeys in high-ranking positions. But, when Larry pulled the trigger, the
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hammer falls, striking on an empty chamber. Our suspect jumps from the shock and
slowly turns white, and I grab my chest because I’m having a fucking heart attack
because I could actually see the hammer fall in slow motion! And Larry, howling like a
hyena, reloads and then heads for the station laughing at the top of his lung capacity.
He laughed all the way until I told him he was going to write the report and
explain how the suspect got a smashed mouth WITHOUT implicating me, and that I was
going to document his actions and keep it for my own use later if I ever needed it.
Thank God in heaven that was the only time we ever worked together, and our
suspect never appeared in court after bailing out. If the judge heard that story he would
think this guy must be nuts to say such a thing or else figure Larry Brakebush was a
psycho in a uniform. I never used that trick ever. Maybe I just didn’t like his attitude or
personality, I don’t know, but you can actually scare the shit out of people with it if you
want to. And since I’m touching that subject I just have to share a few experiences I had
with people shitting their pants, before I forget about it.
The first time it happened I was working in the City of Carson in a traffic unit
with Mike Doolittle. (Other deputies used to call him Mike Do Very Little.) We had a
radar-equipped car, facing northbound on Main Street north of Torrance Blvd. It was
about 2 AM and time for us to take a small nap until the dispatcher assigned us a call, just
a small one mind you, which for some reason we could distinguish between other call
numbers when we were half-asleep.
We were parked off the road but in a spot where the radar would pick up the
traffic. I had the radar buzzer alarm set for 80 MPH, and anything going faster would set
off the internal buzzer, letting us know someone was hauling ass in a 40 mph zone..
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About twenty minutes later the buzzer sounded and I jumped, noticing the radar
readout indicating 105 MPH! I looked up and saw a new Ford pick-up coming
southbound towards us, so I turned on the emergency lights expecting to pursue this
person, but he apparently saw the red lights and went into a four wheel locked skid,
leaving about 600 feet of tire marks on the pavement.
He started to turn sideways like he was loosing control but instead came to a
halfway decent stop in the middle of the intersection against a red light. Then he made a
U-turn and parked his truck in front of a closed bar. He got out, locked the door to his
truck and started walking away, like we never existed. He looked to be a Samoan, about
400 pounds and 5’7” feet tall, no really 300 pounds and maybe 6’ tall.
“Hey, where ya going?” I yelled.
“Who me?” he slurred back.
I hated that response. Who me? I don’t know whom the fuck he thought I was talking to,
a ghost somewhere.
“Yeah you, you asshole. Come over here.”
While he was trying to hold himself up against the fender of his truck, he told us
he was too drunk to drive the rest of the way home so he was going to walk, twelve miles
to Long Beach. Mike and I were out of our car and approaching our inebriated ‘deuce’
(deuce, meaning the number 2 is a nickname for drunk driver, as derived from the old
California vehicle code--section 502. Driving under the influence was recoded 23102 of
the vehicle code I believe).
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“I’ll tell you where you’re going, you old fart, and that’s to jail,” Mike informed
him, taking out his handcuffs.
“To jail, why? I haven’t done anything wrong. You can see I’ve parked my truck,
and I was in the process of walking home til you guys molested me.”
“Come over to the front of my car, please,” I asked him.
I watched him as he staggered over. I didn’t need to bother with any other
co-ordination tests after watching him stagger over.
“You’re under molestation for drunk driving. Put your hands behind your back,”
Mike ordered. He actually said ‘under molestation’.
.
“Under arrest! What the hell for? I haven’t done anything wrong. You didn’t see
me driving this truck, you weren’t even around when I parked here an hour ago. I’ve been
sleeping in there all night. What right do you have to arrest me, of all people?” (The
excuses cops hear are amazing sometimes.)
“The right is mine because I’m responsible for stupid son-of-a-bitches like you
driving through my city killing and maiming innocent people because you like to stick a
bottle in your mouth and get drunk. Now, let’s go!” I told him.
“No! Take me if you can.’
Mike and I both grabbed an arm to restrain him as he started swinging his arms
around. We firmly grabbed him and threw him face first on the patrol car’s hot hood and
cuffed him. I guess our fast actions scared him.
“God-damn Mike, can’t you go downwind if you’re going to fart?”
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“Me?” he said, I thought it was you.”
“It’s me.” Our drunk cried, “You guys made me shit my pants. You grabbed me
so hard I thought you were going to beat me and it scared the shit right out of me. Me, a
grown man, crapping in his pants because of a couple of fucking kids wearing badges are
taking me to jail. Oh, Lord,” he cried.
I swear, Mike and I couldn’t help but laugh until the tears flowed from our eyes, it
was so funny to us. We rolled the windows down, tuned on the air-conditioner and
laughed all the way to the station. The booking/jail deputy wasn’t laughing though.
The second experience I had with ‘pants crapping’ was while arresting some
burglars. Before briefing one night we were given a description of two suspects who had
burglarized the house of a former FBI agent, taking a .44 Colt revolver, a .32 pistol and a
.30 carbine, loaded with a 30 round clip. And one of the burglars was a son of the ex-FBI
agent.
A neighbor to the FBI agent noticed the activity at the house and went to
investigate why the estranged son was taking things out of his father’s house, the boy
stuck the .44 Colt in the neighbors face and told him he was going to kill his father and
any cop that tried to stop them. Now that was not an idle threat either.
Some cops may actually cream their pants dreaming about coming across
someone who makes a threat like this. Today it might be called ‘terrorism’.. Finding the
described car and suspects, with good information they’re armed and dangerous, because
it could mean some good action, possibly a shoot-out, maybe shooting or killing a bad
guy and maybe a commendation and television coverage. Certainly a good step towards
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that next promotion.. If not the commendation, you might get to shoot somebody. And I
don’t mind admitting that shooting someone under these circumstances isn’t worth
bragging about, but that’s all part of the glory that was driven into my brain while going
through the sheriff’s academy, and listening to all the bullshit war stories of cop heroes.
We had the make, model and color of the car, and license number. That particular
night I was working with Bill Sieber (who plays an important part in my arrest later on)
in the radar car l2-T2 (twelve tom two, or 1-2-T-2, a traffic unit). Bill, an ex-green-beret
and Vietnam veteran was as about as gung-ho as I was when it came to throwing people
in jail, maybe more so.
We were parked on Artesia Blvd near the Harbor Freeway when the dispatcher
advised us our sergeant wanted to talk to us on the car-to-car frequency. Sgt. Burville
Wenke (also a key character at my trial) was north bound on the Harbor Freeway and he
wanted to know if the license number on the red Dodge involved in the FBI agent’s
burglary report was Adam George Tom 1-5-1 (AGT 151).
I told him it certainly was, and wanted to know if he knew something we didn’t.
He said hewas just passing overhead on the Harbor Freeway just behind the Dodge this
very instant. Shit! Bill Sieber and I came rapidly to attention ready to roll in an instant.
Sgt. Wenke could have just radioed for assistance and could have run the license number
to the radio room sergeant to get the same answer, but he chose Bill and me to assist him.
That’s how much trust and faith he had in us. He also didn’t want too many hands in the
pot, just two guys he knew would come through in case there was real trouble.
I gunned the Plymouth Fury 383 and started up the freeway after them. I could see
them about one-half mile ahead. Bill was getting the shotgun ready for action and I pulled
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my .357 Smith & Wesson magnum out of its holster. As we were gaining I heard the
radio crackle.
“Attention all Carson units and all south-end Firestone and Lennox units,
attention all Carson units and all south-end Firestone and Lennox units, Firestone 10-Sam
is stopping a wanted 459 vehicle, suspects armed and making furtive movements in the
vehicle. 12 Tom 2 handle the assist, other units responding and your estimated time of
arrival.”
I knew if Sgt. Wenke put out an assist call he must have been spotted by the
suspects were could be ready to open fire on him as they threatened. Sgt. Wenke had his
emergency lights on but he wasn’t stopping his vehicle, or rather just wasn’t stopping. He
did the smart thing and kept his distance until his assistance arrived. As I pulled up I
passed to the right of Sgt. Wenke’s car and to the right of the suspect’s Dodge, shining
my spotlight at it to illuminate its interior.
There were 3 people in the car, a convertible with the top down I think. The
passenger in the back seat looked back at us and then disappear from sight. I yelled at
Deputy Sieber to get ready.
All at once the Dodge came to a screeching stop and we figured the shoot-out was
going to start, before we could get set. Bill jumped out, leaning across the hood aiming
his shotgun yelling, “Stop you mother-fuckers or you’re dead.” Sgt Wenke and I both had
our revolvers drawn and ready to go but we were badly out gunned if one decided to open
up with the .30 carbine with a 30 round clip.. Then the passenger in the front seat also
ducked out of sight and the passenger in the back seat seemed to be reaching under the
rear seat. In police jargon these actions are called “furtive movements”, many times
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leading to loss of life or serious injury IF a cop fails to react to these circumstances and
does not ‘open fire’. Who the hell wants to wait and get shot at when you know you have
heavily armed wanted suspects? If they were World Trade Center bombing suspects of
Arab descent do you think we would have waited? Would you under these
circumstances?
Now I would pose this question to ANY citizen regardless of race, color or creed,
what would you do it you had those circumstances confronting you if you were making a
citizen’s arrest of some burglars who were, 1) armed, 2) known to have made threats of
death to those who tried to stop them, and 3) who just ducked out of sight as if going for
that big, bad Colt .44 and that big-bad .30 carbine? I think any citizen, judge or supreme
court justice would have said it would have been reasonable and prudent for the common
man to think his life was about to be terminated if he didn’t so something and it would
have been OK to shoot first and ask questions later.
And I would post at this time, would there have been and better time for me to
have blown any one of these dudes away? No cop could ask for a better set of perfect
circumstances! Hey, and remember we didn’t have bullet resistant vests in those days.
And you know by now that I did go to prison for ‘deliberately’ (as homicide said)
shooting an unarmed burglar and planting a gun to claim self-defense just so I could kill
someone. With all there is going on in the streets who the hell would need to do that.
Look at this situation.
For a really slow motion second or two nothing happened. I guess I was waiting
to hear the first shot before I started shooting, even though that shot could have been
coming at me..
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Sgt. Wenke began yelling at them, “All right, every body inside put your hands
where we can see them, ‘else you’re gone.”
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I don’t have the gun,” one responded.
Six hands were visible in one quick motion. Bill ordered them out of the right side
of the car one at a time, very slowly. We were scratching ‘the itchy trigger finger’. He
handed me the shotgun which meant he would search them as they exited the car, and
then cuff them. As the first one came out, Bill grabbed him and threw him to the ground,
putting his .38 to the suspect’s head.
“One move you mother-fucker and you’re gone, yes, gone.” (That was the FBI
man’s son.)
The wail of numerous sirens could be heard in the distance and there seemed to be
hundreds of red lights pulsating (no blue and red lights in those days) were visible up and
down the Harbor Freeway. Wheee, what a fucking thrill!!!! Better than a climax.
Bill searched the remaining two and cuffed them, but he momentarily forgot
about the first one who decided to calmly walk away. I was on the other side of the car
momentarily out of view. Somehow the FBI agent’s son got his handcuffs from around
his back to his front and managed to get one handcuff loose over his frail wrists and then
started to run away. But what he didn’t pay attention to was the other patrol cars pulling
up behind ours, and Sgt. Kennedy, seeing what was happening, jumped from his car and
ran around behind it, and when the suspect started to focus his attention to the direction
he was going instead of on us, he ran straight into Sgt. Kennedy’s fist with his mouth.
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Can you believe someone actually putting the face in front of a fist and running into it?
Me neither.
Mr. I’ll Kill Any Cop Who Tries To Stop Me hits the ground about the time five
more cars pull up and everyone who could get into the fray is on this punk. He gets
picked up by his ankles and size 13’s are kicking his chest and head area, and fists are
flying all over his melon, and before we can get him thrown into the back seat of our
radio car, he’s yelling at the top of his voice.
“You bastards, you fucking kicked the shit out of me.” Sure enough, and did he
smell like some rank turds too. In a way I felt sorry for him and again I didn’t. It was
exciting watching six deputies kicking the hell out of this guy cause if anyone in this
world deserved it, he did. What more could a 24 year old deputy ask for on such an
eventful night?
Inside the car we found the .44 Colt loaded and cocked on the passenger’s side
floorboard, the .32 pistol was loaded and cocked on the drivers side, and the passenger in
the rear seat, he also apparently had the .30 carbine loaded and cocked. I would venture
to give a hindsight decision that they were probably going to have a shoot out with us. To
this day I don’t know what stopped them but I know that Sgt Bud Wenke, Bill Sieber and
I can really count our blessings. We were one heart beat away from eternity.
(A few months later all three were found guilty of only 1st degree burglary. No
extra firearms charges in the commission of a felony. None of them smiled at us either;
not too sociable.)
Other Rank Smells
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There weren’t too many things that could top those smells but Lew and I managed
to find a few things. We picked up a very drunk woman one evening, staggering in an
intersection, and did she wreak. Lew asked her if she had been sleeping in a garbage can,
and she said no. After we got her booked and out of the smelling range of the other
station deputies, the matron told us she smelled so bad because she had been in her period
for the past few days and only wiped herself when she deemed it necessary. She didn’t
use sanitary napkins.
But there was a time in 1968 that I smelled something a man never forgets as long
as he lives. As Lew and I were cruising near Compton in the Willowbrook area a drunk
man flagged us down stammering some thing about a helicopter just fell out of the sky
not far away.
“Yeah, sure”, Lew said. “ See any flying saucers too?”
Then I looked up and saw smoke not far from us and told Lew to start driving
towards it. I didn’t have the slightest idea if this was a helicopter crash in the early
morning hours or what we would do in a helicopter crash situation but I was sure going to
find out.
I got on the radio and advised the dispatcher we may have a helicopter down in
our vicinity and her response was like “…..what kind of practical joke is this?”
When you work a graveyard shift long enough you get to ‘know’ your usual
dispatcher and they can tell by your voice inflections if you are serious or joking, and we
did play jokes on them once in a while with our calls and responses and since no other
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units or agencies were reporting a helicopter crash the next voice I heard was the radio
room sergeant, who sometimes took over when things got serious or the jokes out of
hand.
“15 boy” he said, “you’re flirting with disciplinary action. Identify yourself”
I responded with “This is Deputy Robert Shaffer, Sam-Henry-Adam-FrankFrank-Edward-Robert and a pedestrian reported a helicopter crash in the vicinity.”
Lew started rolling faster now as we could see a dark plume of smoke in the
distance.
Near a small park in northwest Compton, a large Skikorsky passenger helicopter
with about twenty passengers aboard traveling from Orange County airport to the Los
Angeles airport, simply came apart in flames and smoke. There had to be lots of people
on that helicopter, and when we pulled up we saw a man trying to get someone out of the
remains of the burning cockpit. And the remains weren’t much.
“Dispatcher, this is 15 boy, we indeed have a large helicopter down. Advise you
sent fire units, ambulance, back up for crowd control, the FAA and the coroner, 1-5 boy”
I almost yelled into the radio mike.”
The radio room sergeant replied, “15 boy, your requests need to be made via
landline (a telephone). Call your station immediately.”
There were some things you just weren’t suppose to put over a car radio for fear
the news would hear and run to the scene. Hell, the world state and country would know
soon enough as Compton Police units were now arriving.
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We made a panic stop and ran to help the man trying to rescue the burned pilot
but the flames were just too hot, not to mention I had a fear of an explosion. So I ran to a
small building in the park and got on the phone. I called the station and told them a large
helicopter just crashed and to send help for crowd control, call the FAA, and the
coroner’s office cause there were dead bodies and parts of bodies everywhere.
The desk sergeant thought I was pulling a joke on him.
“Look you stupid ass, we need some fucking help out here,now! I yelled into the
phone and then slammed on down on the cradle.
I ran back outside and met two officers from Compton PD who came to survey
the damage since the crash was in their city. Then the people, hundreds of people, started
coming out of the apartments and woodwork like vultures after carrion. They were
picking up luggage, pieces of the copter, clothes, and one man picked up with what he
thought was a wig, a present for his wife and was sickened when it turned out to be a
woman’s scalp with the flesh from her face still attached.
I couldn’t control the people and it wasn’t until the California Highway Patrol
arrived en masse that we could cordon off the area. Someone had hundreds of feet of rope
and the motorcycle officers tied it to their motorcycles and forced people back to the
sidewalks. We began advising the sightseers that the park was the scene of a major
catastrophe and thus a possible crime scene, and to interfere was a felony. People laughed
at us, gave us the finger and booed.
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It began to get daylight out and the press and TV cameras showed up soon and
started taking pictures and statements. On TV and in the paper it was hard to discern the
dead bodies from pieces of wreckage, thankfully.
People (referred to as assholes) were still interfering with the fire department who
arrived and were trying to water down the area at it had been splashed with high octane
aviation fuel. One such dumb NEGRO was trying to take the wallet of the dead pilot,
who was now but a headless, armless, legless, upper body still belted to his cockpit seat,
but it was still too hot to get close enough to him. Compton PD caught him running up
and trying to reach into his pocket.
More officials arrived and Lew and I were assigned to cover this till the end as
‘representatives’ of our station, since we were the first lawmen on the scene. Wasn’t that
nice of the station commander?
That meant standing guard on the smoldering remains and assisting the coroner’s
office with locating the bodies for later identification. And also to take any witness
statements and to recover any pieces of the helicopter that people found some blocks
away from the crash site.
We stayed there all damn day long trying to keep awake and the heat was adding
to the stench. It was determined that there were around thirty persons aboard, including
the grandson of the owner of the company that made or flew the helicopters. All during
the day I had to call our headquarters in Los Angeles to keep them informed of the
progress, and I was glad when the last call was made. I’d had it. I was wondering why
they didn’t send some lieutenant or captain down to do this bullshit. It was difficult to
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locate the remains that really put the lid on it for me.. Most people don’t comprehend
what a body looks like after it’s crashed like this, and casual pieces here and there or
what most people could never identify as a piece of the anatomy are fingers, nose, heads,
feet, etc, crushed and burned, way beyond imagination. I was glad my shift was finally
over because this was a heart wrenching sad experience.
(There were two more helicopters from the same company that crashed within a
few weeks of each other. I think metal fatigue and/or stress was determined to be the
cause of the accident.)
Back To Patrol With Corny
The next night Lew and I were cruising the Watts area along Imperial Highway
when we saw an enormous glow of a hundred emergency flares in a pattern blocking the
entire east-bound lanes, near the old burned out Safeway store (Watts riot victim). We
couldn’t figure out who the hell would have a roadblock on Imperial, since it was a major
east-west thoroughfare, unless there was some emergency we didn’t hear about OR it was
some nut. Well, it wasn’t quite a nut but close. It was Charlie Stowell, ex-highway
patrolman, and his trainee, and I looked and figured Charlie learned this trick while
employed as a Highway Patrolman.
They had their car blocking Bandera Avenue and the flares were across Imperial
Highway, and they were stopping every car that came by, looking in at the passengers,
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and either letting them go, or having the passengers step out so Chuck’s partner, a guy
named Deane Francis, who was about my size, and two other deputies who I can’t
remember, would search the car. And they stopped the cars at gunpoint! And this was
WAY before the courts let cops do drunk driver road blocks!
This was after June of 1968 because Deane Francis wasn’t on the station roster
then.
Lew and I sat in our car watching and laughing but when they were going through
their manueveurs one of them came up with a concealed weapon. They arrested the guy,
kicked out the flares, and headed for the station. What a way to get a bust.
Lew and I drove on down to Compton Avenue where we spotted a guy running a
red light. He saw us and stopped immediately, near a closed hamburger joint just south of
the Nickerson Gardens, which was one of the city’s apartment ‘projects’ for low or no
income housing and a haven for crime and criminals and those just ‘misunderstood’ in
my opinion.
While I was writing the citation, I looked north on Compton Avenue in the area of
the projects and saw some kind of disturbance in the street. It looked like ‘family fued’
time. One bunch stood in front of a house on the east side of Compton Avenue and the
other bunch was on the West side. Every so often they would clash in the middle of the
street fighting each other, women and kids too.
I picked radio the mike while Lew was watching the action. It was LAPD’s area
so I was going to just call it in and let them handle it. We didn’t need to get in the middle
of the city’s domestic problems.
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These are the events as I remember them.
“Fifteen, one-five, request LAPD at Nickerson Gardens, City of Los Angeles,
north of Imperial on Compton Avenue re: large 415 family or neighbor disturbance- onefive.”
(I reported it as a problem in the city limits, not in the county area.)
“Fifteen, how many units do you need?” the dispatcher responded.
“Lew, did you hear that dumb bitch? She thinks we need help”
I was very clear when I responded, “I don’t need help.”
“Fifteen, I don’t need any help, it’s in the city but make sure you tell them to send
as least two LAPD units as there are about twenty people involved. It’s in the city, one
five.” I responded again.
(I told her at least two units because it was ‘almost’ an LAPD policy to send two
units into any calls into the projects. One unit to handle the call and one to keep the
others car from being stolen - a joke.)
The dispatcher responds:
“Attention all Firestone units, 15 requests at least two units re: officer needs
help.”
“God damn! Lew, am I saying something wrong? Does she not fucking
understand what I am reporting”?
“I don’t think so.” Lew replied somewhat concerned.
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I could hear the other units responding in the background and she was double
checking their messages:
“15 boy in two (minutes), 15 adam in two, 14 in one,”
then..
15 David in one, 15 Sam (sergeant) in two.” (‘Oh shit, not the sergeant!’)
I held the mike very close to my mouth and said very slowly, “listen very
carefully 15 to dispatcher. I do not, I repeat, I do not need any assistance.”
“Please 10-22 (cancel) that last call for help. I repeat, 10-22 that last call for help.
I do not need assistance!”
I wondered if maybe my mike was breaking up and she couldn’t hear me clearly
or maybe some citizen called something in and the dispatcher thought we were being
attacked or had been captured or something. This whole scenario is being monitored in
the station, and the desk sergeant was The Rock, tonight’s watch commander, (he’s 6’3”,
220, with a 28” waist and about 50 years old. At least I thought he was 50). He
apparently called the dispatcher and told her to tell the units to roll to the county
boundary, but not to roll code three- emergency.
“Attention Willowbrook units. Cancel the assist at Compton and Imperial, but
continue to roll to the county line. The 415 (disturbance) is in the city,” she finally
radioed.
Was I glad to hear the cancel for ‘officer needs help’. The guy we were writing a
ticket for was about as confused as we were. I thought ‘that took care of that’, or so one
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would imagine. The only problem that we were facing now was no one remembered to
call LAPD and tell them it was a misunderstanding, and to cancel their ‘officer needs
help’ broad cast. I got out of my car to finish writing the citation and while I was walking
to have the ticket signed I noticed some red lights was off in the distance coming
eastbound on Imperial Highway from the city area. There is a real hairy curve just west
of Central Avenue and I can see the police units rolling back and forth after they made
the turn. After that pair of red lights is another, and another, and another, and another and
fucking another..
“Oh shit.”
The black dude I was writing the ticket on also saw all the police cars.
He looked up at me with a very sad look on his face and said, “What’d I do
wrong, officer? All I did was run a red light.”
“Oh shut-up!” I roared back.
I could not believe it what I was seeing! Here was a swarm, no a herd, no a
migration of LAPD units roaring Code 3 towards us, and by the time the first unit arrived
I could see at least twenty other units behind him. It looked like the Chicago Police
chasing the Blues Brothers!
The first LAPD car started breaking in a locked four wheel skip for about 300
feet, right past us, up a drive way , through the closed hamburger stand parking lot, across
Compton Avenue, and into a closed gas station almost taking out the pumps--still locked
in a 4 wheel skip. The four units behind him did almost the same thing.
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“Oh no, no, no, no,” I cried. I grabbed the mike. “Who the hell sent all these units.
I shouted at the dispatcher. “I only asked for two! Two. There’s twenty-two!”
The first guy who passed us threw his car into reverse burning rubber all the way
to our car. He must have thought we were crazy writing a ticket while some deputy was
getting his ass kicked just a few yards away.
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Other out of control cars started skidding around us, and I’m praying there’ll be
no collision. I don’t know how or if I could explain it to these officers.
“Where’s the unit calling for assistance!” he yells out.
“There’s been a mix-up. We don’t need helps you have a disturbance down the
street. Call a code 4 (no further assistance needed) or whatever you guys use but stop
these units from coming.” I yelled .
As we were yelling back and forth more cars continued to pull up, totaling
twenty-two radio cars, three sergeants and one fucking mad lieutenant in a staff
communications station wagon. He wanted to know who was in charge and I told him I
suppose I was and then related my story. He screamed at me that he wanted my ass and
that he was going to see my watch commander. This guy was pissed so I got on the radio
and told the dispatcher to notify my station that a very upset LAPD lieutenant was on the
way to see him. Of course I knew Sgt Rock was listening in on all of this.
By now, many of the units went to break up the disturbance, and there were blue
uniforms chasing black faces all over the housing project. They did actually need about 6
or 7 units to end that disturbance.
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Lew and I got in the car and just sat there until we thought the LAPD lieutenant
was close to our station, and then we started in for the barn. Half way there we got the
call to meet our watch commander at the station, and I didn’t know how to figure him
out. He’s the kind of guy that will punch your face in if he thinks your wrong.
In his office he told us in a humorous way the lieutenant was very, very mad, so
he told him to shut his mouth and not to raise his voice in a sheriff’s station, and that he
could get fucked because we didn’t do anything wrong. Bravo!
There seemed to be a bit of confusion about who was supposed to notify the
LAPD dispatcher that this was not an “officer assist” call. Our dispatcher was not clear
in terminating the assist call and that it was just a small disturbance. I bet the people
fighting in the street thought the whole of LAPD was there.
I can only say this about the LAPD’s response. It was great. I do not think any
other county unit arrived to sit with us at the border of the city and the county. They may
have but it isn’t in my notes. I just know LAPD hauled ass to come to the aid of a
‘deputy needs help’ call, mistake, confusion or not. I felt very proud of them but I’m sure
they told their buddies later about ‘the idiot deputy’ who couldn’t get it right on the radio.
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Chapter 11
The Watts Festival Shoot Out
(Of August 1968 That Is)
The Watts festival is a community - based project celebrating local artists and
talent on the anniversary of the Watts Riots. There are week- long festivities held in Will
Rogers Park at 103 Street and Central Avenue, and a parade with local politicians and
community leaders. Usually on the last day there is a big outdoor barbeque and dance,
and of course, a rock and bottle throwing contest to see who can hit the police at the
longest distance with the largest object.
The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors received so many alleged
complaints of police harassment in 1967 that in 1968 they issued orders to the Sheriff’s
Department to ‘back off’ and leave the park alone as much as possible so all that was
stationed in the park perimeter was a small command post set up for first aid and radio
communications. And as usual, we were always under staffed and the most uninformed
of the departments. The 103 St LAPD mini-station was just a few blocks away and there
were probably 10 units parked on the street in front of it.
I can remember the particular night when the festival was nearing its close. At
briefing we were told that members of a black militant group who called themselves the
‘Black Panthers’ were going to provoke us into a shootout this evening. It seemed that the
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hundred or so FBI and other agents who managed to infiltrate the Panthers found this
information out, or started the rumor themselves.
The whole night was very quiet, unusually quiet was how the Watts riot veterans
were describing it. Those veterans had already removed their brake-light bulbs to avoid
detection, were carrying more ammo than usual, in some instances some deputies had
maybe 1000 extra rounds and more guns than usual, Ruger .44 magnum caliber semiautomatic rifles, Remington .30/06 hunting rifles, a few of the AR-15’s and a bunch of
.30 carbines like I had. I decided to bring my.30 carbine M1-Al rifle, with two thirty
rounds clips attached together, and about 400 rounds in other clips stuffed my uniform
jacket and on a bandolier, plus 100 .38 rounds, and maybe 50 extra shotgun OO buck
rounds. If I had a dark complexion and a Mexican sombrero I could pass for ‘Pancho”.
Even though it was but a rumor, not to listen to it was stupid and I didn’t want to be
stupid this night.
About 3 AM there was a call about some major trouble in the area and we were to
meet at a small church with LAPD units near 92nd Street and Hooper Avenue. There
were seven sheriff’s units plus twenty LAPD units from 77th and probably Newton
Station.
I’m not sure the LAPD SWAT teams were formed then as I believe that was a
time when Los Angeles officers were able to keep their personal high-powered rifles in
their trunks, mostly 30.06 caliber, many with scopes. We would not be under-armed.
Some person of higher rank made a decision that we would join forces and make
an armed confrontation and close the park as ambulance drivers were being assaulted and
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kept from picking up those poor individuals who got themselves wounded during the
celebration and partying that was going on ‘mob-style’ at Will Rogers Park.
The procedure was the ambulance would go into the park but escorted by a
special team of deputies, about twelve of them, when there was an emergency call. For
some reason this special team was terminated about midnight and the ambulance had no
escort. Why black people wanted to assault ambulance drivers, who were also black for
this occasion, who were going to the aid of other black people was beyond me—usual
gang like assholes I guess.
During the discussion about who was going to be the ‘head honcho’ of the
operation, as it was a county park in the city area, (sounds like Vietnam ‘rules of
engagement’ shit to me) I saw this young black girl get out of a car that was parked
across the street and approach our staging area, pretending she was calling for a lost dog.
Now no one in those days was smart enough to understand street warfare and surveillance
so she walked right through the parking lot counting cars and cops. I pointed her out to
Lew and the two of us started to chase after her but she ran quickly to the waiting car and
sped off. We figured she was spying on us yet not one officer challenged her.
An LAPD intelligence unit was there and their information was that tonight was
the night for a full- armed assault as their undercover intelligence people reported the
Panthers were heavily armed and in the park and just waiting for us. Because of this, our
lieutenant sent a unit back to the station to clean our arsenal out and bring the weapons
back to the command post. That meant that every deputy would carry either an Ithica 12
gauge shotgun, very outdated lever action Winchester .30-.30’s still with saddle ring, or a
Remington .35 caliber WWII vintage semi-automatic piece of shit that always seem to
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jam after the second round was fired.. I was given the piece of shit, figuring I would use
it as a club if needed.
We would have been an impressive assault team if we were defending the Alamo,
or the coast of California from the Japanese.
We mounted up, so to say and drove from 92nd Street and Hooper Avenue to
Century Blvd. and Success Avenue. At this point one man from each car got out and
began to form a long skirmish line. Because the park was county, our dear commander
Lt. Edmunds decided the front line would be deputies, and the rear forces LAPD. This
was good reasoning because if we were shot at, LAPD would have proper justification
under these conditions to come to our rescue, and no one could blame LAPD for starting
anything and that it would show the sheriff’s department was running the show, not the
city. This should make a difference to the people in the park because they hated LAPD
worse than they hated us.
Those officers driving the radio cars were to form a procession on Century Blvd.
and 103rd Street, paralleling the foot officers as they progressed through the park. That
way coverage was good and we knew when we reached the end the park we would be
surrounded by police cars. It was good rational cop thinking even if a lieutenant thought
of it.
I was in the front line of course, about the middle, aiming my .35 Remington
straight ahead, and it had one in the chamber with the safety off. The line progressed very
slowly and cautiously. It looked like daybreak was approaching, and this made the mood
less strained. We know we were easier targets but we could probably see who was
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shooting at us, and our orders were to open fire if fired upon. Not sure who we would be
aiming at but just to ‘open fire’. That makes sense, right?
I always felt that the city probably had a thousand officers hiding somewhere
waiting to roll in case a shot went off, and I knew the sheriff’s office didn’t because they
were notoriously known for their lack of professional foresight with putting deputies on
notice about possible riot situations. I think our downtown brass knew about the festival
but not our armed skirmish line in the park.
When we got to the middle of the park it was obvious that most of the people
were willing to leave, noticing our presence. Many saw the skirmish line and numerous
police cars and decided festivities were over and it was time to boogaloo. There was one
small group playing bongos and dancing that didn’t take to our tactics and they started
objecting. I felt this was the start of an ambush so I quickly dropped to one knee and
aimed my .35 Remington rifle (that looks like a machine gun) at the leader. Most of the
other deputies did like-wise--we weren’t taking chances.
With weapons aimed at their heads Lt. Edmunds advised them to disperse or be
arrested. Some took offense at having shotguns and machine guns aimed in their faces,
and Mr. Tommy Jacquett, the leader or sponsor of the festival, took offense to the order.
Lt. Edmunds, a smooth talker, held a whispered discussion with Mr. Jacquett, and Mr.
Jacquett advised the group in the best interest of the festival they should leave without
incident, which they thankfully did. We were a bunch of nervous young deputies and
LAPD cops and if one of the ‘other side’ had reached towards his pocket or waistband
there would have been some very ugly consequences.
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With the assistance of the park force the area was contained, everyone wondering
where the heavily armed bad-ass sissy Panthers were. None of those in the park even
resembled the black leather-jacketed, black beret-wearing Black Panthers. These guys
looked like local punks. Our work was finished so we returned to the station for a debriefing and to turn in the antique firearms and relics. It was only discovered at debriefing that those who received the ammunition for their rifles were given the wrong
caliber. Someone had mixed up the ammunition in the boxes and no one questioned it. I
certainly didn’t! Things would have been a disaster for us if something had started. Next
time I was going to decline their rifle and stick to my own, even though personal rifles
were strictly forbidden by Sheriff’s order number bla-bla-bla. The station brass had blind
eyes when it came to personal rifles at these times.
The next evening I watched as numerous deputies were sneaking their personal
combat rifles in the trunks of their radio cars. The .30 carbines were popular. They were
inexpensive, light weight and had the firepower of a .357 magnum, 20 and 30 round
clips were easy to find and changing the clip was easy. Why the department didn’t get rid
of their junkers and buy these from the government dirt-cheap was beyond me. Briefing
was sort of comical. The room was jam packed because extra deputies had been ordered
into the field. Lt. Edmunds was giving his version of the previous night, and he reported
that things were super dead, dead enough to take the surrounding sheriff stations off
emergency stand-by (the fool, the game ain’t over til it’s over), and the shift going off did
not have to stay around the extra couple of hours they were assigned.
(I’m not sure Edmunds ever got beyond lieutenant)
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So while we are bull-shitting about some supreme court decision, someone stuck
their head into the briefing room. “Let’s roll. All hell is breaking out at Will Rogers Park.
Meet LAPD at Century and Central in the Mobil station.”
So, it was off-again, on-again, and I just bet no one called downtown to tell them.
Deputies were grabbing things and leaving useless items, like batons, that have no
caliber, on the tables, and the station shotguns, that had no firepower against long range
snipers. Those carbines that were in the trunks were now in the front seats.
Our whopping taskforce (thirteen of us representing the whole Los Angeles
County Sheriff’s department) rolled ‘blacked-out’ from the station to the Mobil gas
station, which was only a few miles or so miles away. We lined up along the curb to look
at what was going on, and the sight was actually very terrifying. Mob-ocracy as I’ve
never seen it. The park was absolutely jammed with a black mass that would roll back
and forth like an angry sea. There were thousands. When the mob rolled forward they
would let go with large rocks, bricks, bottles and metal objects. Their targets were a few
trapped LAPD officers in their cars at the corner of 103 Street and Central Avenue. One
of the units was arresting a drunk woman and when she protested, the whole park did too.
Almost the same circumstances that sparked the Watts riots in 1965. Whether or not good
discretion was used I couldn’t say, but it was obvious LAPD got themselves into one big
jam….again.
0n the way there we were advised by our lieutenant not to interfere with anything
LAPD did unless requested because the Sheriff’s Department did not want to taint its PR
image by getting mixed up with the ruffians in blue. What a crock of shit!
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Our lieutenant, Bud Hansen, (who was a training officer at the academy when I
attended) told us to lock things up in the Mobil station and form a skirmish line. As we
were doing so an LAPD car pulled up and told us to go to the Shell gas station at 103rd
Street. I’m glad we did because this token force would no way handle that mass of
violent people, and the county’s finest might be in grave danger. We drove over, noticing
LAPD had Central Avenue barricaded at 108th, with their cars steadily pouring in. We
joined up with about 200 officers, including their new SWAT teams.
Rocks and bottles were starting to hit our new position, really big rocks too, so
some one suggested it was about time we closed the park, by force if necessary. LAPD
had all its stations on riot alert, with a metro detail rolling from downtown, plus a
helicopter and command post in a nearby school grounds. That made me feel better as
the sweat under my armpits was starting to soak through.
Lt. Hansen picked two deputies to watch the radio cars parked en mass around the
Shell gas station, and then for some really stupid reason he had us line up like a bunch of
English soldiers in a single line along the sidewalk. He wants us to ‘skirmish’ thos mob
knowing full well that just last night the Black Panthers were armed and waiting for the
right moment to strike.
Lt. Hansen was in the process of saying something like ‘forward or whatever’, it
reminded me of the old Rawhide television show with Ward Bond (and Clint Eastwood),
when Bond says “forward ho’ to the wagon train, but before he could finish all hell broke
loose. And that really does not describe it. In the middle of his word, guns, lots of guns,
started going off and bullets were striking around us. I was actually getting shot at…me!
It sounded like at least a hundred pistols and rifles and shotguns going off in unison. Half
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of our deputies ran like hell into the park for cover and the rest retreated to the security of
the police cars to wait out the volley. Trouble was, the volleys never stopped.
Now this wasn’t covered in any of the lectures at the Sheriff’s academy, or
anywhere else for that matter. I was fucking on my own and under fire.
Lew yelled at me to follow him into the park with the first wave, and we made
for a very large boulder that had the “Will Rogers Park” sign on it. It seemed we were
going to hedgehop all night so this was good as any stop for now. I looked back at the
patrol cars and the deputies were trying to figure out how to get under safe cover. You
could hear the bullets striking the cars.
I cautiously peered over the rock and could see gun flashs coming from a picnic
area halfway through the park, which was an easy two hundred yards from us. I figured
this was as good time as any to test my .30 caliber semi-automatic rifle so I took aim and
began returning fire at the flashes. Other officers began to return fire when they realized
the inhibition about shooting was put aside, because now it meant a way of staying alive.
I could hear Lt. Hansen yelling, “Don’t shoot back, don’t shoot back!” and just forgot I
didn’t hear those words. I suppose he didn’t want to irritate them any more than they
were? Shit, they were trying to kill us!
I heard someone yell back at Lt. Hansen, “What are you, fucking crazy?”
This is a time where all your physical training and cop instincts come alive and
your adrenalin and other chemicals in the brain start to go to work to keep you alive.
We were joined by another black deputy, can’t remember who, who made cover
just as the bullets started thumping into that big boulder we were behind. What a sound
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to hear them impacting on the other side….plump..plump…plump. Not .22’s either. I
popped up again and emptied my 1st 30 round clip, and then reloaded. I was in ecstasy,
listening to the rounds being fired from my carbine, ‘bam..bam..bam..bam..bam’, and
hearing the empty brass falling off the boulder around me. It was a fucking rush.
I had expended 30 rounds and we had only been in this position less then five
exciting minutes. The other black deputy was pouring sweat from his face and trying to
figure a way he could blend together with the boulder. Lew had his revolver in his hand
but I’m not sure he fired yet but he was surveying the scene and kept a lookout behind us
towards the buildings along Central Avenue. Hell, I didn’t need any help returning fire
yet.
“Lew, how many rounds you bring?” I yelled.
“Not enough I’m afraid”
I grabbed a plastic sandwich bag that was stuffed in my left rear pocket and threw
it to him. It contained about 50 extra .38 rounds.
“Hope this will hold you but I got about 50 more if you need em.”
“Thanks Bob”, he yelled back. He just called me Bob”!
Peeking around the boulder I could see black men running every which way. Lew
started firing his revolver as a few rounds were coming close to us, clipping branches off
the tree not three feet behind us and striking the grass much closer than I wanted. We
were being cross-fired on. Then I turned around and watched as a speeding car going
west bound on Century Blvd, with two of the occupants firing towards our small police
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foothold. I aimed my carbine right at them, and let the rounds fly! I was emptying a 30
round clip as fast as I could pull the trigger and I could see the car’s windows shatter and
bullet impactions on the side doors and then the driver swerved and sideswiped a parked
car near Central Avenue. I kept firing until the clip was empty, hoping that I had hit some
one inside, as I watched it cross Central Avenue and out of my sight. But you could see
other muzzle flashes going off in the direction of the speeding car so apparently LAPD
saw what was happening.
We were joined by a small group of LAPD officers who wanted to make a run
towards a parked car about twenty yards away. One noticed what I was shooting and the
barrel was SMOKING!
“Having fun yet?” He asked. It was a sergeant.
“Oh, the fun is just beginning”, I replied
I could see Lt. Hansen trying to keep the other deputies together and I figured I’d
better go with LAPD since I knew they would get a hell of a lot more aggressive than Lt.
Hansen wanted to, “Mr. Don’t Shoot Back”.
We all agreed and made a quick dash, and while doing so another speeding car
roared down Century Blvd. firing, and in unison about six of us opened up on it, and this
time I could see its windows totally disintegrate from the bullets, and the car immediately
came to an abrupt stop. Two occupants grabbed the driver and started dragging him
towards another waiting car. We fired at them again but then came under attack ourselves
from another direction. God that felt good! What a way to die if I was going to, in a
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gunfight with the Black Panthers. I would be a fucking martyr but I would rather be a
fucking survivor..
We had gained a little ground in this bold move but were now pinned down by
heavy gunfire. The car we were huddling behind was actually rocking back and forth as
large caliber bullets would crash into it. There seemed to be lots of shots being fired from
the area southeast of us, what seemed to be very heavily treed. I jumped up and started
firing back, knowing we had to either surrender what we had gained or to shoot our way
through this park to the other side, which seemed to the ‘their’ stronghold. Policemen and
deputies were now responding with a heavy return of fire. The LAPD helicopter came
over and began shining its powerful spotlight on areas too dark for us to really see into.
The helicopter drew some fire but it enabled us to move ahead to another bunch of parked
cars, near some concrete bathrooms.
Then all of a sudden three girls come calmly walking down a sidewalk talking
like there’s fucking nothing unusual happening. Here’s two sides of the social stratum
shooting at each other, and they’re walking in between us. It had to be a set-up, i.e.
innocent girls get shot by the police during an early morning walk in a local park..
Someone started yelling at them to move and when they didn’t a few LAPD ran over to
them to physically remove them from the park, the girls started resisting so one got a fist
to the chin that put her out for the count, and the other got a few whacks across the back
with a baton, and she left in a hurry, thanking us with some unusual words like ‘mother
fuckers’. (The girl who was knocked out stayed unconscious for almost an hour before
being revived by paramedics.)
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After this weird episode, a very big mother-fucker (oops, I mean local citizen)
does the same thing. A couple of officers go to assist this dude out of the park with their
nightsticks but it doesn’t work. He grabs them both and tossed them to the ground and
starts to wail on them! About five more officers went to assist and the situation got back
in hand. This time, in my opinion due to the circumstances, he got what he should have
the first time, and that was a rifle-butt in the face, and numerous size 13’s to his head and
chest. That’s why I didn’t need a baton in a situation like this. When you’re shooting,
don’t change tactics. Use your rifle butt for your baton, or hit your suspect with your
revolver. Having to change from one to the other fucks up your mind, because in a
situation where deadly force is being employed a nightstick doesn’t quite get the job
done, thus leaving an officer no other alternative but to rely on his weapon once again.
Lew said he felt these people crossed our line of fire to get us to stop shooting
while their comrades either escaped or found a better position to shoot at us from.
Our next object of attention were the bathrooms. I could tell they were jammed
full of people because people kept popping their heads out the doors and through the
windows. Either someone gave a command to take this strategic spot or someone was
thinking out loud.
I can remember hiding behind a 58 Chevy Belair 4-door, and Art Franzen seemed
to materialize out of no where and Lew was near me, and six or seven LAPD officers.
Someone said ‘let’s go’ and we started pulling out, and when we just cleared the 58
Chevy we came under attack once more.
Someone was firing a shotgun from the women’s side of the bathroom and a small
caliber weapon from was being shot from the men’s bathroom. The two LA cops directly
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in front of me fell, screaming and grabbing their legs. I felt a sting in my left thigh, like
someone had snapped a rubber band on my skin, and started falling over cause I was
tripping on one of the cops who was laying down returning fire with his 30-06 rifle.
“Boom…boom…..boom…..boom”. Ever been deer hunting on opening day?
I could see chunks of the cement sides blow off the bathrooms.
The fallen cops were crying out, “I’m shot, I’m shot, my legs.” They were
twisting around while grabbing at their legs.
I forgot my stinging left leg and jumped up yelling, “Cover em,” and started firing
at the bathrooms. Then shooting started all over the park once again, it was wild with
hundreds rounds being fired. After enough cover was given the two injured cops were
rescued by four or five of their brother officers and pulled to safety, and then we rushed
the bathrooms. I didn’t see Art after that as I think he also took some shotgun pellets too.
Lew and I with three LAPD officers started to storm the girls room. Someone inside
didn’t want to open the door so I kicked it open. The girls inside were screaming and the
guys were trying to hide under the shitters.
“Everyone back the fuck up and shut-up!” I screamed. I pointed my carbine at
them. “Move the wrong way and I’m going to cut you in two!”
This must have made an impression on them because it got real quiet, although
heavy shooting was still continuing on outside.
“All right, one at a time step up here.” I yelled.
Lew was covering me with his .38 and the 3 LAPD had their weapons trained on
the occupants also.. As one of the occupants would step up I would rest the barrel of my
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rifle on his or her neck and with my free hand I searched breast area, hips and between
the legs, and then pushed them outside into the hands of LAPD who did another much
more comprehensive search and administering of justice, with double lumps for the few
big mouths who complained about our conduct cause ‘ they didn’t do nuttin’.
We may have been a bit rough but the situation called for roughness. We were
getting shot at repeatedly, from this bathroom and so far it took us over an hour to get this
short distance, with much heavier firing going on ahead of us. We couldn’t let anyone
stay in the bathroom because we knew shots emitted from here and we had to find out
who was doing it. As we would finish with them we would order them out of the park
towards 103rd Street, but once there we had no more control over them. We were doing
nothing but taking a big bite out of a jellyroll, getting something but still being covered
from nearly all four-sides.
There were three strange looking dudes left hugging the toilet stall after we
finished with the girls. Not strange like aliens but they were well dressed with shaved
heads, which meant to me they were Black Muslims, as this was a sign of their dress
code. We were more than rough on these dudes because they meant bad news to most
cops, and I figured since they were in the girl’s room they figured it wouldn’t be
searched, after they did some shooting.
“Hey LAPD, come in here” I yelled.
The three city cops came in and looked at the three bald headed black men in
black suits.
“Let us handle this” the sergeant said.
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“We’ll just watch” Lew said.
One at a time each was knocked down, pistol whipped, kicked and punched on by
the LAPD officers. Lew and I pointed our weapons at the ones standing. It was later
noticed that two of them had a grayish substance on their hands that I just didn’t relate to
then. LAPD wanted to know what we wanted to do with them.
“Shit, I don’t know”, I said. “Where would we take them? We can’t get out of
the park and if you did you’d have to go book them somewhere. We got no booking bus
here. You guys?”
“Nope” they seemed to reply in unison.
And since we didn’t know what to do with our arrestees, LAPD had their own
court and trial. Guilty! The one with the baldest head got it split wide open while being
kicked out, and he collapsed twenty feet outside on the grass. All three of them looked
pretty well beat up, and the two others picked their friend up and dragged him off while
trying to keep one hand raised in the air.
When the bathroom was cleared we started to search the toilets and I turned the
trash can upside down.
The LAPD Sergeant found a Browning 9 mm pistol in the corner of the toilet stall
covered over with hand towels.
“What do we have here?” he asked jokingly.
“Looks like pay dirt but we let our suspects go” another answered.
He looked at his partners and sighed, “Yeah, I think I was a bit too hasty.”
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While rummaging through the papers I found three .22 caliber revolvers, and
realized we now lost ‘three’ prime suspects, because the grayish matter on their hands
was powder residue from these cheap guns. I picked up one and LAPD picked up two.
Even after finding the guns no one seemed to care much about searching for our three
suspects, as we were still in the middle of an exciting evening, and who would want to
make an arrest and have a prisoner to worry about? But the thing that did bother me was
if one of the cops in the park got killed by a bullet from one of these weapons we just let
a murder suspect go, and no curb side justice would make up for that. Mentally we were
just not thinking straight.
I handed one .22 to Lew who stuck it in his waistband. Then we all left the
bathroom, and in an instant Lew was gone, as he apparently went east with the LA cops
thinking I was just behind him and I headed south by myself. I can remember hooking up
with another LA cop who had a shotgun.
(There was no plan on what to do. Officers just moved about at will joining into
small groups just trying to keep from getting shot.)
I think each of us figured we needed the other as protection and then helicopter
was hovering above us and I found myself with a group of an assault LAPD SWAT team
operation. Exciting!
The officers in the area were still the targets of too many bullets, and I remember
at briefing we were told to shoot the park lights out if necessary, so I aimed at a street
light and started shooting it out. “What the hell you doing,” the guy next to me yelled.
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“Shootin’ the fucking lights out, what do you think?” I replied, finally noticing he
was a lieutenant. He thought that for a moment or two, stood up and blasted another light
out.
“Shoot the lights out,” he yelled. In seconds the order went around the park to
shoot the lights out and one by one they were extinguished. It was a spectacle to observe,
watching as the park got darker and darker, affording us some good cover. And these
lights were very expensive.
The lieutenant and I were joined by another SWAT member with a rifle. The six
of us started heading towards 103rd Street and Success Avenue, when a shot was fired at
us from a small bathroom located next to the park gymnasium. The flash came from the
darkened bathroom so we all opened up, firing about 20 rounds into the darkened room
but then a car came around the corner and its occupants opened fire at us, like an Indian
circling a wagon train. Our attention was diverted from the bathroom to the car, as every
officer nearby opened up on it. You could see the bullets making holes in the car doors
and fenders, and splattering the glass. This Indian kept right on going past us about fifty
miles an hour eastbound on 103rd Street towards Compton Avenue. When he was out of
sight we heard three loud shotgun blasts and a crash. I think the men at the 103rd Street
substation found an easy target and took it out.
Then our attention went back to the bathroom and using a flashlight we searched
it. We couldn’t find anyone in there but there was lots of blood on the floor and bullet
holes above the sink. We surmised that one of us must have hit our attacker as
determined by the heavy bloodstains. We followed the blood trail to the end of the
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gymnasium and stopped there. The area from there across Success Avenue belonged to
the enemy. We quickly moved north along a small wall to the swimming pool, hiding
behind the brick fence that offered some protection. We found numerous other cops and
deputies also hiding there, waiting to do something.
Just as I got comfortable again the firing started and the rounds were hitting the
brick wall. I just hoped the wall would keep them from penetrating our bodies. Every few
rounds or so was followed by a tracer round flying overhead, so someone really meant
action. Even the helicopter was ordered out of the area because of the heavy fire.
Someone peeked over the wall to find the source of the tracers, and relayed the
information on. All at once, about 10 of us jumped up and started firing according to his
directions, and I just know some of the local houses were getting reamed with bullet
holes.
It got quiet once more and I decided to unload my shot-gun rounds so I gave them
to the LAPD lieutenant I hooked up with. He was thankful cause he was running low. I
had 50 rounds in a bandolier and gave him the whole thing.
I decided to move out and find Lew. From here I moved back to the corner of
Success and 103rd Street, joining up with some other cops who had rifles and were laying
in prone positions towards the street. We began firing well-aimed shots at passing,
speeding cars, circling the wagon train.
About three hours had passed since the beginning and I felt like it was 24. Sweat
was beginning to soak my shirt AND pants.. I looked west on 103rd Street and saw
hundreds of people all over the area. We had the park but ‘they’ had every thing else.
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“You guys have any assistance coming?” I asked
.
“I don’t think so. They were taken off alert except for what you see here.” He
replied.
“I wonder what the rest of our departments are doing?” I said.
If this had been an officer needs help call there would have been hundreds of cars
here but there was no reinforcements swarming in from anywhere. We were alone.
Someone laughed and we all started laughing, as an outlet to this madness. It
seemed like we laughed for about 5 minutes or so. My shirt was starting to stick to me.
“Give me a bottle,” someone said.
I could hear rummaging in a trash can and then a bottle tossed to an officer..
Then a very slow moving low-slung car drove by, not Indians, I’m sure, but some moron
who thought he would drive by the shootout in Will Rogers Park, and the bottle sailed,
shattering on the right front fender.
“Have one of your own, you nigger bastard,” someone shouted. And a new game
was invented. Throw the bottle back at the bottle throwers. Everybody made mad dashes
for trashcans and littered bottles, and we opened up with a barrage of bottles and rocks.
This was fucking good clean, non-lethal type fun, and much better than shooting at
suspicious vehicles, which meant every car on the street. Then someone got brave and set
up a road block and after stopping a car, cops would throw bottles against the windows,
then send the occupants on their way.
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After smashing up a few cars a sergeant came over and ordered us to stop the
smashing, but to continue to stop and search vehicles and occupants. It was time for me
to find another spot.
I found a few more LAPD cops sitting under a tree drinking something.
“Hey deputy, want a snort?” one asked.
“Sure, what you got?” I asked.
He handed me a bottle of VSOP cognac, left in the park by a more sophisticated
rioter.
I took a big gulp and let it go down slow.
“OOOOHHHHHH, I needed that.” I told them.
“Yeah, we too”.
We just sat about 10 minutes and contemplated mentally this whole mess without
saying another word.
I decided to move out again, saying farewell to my bartender. I noticed five new
patrol cars from my department come down Success Avenue. A small cheer went out as
others noticed the black-and-white cars approaching, each containing four heavily armed
deputies. For all I knew assisting units could have been in the area for hours waiting for
the go-ahead. The units drove cautiously, slowing for broken glass and weaving around
the shot-up abandoned cars left in the street.
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I started across the park towards Central Avenue when I noticed smoke coming
from a mom and pop market on the corner of Century Blvd., and a fire-truck was
arriving. When the fire truck stopped a sniper started shooting at the fire men. I hotfooted it over in that direction towards an alley, meeting up with Art Franzen once again,
who was starting to shoot at some suspects in the alley about a hundred yards away. I
opened up on the same moving objects and quickly spent 20 more rounds. How
gratifying.
Art had a carbine like mine but I never noticed it before and he asked me to loan
him some ammo as he was about out. Since I had about 150 rounds left I loaned him a
full 20 round clip and maybe 30 loose rounds. He said he didn’t expect to run out but he
didn’t bring along 500 rounds either .We went down the alley expecting to find a body
but saw nothing. We couldn’t believe how we could fire so many shots and miss. I vowed
I was going to buy some tracer ammo so I could have an idea on where my shots were
going. This crap had to go.
The firemen had the fire about out and found the fire bomb that started it. Blacks
firebombing black businesses didn’t make sense. It must have been the FBI again. Art
and I sat down on the running board of the fire truck to rest, and Lew popped out of no
where. He told us he emptied the remaining rounds from the .22 revolver to scare people
who weren’t driving fast enough to leave to parking lots.
The firemen finished their duties and asked us to cover for them while they pulled
out into the intersection. We waved them off and then started heading back towards the
cars at 103rd Street. We half-ran in a crouch, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible
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since there were still hundreds of people loitering across the street, on the sidewalks and
in the alleys.
When we got to the Shell station it was a bit more packed than when we left it.
More units arrived and just kept parking anywhere as long as it was next to another police
car. There were about ten units parked near the barricades a few blocks away, assisting in
traffic control. I guess reinforcements did arrive.
Lew and I sat down in the street behind a unit and although there seemed to be a
lot of cops and cars around, I still couldn’t wonder where the rest of LA County’s 4000
deputies were. I didn’t even see the five new county cars I saw a while back, and since
we were still surrounded orders were not to drive out. Every once in a while a bullet
would hit one of the car fenders or emergency lights.
I reached inside of an LA car and picked up a white helmet to use as a pillow so I
could lie down. While relaxing I noticed a person in an apartment window with a rifle
and I grabbed my carbine and yelled, “Up there”
A sergeant grabbed my barrel telling me it was a SWAT man, who were all over
the empty apartment houses, and out of radio contact.
“You have radios that work?” I asked him. “Shit Lew, we’re in the wrong
department.”
A black guy came out from an alley across the street carrying a rifle and this was
the enemy’s territory, as officers were exchanging gunfire about every ten minutes with
snipers. Three deputies decided to rush this enemy, so Lew and I covered them as they
crossed Central Avenue and into the alley. Five minutes later they returned empty-
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handed. Since no shots were fired Lew commented they must have stabbed him to death.
They found some man on a roof and snuck up on him, disarmed him and beat the shit out
of him, only to find out he was LAPD SWAT. The ‘suspect’ did see their uniforms and
they wondered why he didn’t say anything when they were sneaking up, but he sure did
when they jumped him. How the hell he got over to that side of the street and on a roof
top was beyond me.
Deputies started returning to the Shell gas station and out of the blue Lt. Edmonds
appeared, telling us to get back in the cars and to head east on 103rd Street and go back to
the station. So five carloads of deputies start out only getting one block away to Success
and 103rd Street where we were stopped once again by sniper fire. I could also see gun
flashes coming from the roof area around the 103rd Street substation, and then heavy
return fire. The LAPD sub-station was under attack.
(I believe this was the shooting that caused the only ‘reportable’ death during this
socially unaccepted minor disturbance (see Newsweek, August 68). A man was shot by
LAPD while looting a store. He was found dead the next day but ballistics proved that he
was killed by a policeman’s bullet.)
My squad, being led by nerves of steel Lt. Edmonds, came to a stop. Edmonds
ordered everyone out of their cars for safety precautions, because some idiot cop or
deputy ignited a tear gas canister not too far away and it was suffocating everyone. Lew
and I got in the back seat to lie down and to eat our sack lunches, which by county
standards at this time of the morning tasted delicious.
So here we sat, doing nothing but listening to the gunshots going off, most of
them from the ‘secured’ park now. All the lights were shot out so I don’t know why
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anyone was shooting in the park, as the snipers had retreated a block or so south, east or
north..
From out of the darkness came a large group of young blacks, heading towards
our position. Someone gave a warning and all barrels were aimed at em. Someone
radioed for assistance as they greatly outnumbered us (I found out the radios were still
working). There was no assistance available and we were advised we would have to work
it out on our own. That seemed to be the usual practice lately.
Lt. Edmonds stood up a bit.
“Hey you, over there. I am ordering you to leave this area or be subject to arrest.
Return back to Central Avenue or you will face legal measures against you.”
That was bull-shit. We weren’t going to take one step from these radio cars
because everyone knew what a chance it was. Although we had guns, there were only a
few of us that had enough ammo for another confrontation. We were about twelve and
they were forty, and if they were only scarcely armed, they could have overrun us like the
Chinese hordes did during the Korean War. I had enough rounds left for ME, and that’s
how it was getting. One for all and all for one until you’re in trouble, then it’s cover your
own ass.
“Say lookie here, Mr. Policeman. We can’t go back de odder way. De LAPD says
we got to come this way or’ll they’ll shoot us too.” Their spokesman said.
The lieutenant thought about that for a moment. This was a good-sized group and
they probably banded together for safety precautions. And if they got fucked with, there
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would be enough witnesses in their favor. (Many officers and deputies were starting to
thump heads for the fun of it because one was able to do so and not be identified and
charged with brutality. Lots of the ‘riot seasoned’ deputies would switch name tags, or
covered their name with a phony names (i.e. Pitchess, Reddin, Hahn, J. E. Hoover,
Reagan, etc.), switched badges, and after a while there were so many from the
surrounding stations identifications would be impossible.)
“Then put your hands over your heads and go through the park to Century
Blvd. and go down to Compton Avenue from there,” Edmonds advised them.
“But we tried dat already, and da sheriffs said we had to go this way.”
The stragglers couldn’t go anywhere because they’d have to cross a security line,
and no one wanted to be blamed for a breach in security if something happened. This
poor group was locked in with us poor deputies, who wanted out.
Then there was a discussion about just throwing a gas grenade at them to disperse
‘em. Lt. Edmonds wanted to find out if the grenades really worked, but then some one
mentioned something about the wind blowing the gas right back to us. No, that wouldn’t
work.
I got up and walked over to Lt. Edmunds.
“Lieutenant, look at ‘em. They’re just a bunch of kids who got caught in the
wrong place at the wrong time. Not a one of ‘em even look like a gangster, Panther or
asshole. They’re just stuck like we are. Just let ‘em go so we can get back to the
station”, I told him.
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Edmonds wouldn’t listen and asked them to send over a spokesman, and he made
him crawl behind our cars, where a few deputies almost stripped him. The group had a
valid complaint, but we had a valid excuse. The compromise was they were to remain
where they were until we were ordered to pull out (meaning when we found the
opportune time to ‘escape’ they could have the whole fucking city). The spokesman was
sent back to the group and they moaned and groaned when told the score, but they sat
down on the grass and waited.
Then from behind us came a few units and we were given the OK to leave the
area. More units joined us and a caravan about fifteen cars long started north on Success
Avenue towards Firestone station. When we started crossing 102nd Street the front cars
suddenly stopped, with deputies jumping out and opening fire at the roof of a house on
the southeast corner. I stayed in my car and watched them pour it on. All I saw was a
small ventilation window. Still they poured it on, and someone shined a light on the spot
another deputy claimed was a sniper. Maybe the sniper was behind the window? When
the ventilation window didn’t fall off the roof dead they got back in their cars and once
again we headed for the barn.
Coming close to the station I saw some deputies on the roof with blankets
wrapped around them. I didn’t realize it was that cold outside. When we pulled in the
parking lot the scene was something else.
There were at least a hundred deputies standing around having coffee and eating
breakfast that was being served from the special food trailer--green eggs, pink bacon,
white milk and pukey looking potatoes.
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I couldn’t help but wonder what these fucking guys were going the last few hours
so I stopped the car and got out and yelled, “Where the fuck you guys been? We needed
some god-damn help out there!’”
Everything got quiet and they were all looking at me, and someone replied they
were being kept in reserve until something big went down! I don’t know what their
meaning of big was, but I just thought I just came from some thing ‘big’. I got back in
and headed for the gas pumps. A few of them came up and said they had been begging
the brass to let them go since they could hear shots all night long and they were tired of
standing and waiting.
About that time my attitude was shit. I boldly entered the rear station doors with
my unauthorized .30 carbine, getting stares from almost all. Sgt. Bullis was standing by
the back doors asking each deputy who passed by him whether he had fired (now get this)
his ‘ departmentally issued and authorized’ weapon(s).
I asked Dave (Sgt. Bullis) why he wanted to know and I believe his answer was
something to the effect that if you fired your ‘departmentally issued authorized weapons’
you have to write a memo to the Sheriff stating the circumstances, and the problem was
the brass didn’t want the Sheriff to have to read any such memos. Meaning that if any
shots were fired, they were all fired by LAPD, and not by deputies. This way LAPD
could be blamed for any injuries or fatalities or shot out expensive park lights.
I told him this was chicken-shit politics and also tried to argue with him that
anyone who fired a round should openly admit it because the circumstances called for it,
and if we shot someone, we should by all means expect to have the support of our
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department and not have to blame it on anyone else. I felt that right or wrong, the
department should back its men because under these circumstances whatever actions we
took we probably thought at the time they were the only actions available to us. And if
we’re wrong, admit it.
I lost my argument. He absolutely didn’t want to hear that we fired
‘unauthorized’ and personal weapons. Period, end of report.
Before I could say more I was pushed inside by some deputies who kept
repeating, ‘honesty isn’t always the best policy. Keep your mouth shut’, so I sat down in
the briefing room and wrote my memo: “I, Robert Shaffer, badge 276, did not at any time
during this night fire my authorized service weapon. Nor did I fire a .35, .30-.30, or
shotgun.” But I felt like a looser and I had expended close to 400 .30 caliber rounds from
my personal weapon.
Only two deputies wrote memos that they fired rounds, and at the park lights. So,
LAPD will take and probably accept the blame for the 1000’s of rounds fired.
I changed my soaking wet shirt but didn’t have spare pants in my locker and then
Lew and I were told to take an arson report at Florence Avenue and Parmlee Street where
some asshole threw a Molotov cocktail through the window of a second hand store.
While we were writing the report car after car of heavily armed deputies drove by, some
stopping to ask if we had been in the park during the shootout.
“From the very beginning to the very end” I said.
They gave me that Cheshire cat grin…….Now, I was an old-salt. At twentyfucking five.
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(I wasn’t one of the “Elitists” Steve Beeler writes about in The Firestone
Syndrome. My definition of elite would be the best of the best sort of thing. Steve
should have referred to those “Elitists” as the Firestone Mafia or the Aryan Brotherhood
of Firestone. Well, I take that back. There was a group of ‘elite’ deputies at Firestone,
they had names like Woody Polidore (Steve calls him Woody Pollred), Ted McCrary,
Lewis Cornelius, Sgt. Ananius Hall (Steve calls him Sgt.Hill I believe, and a whole
bunch of other black deputies from Firestone whose names I cannot remember. They
were elite because that always looked the sharpest, worked the hardest and made a
positive impression wherever they went, much to the chagrin of some of the white
deputies who still thought and spoke of them as nothing but ‘niggers’, but behind their
backs.)
On the way back to the station to check out Lew pulled the .22 revolver we found
in the bathroom, from his pocket.
“What do you want to do with this, partner?” he quizzed.
“I don’t know, what do you think?” I replied.
“Well, it’s all right. It shoots, I know that.”
“Did you run a check on it?” I queried.
“Yep, no wants or owner. It’s cold.” (means it’s untraceable) “Good for a throwaway”, he said.
“What do you mean?” I pushed.
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He looked at me with a very serious expression on his face and told me, to the
best of my recollection, the following:
“If you ever need it, and you never know out here. Man, you can shoot someone
accidentally or shoot em and find out later you didn’t have to although you thought you
did. And someone wants to sue your ass off or else the department gives you a lot of heat
over it. That’s the problem with this department, they never back you up. So if you shoot
‘em by accident you just have to say they tried to shoot you first and throw this by ‘em.
It ain’t right but it’s better to be judged by 12 than to be buried by 6.”
I looked at it. It was an H&S model 11, serial number 10912, and I took it in my
inside coat pocket. I knew what he was talking about. Just a week or so ago we were
chasing two Mexicans at 3 AM who had stolen a power mower in Compton. When we
were chasing them Lew tripped running over some train tracks and his gun went off. One
of the suspects fell but got back up and got away. We looked all over the area for them
but they vanished. Lew was visibly shaken about accidentally shooting, and I think he
thought he hit the suspect and although he never said anything, I only surmised he had
some way of protecting himself. We took the lawnmower to the station (I later saw it in
the trunk of a detective’s car) but neither one of us reported or discussed him firing a
round.
After making a sweep through the park and the surrounding area no one, except
Lew and I, ever found a weapon. A hundred plus deputies swept that park looking for
anything lethal. The information we received later was all of the weapons were smuggled
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out of the area in an old postal truck. The perimeter areas about a mile from the park were
covered with roadblocks, and the only truck that wasn’t stopped by one of the Sheriff’s
roadblocks, with Sgt. Bud Wenke in charge I believe, was a postal van he mistook was
still in government service.
(This was confirmed to me years later when I was in prison having a discussion
with Black Panther David Hilliard, who was in the same ‘quad’ I was. He knew who I
was but didn’t spread it around for some reason and didn’t try to kill me although a few
of his Panther comrades certainly wanted to.
(We sat on a bench in the yard one sunny afternoon discussing ‘politics and
political prisoners’ and he admitted they bought an old US postal van, stashed all the
guns they could in it a few hours after the shooting started, put on a uniform and drove
right past the Sheriff’s ultra-secure roadblock.)
I went home to South Gate after the shift ended, already noticing the morning Los
Angeles Times stories about the ‘incident’ at Will Rogers Park. My wife and high school
sweetheart Marilynn had already left for work at Honig, Cooper and Harrington, a public
relations firm near Hollywood.
I got undressed for a quick shower and then to bed. When I removed my uniform
pants I felt some pain on the left side of my left thigh. There was some blood oozing
from what appeared to be an infected pimple or boil. I looked closer and painfully
squeezed it, and out came a small lead bb, maybe imbedded 1/8th of an inch below the
skin. Damn, I really had been shot.
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I knew Art Franzen had been hit also but got hit with many more bb’s than I did
and he filed a report of attempted murder on a police officer. I looked at the bb and asked
myself how the hell would you find the shooter? One bb from a shotgun shell fired in the
dark by some gangster, name and description unknown. I could brag about how I had
been shot during the shoot-out but how would I ever show the physical wound? Here
boys is where I got hit by a single bb…..no, see that little tiny weeny pimple scar? Yeah,
that’s it. Not even worth bragging about or bringing up.
When you tell another cop you’ve been shot they expect to see a bullet wound
scar that goes through your head or from chest to back, you know something you can
really show off at cop parties to the sex hungry groupies so you can get laid, not this.
I hit the sack after putting some first aid cream on it and bandaging it. I woke up
24 hours later and was stiff and sore all over. I could hardly move to get out of bed and
take a piss, plopped back in bed and slept another 12 hours in time to get up and watch
Marilynn go to sleep. It took me 12 shots of scotch to get back in bed again. My doctor
related the aches and pains mostly to the stress of the shoot-out.
Lew and I started doing police work like nobody’s business. We were catching
car thieves, burglars, whores, robbers, and just throwing everything in jail we could. We
even got the detectives to buy off on the lesser assault crimes. (Victims with less then 15
stitches or no injury at all but victim of an assault, but many times these crimes weren’t
prosecuted because the case load was too heavy in the courts. One night after receiving a
disturbance call, Deputy Curtis Malone and I entered a darkened house to find this
woman standing over her sleeping husband. She had a 12” carving knife over her head
and was coming down to plunge it into his chest. I could have blown her away on the
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spot and become a ‘hero’ but instead I tackled her just as the knife went through her
husband’s shirt. I booked her for attempted murder. No prosecution.)
Paid court time changed a lot of that, like I said before, because when deputies
realized they could increase their paycheck size by arresting for any chicken-shit thing
the court dockets swelled, and deputies stopped complaining when charges were dropped
or dismissed because of the heavy case load. We were getting paid to loose cases, sort of!
I had many opportunities to kill in the line of duty had I wanted to but choose not
to. Maybe more than the average deputy at Firestone. I had an episode when I was
working with another black deputy (his name was Johnny Malone. ) on an overtime
shift. While he was driving on San Pedro Street near 142nd Street I was watching the
insides of my eyelids. He stopped at a stop sign and because he took so much time
deciding which was to go I thought he saw something so I opened my eyes. He didn’t see
anything, just couldn’t make up his mind which way he wanted to turn, left or right, but I
did.
I saw this heavily built black man about 25 years old looking into parked cars, and
at 6 AM I thought this was suspicious enough to talk to him. He was too busy checking
out cars that he hadn’t seen us yet.
I called him over to the car but he started backing away.
“Hey you!” I yelled.
“You mean me?” he replied. (I hate that reply)
I knew he had to be one dumb shit when I heard that answer.
“Yeah, you. Come here.”
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He kept backing up so I got out and started after him, knowing he was up to
something or possibly wanted.
“Turn the car around.” I ordered Malone.
“Hey man, I’m talking to you.” I yelled again.
“You mean me, officer. Me?”
He started to run and I knew he was dirty. The dude crossed 141st Street and
headed up a driveway at full pace, with me just behind him. I didn’t know where my
partner was, probably still thinking about which gear to put the car in to turn it around.
My suspect turned the corner of the house and into the back yard. I figured he was
like the rest of the natives, half gazelle, and figured I would never see him again. At best,
I would catch a glimpse of his heels as he made it over the back fence. But I also figured
I had better have my gun ready in case he wasn’t gone.
When I rounded the house I saw him standing in a combat style shooting position,
aiming a chrome plated revolver right at me. I was had. Butt-face had a two handed grip,
making sure of his aim. I swear to this day I could see the cylinder slowly move, and the
trigger fall , but nothing happened. No bang, boom, bip, or anything.
‘Gads, he shot me and I don’t feel a thing. I must be dying’ I thought.
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By this time I had my .357 magnum aimed at his chest, knowing my hollowpoints were going to make a hole through it and leave him spineless. I was only feet away
but I was stilling forward.
But for some reason, the psychologically damaging training we get about NOT
shooting overrules the ‘shoot the asshole, he’s going to kill you’ emotions. I now knew I
wasn’t shot and that for some reason I wasn’t going to get shot because it was my play
now.
I came down on his head full force with my revolver and knocked him on his ass.
His revolver makes two points in a trashcan, and a knot and geyser of blood appear on his
forehead, but he’s still conscious. I kicked him a few times and then tried to twist an arm
until it broke, but didn’t. I picked him up and rammed his head against the house with a
thud. I cuffed him and he started crying, “mama”.
“Shut-up, you’ll wake the owners.” I yelled.
“I live here.”
He cried some more and mama and papa opened a bedroom window wondering
what the hell was going on. I didn’t need the family on my back so we (my partner
showed up finally) drug him to our car. I booked Willie (any black male) for attempt
murder on me, and requested prints on his gun and an FBI check, I got neither. The
detective in charge lowered the crime to carrying a loaded weapon, a misdemeanor,
because the gun had a defective cylinder and wouldn’t turn all the time. The print man
wouldn’t print the gun on a misdemeanor filing.
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When the carrying ‘a loaded firearm’ charge got to the DA’s office he lowered it
to disturbing the peace. Pretty soon it would be lowered to running a red light. And what
happened when it came to go to court? Willie didn’t show up because he had skipped
town. The FBI check on the serial number of the revolver (that for some reason wasn’t
requested until Willie bailed out) revealed it was a stolen out-of- state gun and ballistics
apparently proved this gun was used in the murder of a milkman. But now we had no
suspect.
I only bring this up because it is not a good habit to try and knock someone out
when they are aiming a gun at you, or trying to tackle a woman trying to kill her husband.
These tales get around from deputy to deputy and pretty soon deputies believe they are
supposed to disarm someone physically instead of using their firearm. That is why we do
not shoot to wound, or shoot guns out of peoples hands. It may be good sound bites for
so-called police reality shows or the 6 o’clock news but is a dangerous habit to get into.
Because of some asinine policies dictated by some asinine people, this possible
murder suspect is long gone. I asked why he wasn’t still charged with trying to waste me
instead of all this misdemeanor bullshit and my answer was we had to be as lenient with
blacks as possible. A double standard does exist and this time it benefited the criminal
.
I’m not trying to say that blacks are not arrested for crimes whites are, because
this exists also. I only arrested black men for ‘destroying telephone lines’. Usually the
telephone line that was destroyed was attached to the phone some guy pulled from the
wall to beat his old lady with, but this kind of arrest served a useful purpose. It got the old
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man out of the house for a night, preventing him from killing her. The detectives never
filed these felony charges but I’m sure we kept the homicide rate down. We needed and
made up our own ‘domestic violence’ regulations.
Chapter 12
Good-Bye To Lewis Cornelius
Firestone Station always seemed to be in a squeeze for deputies. There just never
seemed to be enough men filling the shifts or to work the assigned areas and the City of
Carson, in the south-end, was ending their long relationship with the California Highway
Patrol to handle the traffic matters in their city. They chose the Sheriff’s Department
instead, I think because we were cheaper.
Even though I wanted to remain with Lew as his permanent partner the station
brass had other ideas.
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In the time before our partnership was dissolved I did not always carry the small
.22 revolver he gave me as a throwaway. I hated it. I used to leave it on my dresser at
home and some nights just stare at it like a junkie looking at a bindle of heroin after he
has gone ‘cold turkey’. But I could not get rid of it out of fear. Fear of an accidental
shooting..
I wished Lew had never given it to me. He had put me into another dimension
mentally because I always thought if you shot someone, righteously or accidentally, the
department should back you up..period. That’s why I joined PPOA, the Professional
Peace Officers Association, used to be located at 701 S. Atlantic Blvd, Suite 203,
Monterey Park, Calif, 91754. Tel 289-4311. I still possess my card.
But I knew of shootings that didn’t go as reported, and they only go that way
because our superiors suddenly become scarce when deputies actually need their help.
So, at the end of December 1968 Lew was assigned to train some other new
deputy and I put in for traffic duty and training for the City of Carson, at a chance to get
out of this god-forsaken north end cesspool called Watts-Willowbrook and learn
something new.
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Chapter 13
Twelve Tom-2, Traffic Unit
My New Partners
One afternoon I noticed a bulletin that said a training class and orientation was
being held for those interested in learning about traffic investigation and procedures for
arresting those under the influence.
I inquired and found out our station was taking over traffic enforcement in the
City of Carson in a month or so. And since Lew and I were going to be split up anyway
What a good time to do something different. I could see what it might belike to work a
Lakewood Station or San Dimas station but not transfer. Traffic duty. Easy. Traffic
accident investigation. Interesting. I signed up.
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There were some classes on filling out a traffic accident investigation report,
using the breath-alyzer machine, using the new Doppler radar units and keeping them
accurate, and other traffic related things.
We were scheduled to take over traffic duties 12:01 am on January 1st. Might as
well break in on the drunkest night of the year.
January 1, 1808, the International Slave Trade is abolished, January 1 of every
year Kwanzaa ends, January 1, 1883 the Proclamation Emancipation is signed, January 1,
1971, cigarette ads are banned from television commercials (that really helped-huh?) and
January 1, 1984 AT&T is broker up into smaller companies in the public’s best interest.
From January 1, 1969 to August 1969 I worked a radar traffic unit in Carson,
which was south of Los Angeles bordering San Pedro. I wanted more experience in
traffic enforcement because the upcoming sergeant’s examination always had traffic
enforcement questions on it, and I wanted to become qualified as an expert witness in
traffic control and accident investigation. It would be nice to have a 2nd career to fall back
on once I retired (in 20 plus years from now.), to work for an insurance company or my
own independent traffic investigator.
I worked with three different deputies during this time, Mike Doolittle, (whom I
already introduced in another chapter, and although he was known as Mike Do-Damn
Little, I liked him and thought he was a pretty good cop) Bill Sieber (also introduced
before, the ex-green beret) and later on Harry Estep.
I had seen the guys around the station coming and going but didn’t know much
about them, but I think they were like me, looking for career advancements not just a
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good time. Besides, it really was nice that I was going to be seeing more white friendly
faces than angry black ones and I don’t mean this in a negative way. There are many,
many great people of lots of colors in the Firestone assembly but being called a ‘pig’ and
‘white mother-fucker pig’ gets old after a while. And I hoped in Carson I wouldn’t have
to approach a driver whom I stopped for a traffic violation with my revolver at my side.
I wasn’t going to be lax though, just not expecting to get shot with every traffic
stop.
Mike Doolittle was an experienced deputy and was aggressive enough but had
trouble writing reports and expressing himself so he was subsequently put back on
training status after a few months with the traffic detail. I always wondered how he got
this far with those problems but since the county needed warm bodies he got passed on.
Must have been a blow to his ego. I can’t remember what eventually happed to him
department wise. (See my follow-up letter on him.)
Bill, Harry and I were assigned to 12 Tom 2, which was a three man unit,
meaning I worked with Bill two days, and then took two days off and when I returned
would work with Harry Estep for two days. The usual 4 days on 2 off, with weekends off
every six weeks.
I will admit this. I liked writing traffic citations. No I loved writing traffic
citations, as many as I could. Believe me folks, there was no quota for us although our
Traffic Sergeant felt we should be writing at least 7 to 8 citations a night, I wrote until my
fingers cramped up, unless it was raining and then I didn’t write any. Everything gets too
wet and there would usually be lots of accidents to investigate.
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Before Mike, Bill and I started our assignment we met for breakfast one morning
to work out the small details of our partnership. We were going to Carson to work, not to
fuck off or take it easy. We discussed what our expectations were of each other and the
ramifications if they weren’t met. And, unfortunately Mike Doolittle didn’t meet the
standard from the Traffic Sergeant and us, and Harry Estep got the assignment.
Regardless of whom I was working with our routine was about the same. We
would write about ten speeding tickets before midnight, arrest a drunk driver before 2 am,
cruise from 3 am til 4 am, get some rest (sleep) for an hour then at 5 am set up the radar
once again and usually write ten more tickets before going back to the station.
When things got boring we would change the signal sequence at a well traveled
intersection. For instance, the signal at 220th and Avalon Blvd. was always in regular
sequence--red-yellow-green in the daytime and blinking yellow from 11 pm to 7 am, and
the people who drive that area were regulated to it, and responded to that pattern
regardless. Charlie Stowell told me that I should change the sequence to total blinking
red, which meant stop just to see how many people would run the blinking red light as if
were the old yellow blinking light. A great idea!
So we did, and people would blow that red blinking light at 55 miles per hour and
never notice the difference. We heard excuses like, ‘It was still yellow’ or ‘It was still
green’ or ‘What flashing red signal?’. When we told them to look back at the signal they
couldn’t believe it was flashing red, because as most contented drivers, they failed to be
alert while behind the wheel in familiar areas. Some nights we wrote as many as fifty
citations in less than two hours!! And fifty citations times the normal amount of bail
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meant a minimum of $1000 in revenue for Carson, in our 8 hour shift. We paid our own
way and then some, for sure.
But what I want to show are some more of the circumstances I was involved in
where I could have shot people easily as fishing in a barrel but didn’t, in an attempt to
disprove a later theory by the prosecuting deputy DA at my trial that I wanted to kill any
burglar simply because my demented, twisted state-of-mind called for it. Shit, I got out
of the cesspool north-end to get away from these situations.
Traffic officers don’t usually go around prowling for criminals. After doing their
thing for the first half of their shift, most usually parked somewhere and ‘rested’ or like
when I was with Harry, we actually listened to minuets from Harry’s small smuggled in
portable radio I was getting culture..
There was another three man traffic unit in the area, 12 T-1, and Bob Buckman
sort of headed that unit up. Deputy Buckman was an ex-narcotic deputy who I believe
got burned out or thrown out of narcotics so he was working traffic in Carson. It was
great for him cause he lived in the area so on his ‘break’ he would pull into his garage
and go inside his home and go to sleep for a while…..so I was told.
One evening after we wrote our tenth citation and had booked our drunk driver,
we were returning to Carson via Central Avenue near Compton city limits. When we
passed Rosecrans Avenue we heard a call go out about a bu glary in progress at a
cleaners on Rosecrans just west of Central Avenue. We were right on top of it.
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We turned around and drove back to the cleaners parking lot out front. Since it
was within Compton city limits, I advised the dispatcher to send one of the Compton
cars, but that we would handle it until Compton PD arrived.
Burglar alarm calls at cleaners are usually good for something. Some dudes in the
ghetto areas like being well dressed and where else can a person get nice clothes already
cleaned and pressed?
Harry went around the back while I, with my trusty 12 gauge shotgun, watched
the front through the large glass windows. While I was visualizing the place, I spied a
pair of pants with some shoes attached to them hiding in the suit coat rack. Obviously , in
my opinion, it was a burglar, and not the owner coming back to do some 24 hour rush
business.
I whistled to Harry letting him know I found something and for him to be on alert.
“Hey motherfucker, come on out,” I yelled. (OK, so my choice of words weren’t
the most professional or friendly). Neither of the legs moved but a head popped out from
behind the rack, then the legs moved--fast. This guy hauled ass for the rear of the
building.
“He’s coming your way, Harry.” I yelled out.
Harry was crouched next to a small open bathroom window, and could see the
suspect from the reflection of the mirror.
“Hey asshole,” Harry yelled. “We can see you and we’re going to shoot your ass
if you don’t come out.”
Harry got out a cherry bomb from his shirt pocket and began digging for matches.
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“Hey asshole”, Harry yelled. “We can see you and we’re going to shoot your ass
if you don’t come out.”
Harry reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cherry bomb and then started
digging for a match.
I leaned across the trunk of the car and aimed the shotgun toward the windows.
This shit-brain walks up to the plate glass window and puts his nose to it to look out. If I
had wanted to ‘just kill someone’ I could have easily pulled the trigger and wasted this
puke, claiming his actions, like he was reaching into a rear pocket or his waistband, and
in fear of my life and the life of my partner, shot him, but I didn’t. I was alone with no
witnesses anywhere. He finally looked my way and then began running to the back of the
cleaners again.
Harry tossed the cherry bomb in and yelled, “Here we come!’
BOOM!, echoed the cherry bomb and out came the burglar, head first through a
small rear bathroom window. He got stuck halfway out so we let him hang a while telling
him he would die in a few minutes from blood loss. He got excited and started to
whimper, so Harry punched him into silence.
The Compton Police pulled up with the officers sporting .30 carbines. They each
took a turn punching this guy in the ribs and then pulled him out and hustled this dip-shit
to their car and off to jail. Compton PD used to be a ‘man’s man rough and tumble
department back then’.
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(At court months later this guy told the judge he went to the cleaners to pick up
his clothes a little early! He wasn’t trying to steal anything, and he thought it was OK to
go through the rear window cause he was going to leave a check on the counter. Problem
was the owner didn’t have any record of him leaving any clothes off for cleaning.)
I asked Harry where he got that idea from and he told me from a deputy he rode
with once on an overtime shift….name was Steve Beeler!
Overtime shifts were very common then. Although Steve Beeler later writes in
his book The Firestone Syndrome there were 260 deputies assigned to Firestone, in June
1968 there were actually only 154 patrol deputies. It was increased in June 1969 to 193
to get ready for our ‘long, hot summers and annual Watts Festival.
After this Harry felt like something to eat so we cruised to an all night Denny’s
and I watched while he ate a gigantic 5 egg Spanish omelet with juice and milk.
I didn’t eat til the end of my shift. When I worked at the hospital I saw what
happened to gun shot victims if they had a full stomach. The doctors would try and make
them puke before being operated on and it was an awful looking experience. I may have
drunk a protein drink but no solids.
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Chapter 14
My First Burglar Shooting
On this date in Boston the Black Academy of Arts and Letters was established,
March 27, 1970 Mariah Carey was born, March 27, 1964 a massive earthquake hits
Alaska, March 27, 1969, Mariner 7 is launched. On this date I received another lesson
from those I considered in charge and of a higher authority on how to lie and cover my
ass and make things not what they appear.
On March 27, 1969, I was working with Bill Seiber, cruising Carson about 1 AM
on 223rd Street. A call came out 459 now (burglary in progress) at Batt’s Liquor Store,
21422 5. Alameda Avenue, that there were burglars still inside. I acknowledged that we
would assist the handling unit although as were specifically assigned to traffic but at the
moment we had little to do. (In many areas, traffic units do not assist ‘criminal ‘ cars with
assistance calls of this nature. I wasn’t going to let that superficial designation affect my
police work--I was a cop, that’s all.)
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When we arrived, Bill Kirkley, the senior man from the handling unit was
crouched behind a phone booth with his revolver in his hand. A few of the front windows
were smashed out to the liquor store and the alarm was ringing madly. Kirkley’s partner,
Dan Bejarano, was covering the rear. Kirkley, aiming his revolver at the broken windows
yelled that there was a suspect still inside.
They were the handling unit but for some reason Deputy Kirkley was content with
watching the perimeter instead of having us, his back-up unit do so, and he and Deputy
Bejarano enter the liquor store. I mean, Deputy Sieber and I certainly didn’t just push our
way in or tell Deputy Kirkley, who was very senior to me, to stand aside, we’ll take over
from here.
How the hell anyone inside couldn’t hear us was beyond me. We weren’t quiet to
say the least. Bill and I approached the window, me holding the shotgun and he unholstered his .38. I covered him while he crawled through the jagged hole and then I
handed him the shotgun while I crawled through. Just as I got my feet on the floor some
dark complexion man walks out from the rear of the store with his arms full of cartons of
cigarettes.
“Freeze” yelled Bill. “Freeze or you’re dead!”
You can tell that saying gets used quite a bit and no one seems to listen to our
threats of shooting them unless they stop. Hardly any criminal takes it serious.
I didn’t pull my .38 out yet because I was still off balance. The suspect took one
look at us, dropped the cartons of cigarettes and split for the backroom and an exit I
figured. Bill just seemed to stand there still pointing the shotgun, doing nothing. He
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didn’t jack a round in the chamber either, which may have had a psychological impact on
the fleeing man. I whipped off my sap gloves (gloves that had lead along the knuckles)
and pulled my .38 Smith & Wesson giving chase to our burglar, heading for where I saw
him disappear.
At the rear of the store was a stairway leading to an upstairs storage area. There
was a small wattage light burning, illuminating faintly a small corridor that had two doors
at the end. I had to be acutely aware of everything during this chase. I had to look at all
possible routes of escape, and all possible points of attack, wishing I had ten sets of eyes
to see what I should before I make any split second decisions, which come too quickly.
I had been to this liquor store before and if I can recall there were lots of guns
lying around the back. The place had so many robberies that the owner finally put up a
thick oneway mirror at the rear of the store and behind it sat an employee holding a
loaded shotgun…surprise, surprise to any would-be robbers. That used to be legal in
those day, not sure anymore.
(Deputy Sieber did not take off after the suspect. In fact, he still just stood there
while I ran around him after this guy.)
I had to check the stairs, behind the beer counter and then down the hallway to the
two doors. As I looked down the hallway I could see a figure running away from me. He
was heading for an open door and I was very afraid that was where the store’s firearms
were kept and we would be in deep shit so I fired my .38 once quickly.
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He was a burglar and the penal code gave us the power to use this force to affect
an arrest if we think we are in danger. I just knew that if he made it in that room real
trouble would begin.
The shot was a point-and-fire shot, not a deliberate ready-aim-use the sights and
fire one.
After the shot the suspect ran through the doorway into the small room, I fired
two more quick shots into the wall, guessing where his position might be. I figured that if
I couldn’t hit him where I could see him, maybe I’d get lucky and hit him after going
through the wall. Deputy Sieber finally came up behind me and pointed the shotgun at the
doorway. I told him to shoot because there could be guns in there. Instead, there was
nothing. Bill pulled the trigger and then realized there was no round in the chamber. This
is my ex-Green Beret.
All this occurred in possibly less than ten or fifteen seconds or so. It then dawned
on me that the place where our suspect ran was another room of some sort. We really
couldn’t tell from where we were standing, but since we didn’t hear any more doors
opening we just guessed our suspect stopped where he was.
Then a toilet flushed so it was easy to figure out now he was in a bathroom! Bill
yelled at him to come out with his hands over his head, and to walk out backwards. Out
walks a Mexican. Bill then told him to get on his knees, which he did. I ran up and gently
placed my boot on his back to push him over on his face….ok, I kicked him and grabbed
him by the arms and threw him on his face so I could cuff him. I screamed at him, called
him a son of a bitch, and that by all rights I should have killed him. Only thing was I was
such a rotten shot and it would turn out to be my benefit many months later.
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After I cuffed him I noticed blood on my hands, and I told our burglar he was
bleeding from a gunshot wound. I looked him over and found a small tear in his left shirt
sleeve, revealing a wound that grazed his outer arm area. Someone outside started
breaking the front glass door asking if we needed an ambulance. I told them no, the
wound wasn’t that bad. Then I stood up and stared at our suspect lying on the floor. I
looked in the bathroom and found a 6’ bladed knife in the toilet and retrieved it. I don’t
have the slightest idea how this asshole thought he was going to get it to go down the
crapper, what a dope.
I can remember a senior detective coming into the backroom, and he and Bill
were whispering sort of, not really talking. Next to the detective, leaning against the wall,
was a shotgun. I heard the words ‘throw away’ and ‘escaping’, and just opened my mouth
when it should have been kept shut.
“What are you guys talking about?” I asked.
“Was he armed?” the detective asked me.
“He had this,” and I showed him the hunting knife.
“Did you know he had it when you shot him?” he replied.
“No, but first off I thought he was going to where the owners keep their guns and
second off he was trying to resist arrest and escape. Both felonies. Hell, I have the right
to shoot to stop him under those circumstances.” I snapped back.
“Yeah” he snapped back, “the penal code gives you that right but the
departmental policies may not. Ever since Woody Polidore shot those three unarmed
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daylight burglars reporting tactics have changed. So get with the program. Anybody you
shoot better be armed.”
(Deputy Woodrow Polidore responded to a daylight burglary call a while back
and three black males exited a garage. Deputy Polidore opened fire with his 12 gauge
shotgun killing two and wounding the third, and although I did not read the report I had
heard he claimed they were reaching towards their waistbands or one had an object that
he ‘thought’ was a weapon and he felt his life to be in mortal danger…so he cranked a
few rounds at them.)
The detective looked at me and said, “So what you mean is he had this shotgun
and you fired in fear he would shoot you with it?”
“This is bullshit! I told him.
“It may be bullshit but how well do you like your job? Look, it’s your word
against his and he seems so high I don’t think he’s going to remember what he did or
didn’t do.” Was the reply.
Deputy Kirkley was going to come into the liquor store but Deputy Sieber told
him to just stay put for now.
I hated this. That’s why on most nights I left that fucking .22 revolver Lew gave
me at home.
I listened to the detective when I should have said, “no, we’ll do it my way.” I
didn’t really like it but I picked up the 12 gauge magnum goose-gun, and formulated my
complicated story, that would get more complicated almost a year later. We handed the
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burglar over to Deputy Kirkley and his partner, with Deputy Dan Bollinger giving us an
assist in lifting him out the broken front window, but not before we asked Deputy Kirkley
to now come back and see the suspect laying next to the shotgun that was now
conveniently laying on the floor beside him.
Needless to say the burglar got a few thumps from other adrenalin high deputies,
and someone found a bag of bennies (illegal uppers) in his pants pocket. A woman, who
was holding a double barrel shotgun, came up and told us where a second suspect was
hiding, in a small bar down the street. She said she was waiting for them to leave, and
patted her shotgun barrel. We probably would have been picking up his pieces if she shot
him.
She described the other guy as a Mexican with his arm in a cast. So I think
Deputy Bejarano went to the bar and arrested the only patron who had a cast on. So we
have in custody one Frank Jurado, also know as Gilbert Jurado Morales, and Anastasio
Reyna. Bill Sieber and I described OUR version of the story to Deputy Bill Kirkley since
he was writing the report, and then we left to the scene to go and write some more traffic
tickets.
The only thing I had on my side in this caper was burglar Morales was so high on
drugs that he really wasn’t even aware if he had been carrying the shotgun or not. He
passed out a few minutes after being placed in the patrol car, probably from the drugs I
surmised he swallowed in the bathroom, and had to have his stomach pumped out at the
emergency hospital. A few hours later we received a radio call that the lieutenant wanted
me to call him at once. We went to Harbor General Hospital and used their phone, that
way we could get a look at the nurses too. I can’t remember who the lieutenant was, only
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his first name was Robert, could have been either Lt. Robert Edmonds or Lt. Robert
Amiel.
The first thing he said was, “Tomorrow you go to the range for some practice.
That guy should be dead now.”
That was a true statement. As close as I was, maybe 15 feet, I have the guy’s
whole upper torso and I barely scratch his left arm. That burglar is sure going to have a
‘war’ story to tell in prison.
“Sorry, lieutenant, can’t win ‘em all.” I replied.
“Get to the station. Homicide wants to talk at you. And you’ve got to put your
initials on the shotgun to keep the evidence chain legal.” Damn, forgot about that.
We drove back to the station, and as I entered I tried like hell not to smile but I
couldn’t keep a straight face. I was happy with myself, for at least hitting that asshole
with one bullet! Hell, I’ve known cops to fire six rounds point blank and miss all six! My
other two bullets hardly even penetrated the damn plasterboard wall. All they did was rip
up a few boxes of cookies, and both shots were chest high too and they were visibly stuck
in the next wall. A .357 magnum would have been a better choice.
Deputy Sieber and I walked into the briefing room and sat down. Deputy Kirkley
came in with his two prisoners and the evidence held/marked/tagged shotgun. Then two
homicide detectives walked in. One white and one black. ‘Whitey’ was dressed so-so but
the black detective was dressed real sharp, and then he shook my hand and handed me a
cigar, the $1.00 kind. And $1 cigars in the late 60’s were the expensive kind then.
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“Nice shooting man, nice shooting.” Then he laid down on top of the tables to
‘rest his eyes’, while his partner asked us questions and took our statements. After taking
down everything he thought was relevant, he read his version of the shooting notes back
to me, “. . .and (Deputy Shaffer), father of two small children, fired my service revolver,
because in fear of my life and my partner’s life, observed the suspect turn and level a
shotgun ‘(that looked like a howitizer’) at me like he was going to fire.”
Bill and I looked at each other with questioning faces. ‘Shit, he’s making a lie out
of my lies.’ I thought. I think Bill was thinking the same thing. “oh shit, when does it
stop?”
“Ah, wait a minute, I don’t have any kids, and why do I have to say he was going
to shoot me, or that I thought he was going to shoot me? The penal code says I can shoot
at fleeing burglars if I feel I have to, armed or not.” I wanted to push them on this.
The black detective quickly jumped up and put his face near mine.
“Listen buddy, I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you have. The sheriff
doesn’t like to read about his deputies shooting fleeing and/or unarmed burglars. You
understand that? So, that means you shot this guy, in fear of your life, when he drew
down on you with a shotgun.”
“But it..it’s not right, it’s”. . I stammered.
“I don’t care. He had a shotgun, and you’re going to say you thought he was
going to shoot you with it. Understand? Period, end of report.” A famous Sheriff’s
Department way of saying, ‘shut the fuck up’.
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I gave in. What was I going to do go call our watch commander in and tell him
these detectives from homicide are telling me to lie? I don’t think so. Being told that way
I didn’t mind changing my version of what happened because only three deputies knew
the real truth, but now I have to change my lie to their lie, and when it comes from
superiors, I can’t cover myself, if, for some reason, it should come back to haunt me.
Because superiors seem to have heard things another way.
Bill Sieber was also told to change his version on a few ‘minor’ details. We
finished and sat down while the homicide guys finished their business. The black one
walked in and took his cigar back from out of my shirt pocket.
“You didn’t tell me he was still alive. I thought he was in the morgue.
“That’s because you were too busy trying to get me to change things.”
“You’ll thank me for it someday, kid.” Was his parting shot. Well, it’s been over
35 years now so let me thank you….’thanks for fucking nothing’.
When we were alone again we just sat without saying anything, just a little put out
about it and knowing what the other was thinking and feeling very uncomfortable about
the changes.
“I don’t think the fact he was armed is important. We’re covered legally in the
shooting of a fleeing felony suspect, especially in this case. The damn department puts
me in a bad moral position, legally right but departmentally wrong. Fuck it!”
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“I don’t like it either, Bobby, (Bill was the only one who called me Bobby) but
there’s nothing we can do about it now. You shouldn’t have brought up he was reaching
for the gun.”
“I know. I should have used just stuck to the fucking straight facts. Or not shoot.”
Bill was one of the only deputies that I knew of who openly carried a hunting
knife tucked in his belt. Everyone on the station saw it but it isn’t against regulation to
do so. Someone said they were ok to carry cause you may need a knife to cut the
seatbelts from an injured crash victim, and we were a traffic unit.
“Well, it’s done. Anyway, Morales won’t know the difference. I heard him tell
Kirkley he would have blown you in half if the shotgun had been loaded. So that tells me
he must have checked it out sometime during the burglary, so, at least you know what his
intentions were.” Bill said.
“Well, yeah, that makes me feel better. He’s so loaded he doesn’t
remember if he did what I said he did, and he wanted to do it anyway!” I joked, so
it didn’t make any difference.
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The way this story is told it would seem we caught him outside the store with his
arms full of cigarettes plus the shotgun. Sloppy reporting.
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222
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Supplemental reports were used when there were shots fired. These supplemental
reports were not part of the reports the press may be privileged to.
Bill Sieber filled one out also, as did the other deputies and detectives who were
there, at least they were supposed to.
Bill and I worked together in Carson until June 1969. We were transferred from
the City of Carson traffic detail to one of the ‘hotshot’ cars in the’ Firestone-Watts area
because summertime was coming along. I tried and tried to stop the transfer, from Sgt
Rupert Adkins to Sgt. Bullis to Sgt. Stuart Hansell to Sgt. Holloway to Sgt. Preimsberger
to Lieutenant Harold Swenson to Lieutenant Bob Edmonds to Lieutenant Harry Hanson
(one of my old academy training officers) to finally the big cheese, the big kahuna, El
Capitan Melvin ‘Dean’ Wert, to no fucking avail. I just did not want to get back into that
ratrace out-manned, too many calls, not enough time ‘rockem and sockem North End. It
was like trading down from a new Cadillac to a 15 year old Studebaker that leaked oil!
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I knew the brass was getting ready for summertime ‘fun in the sun’ activities.
Even the Rupp brothers, Larry and Vince, good friends of my good friend LAPD Officer
Tom Merchant, recently left Compton PD and were given a short course on “here’s how
we do it at the county’ and sent to Firestone Station. We went up from 154 deputies this
time last year to 193 with most of the new arrivals not ready or not qualified, in my
opinion. Over 50% of them had no practical street experience.
And, the station was suffering from low morale problems. A lot of the older
deputies, guys in their 30’s who had been here quite a few years before I arrived were
having disputes with the new sergeants and lieutenants who were transferring in, so they
were transferring out. Now deputies like Bill and me, ‘old salts’, were being brought in
from our cherry jobs in Carson to work the high crime areas, and the newer deputies were
taking the less troublesome areas. It was practical, because if there were another riot or
problems after the Watts Festival, they would have some experience but at our expense
transferring where we did not want to be.
Bill and I made up our minds to get the word out that we were working this area
now so that meant that everybody was going to jail. I told the watch commander that
every unit should start busting people left and right so that by the time the festival did
arrive local punks would know we would be on top of any situation. There would be no
free-bees from us.
We started off by ripping off dudes who pissed on the sidewalks for ‘indecent
exposure’, and that was a hot button for me to see some fool pull out his dick in a public
area and just start pissing regardless of who was around, and there were lot of drunks
doing that. We busted the hot-rodders and low riders for reckless driving and booked
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them instead of writing a citation, and we found numerous dip-shits holding dope or
gambling illegally in the open or in the so—called private nightclubs. If we stopped you
and you did not have identification-you went to jail. Period end of report. We were
trying to take in as many people as possible to let the punks know the graveyard shift
meant serious business.
It was either back off, get over to LAPD’s side of the street down or we were
going to punch it out toe-to toe. We were taking no shit this time around. We both came
to work with our scoped .30 caliber carbines, each with hundred rounds of ammunition.
No one was going to take us out without a good fight. We had extra ‘ammo’ cans in the
back seat of the police unit filled with hundreds of rounds of .38 hollow-points (now legal
departmental issue ammunition!), shotgun slugs and double OO buck and near a 1000
rounds of .30 caliber rifle ammunition. We brought enough for us and anybody else who
needed any. The North end units were going to fight this as a team.
Sgt. Wenke formed a team like LAPD’s SWAT units. Los Angeles County
thought the concept too militaristic and not public relations minded but Sgt. Wenke and
his group went out to the desert and practiced ambush scenarios using rifles and
shotguns. If it was good enough for LAPD it was good enough for Firestone even if our
El Heffe was ignorant of the fact.
We were making fantastic arrests almost nightly. Things seemed to pop up in
front of our noses. One night we just left the station towards Will Rogers Park to hassle
the assholes using the gas stoves to warm themselves while they shot dice, and we
spotted a ‘suspicious’ 59 Chevy 2 door license FYN-675, at 92nd Street and Hooper
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Avenue driving without lights. That’s certainly a stoppable offense whether you’re
black, green, yellow or white.
We knew we were going to stop the occupants, but since we were all waiting for
the red light to change, there was no reason to alarm the occupants of the car, so while
waiting I checked the license number with tonight’s hot-sheet of stolen vehicles and low
and behold it was on it. We had us what is known in the police world as a ‘rolling
stolen’. My first one too.
I was now carrying a Smith & Wesson 6’ barrel .357 magnum owned by one of
our station detectives Tom Looney. He said I looked funny carrying a little .38 so he
loaned me his .357. I had it out and the door open for a quick exit if someone decided to
split. I reconfirmed the stolen information with the dispatcher and told her we also had
occupants. She notified a few other units of our location and requested assistance.
The light turned green and we all proceeded south on Central Avenue. We
weren’t going to turn on our emergency lights until we knew we had a chance to force the
driver over if we had to. We didn’t want any pursuits. We waited until they passed 95th
Street because from 95th Street to103rd Street the driver couldn’t turn right, it was the
Edison Company plant. He could only turn left into oncoming traffic.
When our red lights came on the driver slowed down and pulled over. Bill was driving
cautiously because we expected the driver to rabbit on us. I had my revolver out the
window. All of a sudden the driver punches the Chevy, but it sputtered so Bill pulled
alongside and semi-forced them to stop. No assistance had arrived as of yet, and we
didn’t think we needed any.
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When Bill pulled alongside I aimed my revolver at the driver, calling him a
mother-fucker (yeah, my language seems to get worse and worse) and to stop. I don’t
think he was intimidated by my actions because he started forward again and then
swerved his car twice at ours in violation of 245 PC, assault with a deadly weapon, a
felony. I made up my mind if he did that a third time I would blow a big hole in the
driver’s window and hopefully through his face. But there were two other people in the
car and they might be innocent victims in this caper, so in fear of injury to them I didn’t
shoot.
Bill swerved and forced their car to a stop, and we both jumped out, with Bill
keeping aim with the shotgun point blank. Now that would have made a mess! We could
hear our assistance approaching, and I wondered what the passersby were thinking about
all this blatant police action. Probably thinking it was too forceful a way to issue a traffic
ticket. We were just getting our suspects out of the car via verbal demands when five
units pulled up to assist in the arrests.
I thought I recognized the driver from somewhere else, as his bright green eyes
were an outstanding feature. A black face with bright green eyes weren’t too common.
When his name came to me, Charles Washington, from a meeting we had seven months
earlier, I hardly would believe he was the same person he was seven months ago.. He had
just been released from San Quentin after serving a few years for possession of two
marijuana cigarettes. Just think, in the late 60’s you could be sent to state prison for
possession 2 lousy joints, and my old partner Gary Komers with a DA friend of his used
to toke once in a while. A marijuana seed in the ashtray might get you a few weeks
county time. That marijuana stuff was the communist plot of the 60’s.
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He looked quite different now. Mr. Washington used to be 240 pounds of solid
muscle at 6’ tall with maybe a 24” waist. Now seven months later this poor slob had
wasted away to 150 pounds of nothing, all because of his heroin addiction. It was
unbelievable what it did to him. His arms were tracked up, his eyes deep into their
sockets and he couldn’t keep a straight conversation. And he was willing to do anything
to keep from getting stopped, even ramming us with the stolen car, which may have cost
him his life, but low and behold, I pulled back when I COULD HAVE JUSTIFIABLY
SHOT HIM!
Bill and l and I made three more rolling stolen arrests, more than most cops see
in five years of hard work. Although we were falling into good arrests, we were slowly
falling apart with each other over our personalities. Our partnership was failing. I
believed then and now that his green- beret attitude and tactics in Vietnam were entering
into his police work, and although he got excellent results I wasn’t used to them. Bill was
rougher on suspects than even I was. We talked about a certain technique he wanted to
use while interrogating a suspect, and although he knew I would never say anything to
anybody, I didn’t want to remain as his partner if that’s what he wanted to do.
I can still remember the conversation we had while driving on Central Avenue.
Bill talked about arresting a burglar, putting him on his knees and if he did not tell on
everyone he knew who was doing capers Bill would stick the muzzle of his revolver in
the guys mouth and pull the trigger. And he was serious. I remember it happened like
that because I made notes after out shift. More than likely if questioned today he would
deny making such a statement.
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(And I thought about what he said, a lot when I was in prison, and after 35 years
has gone by it was probably false bravado and machismo but it did scare me back then.
But Bill had been to Vietnam and he told me some real ‘hairy’ stories and experiences,
sometimes I wished I had been there too right next to him experiencing the same things
cause I will say this that I loved that guy in a way one guy loves another because of the
partnership we had.)
I know that sounds funny coming from someone like myself who has lied on
reports and kicked ass all over Firestone’s district but I must have had a streak of
compassion at that time. I mean, Bill and I were more than partners; we were friends in
the sense of the word that all your good friends could be counted on one hand.
I think the incident that topped it off for us was when we stopped an old man (he
was forty and that was old to us) who was driving erratically southbound on Central
Avenue. The man had way too much to drink so after a short field sobriety test given by
Deputy Sieber while I searched the man’s car, Bill Sieber puts him under arrest, cuffs
him and places him peacefully in the back seat of our police car.
We were waiting for the tow truck to come and I was report writing on the hood
of our car while Bill gave the car an extra search. I noticed our prisoner squirming and
trying to get his hands from behind him to his inside coat pocket.
I yelled at Bill to come back and help me remove our prisoner to re-search him.
When I reached into our prisoner’s coat pocket low and behold here’s a Colt .32 semiautomatic, 6 rounds in the clip and one in the chamber.
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I went ballistic on Bill and he went ballistic on me. I yelled at him why didn’t he
search this guy before he put him in the back seat and he yelled at me that I should have
searched him first before I sent him back for the sobriety test. Here we were, two street
experienced deputy-sheriff’s screaming at each other calling the other a ‘dumb motherfucker’. We were ready to find out who was the toughest and strongest, a 6’ 2” 220
pound ex-green beret sergeant named William C. Sieber or in the opposite corner 6’7”
240 pound aikido brown belt who loved hand-to-hand fighting, could bench press 350
pounds and was called especially by the detectives when it came to arresting big and bad
violent felons Robert E. Shaffer.
And actually, Bill was right. I let this guy walk from his front car door back to
see my partner unaccompanied because I thought he was just a drunk driver. I did not pat
him down for my protection or my partner’s protection. If this man did not want to go to
jail, even for a misdemeanor, he could have dropped both of us without us even clearing
leather. And lots of cops have been killed under the same circumstances.
We booked our prisoner with hardly a word from each other and the watch
sergeant was smart enough to know we were having a problem.
Anyway, at a later date I confided to the shift sergeant I wanted another partner
because Bill and I were having too many personality conflicts. And as usual when you
tell your sergeant something confidentially, he tells everyone, including Bill. Bill got mad
at me for what he thought was back-stabbing, but cooled off quickly because I knew he
had applied for and had been accepted at the sheriff’s academy as a training officer. And
he didn’t mention it to me at all, but the word gets around. Bill also wanted me to transfer
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too because the Captain at the academy, one of my night school police science
instructors, had asked Bill to persuade me to transfer. I had been asked by the Capitan
three times in the past to make the transfer but my obligations to society and my fellow
deputy dictated that I was needed at Firestone more than the academy, but the main
reason was money. I was getting an average of $600 per month in overtime, some
months making more than our station Captain Dean Wert. The Deputy DA who
prosecuted me would have said I stayed because I was too busy planning to kill someone.
Bill was managing an apartment complex off-duty so making the transfer
wouldn’t affect him as much monetarily. So Bill was going and I didn’t have to contend
with his idea of killing some poor slob on his knees in the back of some store because he
couldn’t get the dude to rat on the world. The God-awful thing is many months later
that’s exactly what I was to be accused of, when I killed Roderick Mollette, in the back of
a darkened jewelry store. What an act of fate, or whatever one wishes to call it. I couldn’t
stand Bill for talking about it, and I’m accused of doing it
We spent one more shift as partners. Bill was going to miss the turmoil and
activities that were starting to brew. A lawman in Orange County was killed by some
black militants who lived in Los Angeles, and there was talk once again of attacks on a
few police stations in Los Angeles, particularly in South Central LA. Informants singled
out the 77th Station, Newton Station, and the 103rd Street Substation. Never were any
sheriff’s stations mentioned, but our Captain posted a perimeter guard and a roof
observer. And the talk probably came from one of the undercover cops to keep his
paycheck coming in.
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It was just a week or so prior that someone threw dynamite on the roof of the
LAPD 77th Street Station, so we made it more of a habit to check the 103rd Street Sub
station, and since it was near Will Rogers Park we would cruise through the park first
with our lights off, hugging the shadows looking for suspicious characters or activity.
While driving down a footpath and stopping once in a while to look around, we
eyed a parked car near the gymnasium that was on the east side of the park. The area
around it is very dark and shadowed by large trees, and was perfect for sniping at passing
police cars, and that thought occurred to Bill and me simultaneously. This could be the
beginning of another park shoot-out.
Not only did we expect this to be a sniper car, we also thought we might be
getting set up too. You know, while deputies were checking a parked car in the park they
were shot to death by persons unknown. So, we decided to split up, but before we did I
tried to contact another car on the car-to-car frequency to have one roll our way, but the
other units were all tied up. I didn’t want to go though the dispatcher because I didn’t
wart to get every one excited and roll in here over possibly nothing.
Bill got out and was going to circle around to their right keeping in the dark
shadows. He had his .30 carbine and 60 rounds, and now every fourth rounded a tracer
round, so I knew he was ready. I pulled the shotgun from its rack and put a round in the
chamber and set it on the seat next to me. I was going to slowly creep up on the car after
giving Bill a few minutes to get set up, but staying far enough away so I could use my car
for cover.
I leaned to the right to get as low as I could and rested the shotgun on the
passenger window for stability .I figured I would hit the gas after creeping a bit and make
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a rush to get to the car and surprise the occupants who hadn’t noticed our presence yet. I
started ahead slowly, crossing a bit of lighted area and as I went back into the shadows
a light came on inside the other car. I figured the occupants were ready to split so I
started to give my car some gas. Two men jumped out and started shining flashlights on
their faces and badges. Each dropped an AR-l5 (commercial model of the Army’s .223
caliber M-l6) on the ground in front of them and they were wearing tactical one-pièce
dark jumpsuits. I pulled up slowly but didn’t shine my spotlight on them, realizing that
from their Caucasian appearance, their 4-door sedan, and dress, that they must be Los
Angeles policemen. They were.
Bill came running up when he saw what was happening and we all started to
chuckle about the whole thing. They really impressed the hell out of me when they told
me an observer who was set up on a building nearby told them via walkie-talkie that they
were being stalked. (Their radios worked!) Their observer, armed with a high power rifle
with scope, observed us about the time we saw their car under the trees. The observer
radioed to them that an unidentified vehicle was coming up on them slowly, and in the
shadows. He had his rifle aimed at us and followed our actions. He couldn’t tell what
kind of car we had but he could see Bill get out with a rifle and start to circle them. Bill
was described as a dark male carrying a rifle. And that dark male could have breathed his
last that night.
The observer was also in contact with the substation and they in turn started
radioing this information to their field units and helicopter crew. The station was also
manned with ten heavily armed officers who were waiting to rush out and blow us away
if necessary. When the observer noticed Bill take his position he put a round in the
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chamber of his high-powered rifle, as Bill was still unidentifiable, and the most serious
threat at that time. I was sure that the slightest, premature action on either of our parts
could have brought about a very bad catastrophe, with one brother officer probably being
killed by another.
These LAPD guys had their shit together. Our El Capitan Wert puts a deputy on
our station roof and another walking perimeter and LAPD gets a sharp shooter with a
high powered rifle on a dark roof top who can see all and shoot all and their little substation is armed to the teeth and our station deputies sit around drinking Pepsi’s and
coffee and probably ordering in pizza.
When I started rolling forward and through that little bit of lighted area we were
finally identified as cops. This was radioed to their car, whom was ready to come out
shooting also, and they started with the flashlight bit. I told them ‘thank you’ over their
walkie-talkie, and then they gave us some pictures of the suspects who killed the Orange
County officer. What I told them was why our two departments weren’t sharing this
information, and why LAPD didn’t notify us they were using the park for a stakeout since
it was a county park and our territory. . They laughed and told us they didn’t want the
county to get in the way of anything. Moments later we were called by our Captain to
climb up on the roof of the gas station that was directly across the street from Firestone.
We did but the rest of the night was chilly and uneventful
At the end of the shift I watched Bill as he cleared out his locker, telling him
good-bye and wishing him the best while at the academy. He’d be a sergeant soon
because most of the guys at the academy seemed to get promoted sooner that the rest of
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the troops. Hell, he had a pilot’s license, he was a Viet Nam vet, he was smart. I always
thought he would be a captain someday. It was a sad parting of friends and partners.
The only thing that I can remember that bugged Bill was when Mike Doolittle and
I HAD to arrest Bill’s ‘quickie’ girl friend. Bill had met this young lady on the rounds
and one evening he asked me to go park in the driveway of this house and that he wanted
to see this girl for a short while. A few hours later they both come out the front door
kissing, and Bill is holding his gun belt in his hands and smiling.
He got in the car and I told him I wasn’t happy that I was sitting in the driveway
so he could get laid, and besides, wasn’t he married? He always told me his was because
he was living with a girl who worked for the airlines and in those days a deputy could not
cohabitate. It was punishable by termination was what I was told.
A week or so later he begged me to let him go visit this girl again and I gave in.
So I waited while he fucked but I think a hot call came out so I blared on the horn til he
came out and we left.
A few weeks later while working with Mike Doolittle we see this older Chevrolet
blow a red light bad. The car is weaving all over the place and when we finally pull it
over the driver runs up on the curb and runs into a bus stop bench and then gets out
laughing her head off. It was Bill’s quickie.
I told Mike we should just drive away because Bill is fucking this girl and the way
she is nothing can come of this stop but trouble. Mike wasn’t exactly wanting to do that
as he and Bill had some words when they worked together because Bill thought Mike
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was your basic idiot who fell through the academy cracks and only got through training
because the department desperately needed replacements.
As we are thinking about this I believe Sgt. Wenke pulled in behind us. If it
wasn’t Sgt. Wenke at that time, I know another unit did arrive to see what was going on.
We were stuck.
Mike and I got out to go talk to the girl who seemed really smashed. Every time
we would get close she would run away laughing, right to the middle of the intersection.
So here we are, three of us, maybe four deputies trying to catch this drunk, happy driver.
I recall Sgt. Wenke there but I am not sure when he arrived but we managed to catch the
girl and the fight started. She turned from a happy drunk to a vicious snarling lioness,
biting, kicking and clawing plus screaming at the top of her lungs, “You can’t arrest me,
I’m fucking Bill Sieber” over and over.
We get handcuffs on her and it took four of us to get her in the back seat of the car
and Sgt. Wenke asks me if it’s true about her fucking Bill. I told him “yeah, it’s true.”
“Isn’t he married? The sergeant asked me.
“I always thought so” I told him.
Sgt. Wenke told me to make sure I call Bill when we got to the station to give him
a heads up as there was no way we could let her go now.
I get in to drive and Mike Doolittle gets in the back seat with our prisoner and just
before I pull away she starts fighting with Mike again getting her hands in front of her
and tearing off Mike’s badge and name piece and somehow manages to get her feet up
and she kicks me in the back of the head. Sgt. Wenke jumps in the back and him and
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Doolittle put cuffs on her ankles but handcuffs and not made for ankles so a bit of her
ankle flesh gets torn. She fights us all the way to the station to the point I had to, well, I
Maced her, and Mike and I, real good. In fact, by the time we got to the station she was
bleeding from her ankles and wrists she was struggling so hard.
I called Bill and woke him up and all I could hear him scream was “Oh Bobby,
save me please. Save me Bobby! Did she tell anyone about me? Why did you have to
arrest her?”
“She told anyone who would listen, in fact she’s still screaming it out at the top of
her lungs. We didn’t have too much of a choice when she ran a red light and then
crashed into a bus stop bench and Wenke arrived.” I told him.
When Mike Doolittle and I went to Compton Court on this case here she was,
“Little Miss 90 lbs” with her brothers and her attorney showing everyone the blown up
photos of her wrists and ankles, all cut and bruised. The ‘next day bruises’ even
surprised me when I saw the photographs. When the DDA asked me if I objected to a
guilty plea of speeding and running a red light instead of drunk driving I told him that it
was fine with me. Mike Doolittle concurred. Hell, we both got six hours overtime for
this. I don’t think Bill fucked her anymore but I always thought he held a grudge against
me for that incident.
The next night Mike Doolittle and I wrote 121 traffic citations!
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Chapter 15
July 4, 1969
Enter one Curtis William Malone
On July 4, 1969 I had to leave a great evening BBQ of ribs and chicken and had
come to work. On July 4, 1963 Ralph Bunche received a Medal of Freedom from
President John F Kennedy, July 4, 1970 over 100 people are hurt in rioting near Asbury
Park, New Jersey, July 4, 1966 President Lyndon Johnson signs the Freedom of
Information Act into law and July 4, 1976 Israeli commandos raid the airport in Entebbe
Uganda and rescue their fellow countrymen. And lastly I get to meet my trainee.
Up until July 4, 1969, I had known only three other Malone’s in my life. Two
were training officers at our academy and the other was a black deputy I worked with for
one night months ago that you already know about. The fourth Malone I was to meet was
to become my ‘trainee’, although he had two years experience in the jail division of
Wayside Honor Rancho in North Los Angeles County.
I hated that description of ‘trainee’. You would have thought as a trainee we
joined the department that very day. A deputy who transfers in from the jail division
with 10 years seniority is still a ‘fucking trainee’. An old one but still a ‘trainee’. He
wasn’t a ‘deputy’ and his stature at Firestone to many was lowered than our jail trustees.
I asked Lt. Edmonds to use the term ‘transfer deputy’ but he blew me off.
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I attended graveyard shift briefing as I usually did, sitting in my reserved chair
(that’s right. I wasn’t a Steve Beeler “Elitist” but I did have seniority) near the front.
Lots of times I was the ‘briefing deputy’ because I was one of the more experienced
deputies who was stupid enough to hand around on the graveyard shift, with fifteen
months in patrol! After roll call and briefing I was introduced to my new transfer deputy.
I looked down at all of Curtis William Malone, 5’7”, who was trying to hold a file box,
notebook, flashlight, baton and papers in his arms. That’s exactly how Steve Beeler
describes his character in The Firestone Syndrome. Deputy Malone was sporting a flattop
haircut that went out in the fifties, and when he smiled I noticed a very large gap because
of his crooked teeth. His body looked like a pear, and when he shook my hand it felt like
I was holding a dead clammy fish. ‘Not too impressive’, was my first opinion of my
transfer deputy but then I had the advantage of being a big person and that did command
some respect from strangers. For all I knew Deputy Malone could have been a black belt
in Kenpo Karate. Hell, my aikido instructor, who worked for Torrance PD I think, before
‘volunteering’ for Vietnam was maybe 5’6” but one tough son-of-a-bitch.
I wasn’t really sure about how to go about ‘training’ someone because he was
actually my first permanent trainee. I will dispense with ‘transfer deputy. Although I
knew a lot about patrol work that many regular deputies with more time at Firestone than
me, hadn’t grasped, I wasn’t sure if I could convey these things to another person. My
philosophy wasn’t how smart I was, but where to look for the information I need. I had
been given books and materials from other deputies who worked here years ago and were
long gone from Firestone, and they contained many years of experience, and for some
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reason were no longer readily available to field deputies at this time. I was a manual
freak.
Before leaving the station I talked with the watch sergeant asking him how long
an assignment this was going to be. I expressed my misgivings about the brass choosing
me to be this deputy’s guiding light and mentor. I wasn’t sure my ‘character’ was the
type you would want teaching someone else, especially on graveyards. Remember, I was
broken in on a 10 am to 6 pm public relations shift with a more experienced deputy than
myself.
The sergeant told me I would be a long time, til Deputy Malone was trained or I
transferred. I put it in writing that night to be forwarded to the watch commander that
they find someone else, especially since it was summer time at Firestone. (It was later
denied. Manpower shortage they claimed)
So, me and my baggy-pants trainee (and they were really baggy, like oldfashioned horse riding pants) headed out to the car for our first night of duty. I showed
him the usual check out procedures, check the shotgun for cigar butts, was the gas tank
full, take the back seat out, try the emergency lights but not the siren til we got away from
the station (too many neighbor complaints) and bla-bla-bla.
We both got in the police car, I was driving of course. There was just a small
pause in things and until the day I die I swear, in my opinion, this is what he said,
“Shaff, when we gonna to kill us a nigger.”
I sat there trying to figure out if that’s what I really heard. For a few seconds I
looked directly at him and couldn’t say a thing.
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“Wad ya say?” I asked.
“When we gonna kill us a nigger. I heard all about you. You’re a legend here,”
was his reply.
I sat there stunned and thought he had to be a plant from downtown, or that he
worked for the FBI trying to trick and trap deputies for civil rights violations.
“Look, that’s not we’re here for that, understand? Don’t use ‘nigger’ around me.
Pray that you don’t have to shoot anyone. Trust me, it ain’t that easy.”
I thought about turning the engine off and going back to the watch sergeant and
demand he find someone else to take Malone but I did not. Just a bad start; so see what
happens.
We got off to a shitty start because it was July 4th near midnight and guns were
being fired everywhere around the station, you could hear the pellets bouncing off the car
tops. And one thing I hated was guns were being fired all over the neighborhood, but I
wasn’t sure if it was at me. We waited out things til there was a cease-fire in the ‘hood’
and drove off southbound on Compton Avenue.
The only information I got from him before we left was his badge number--3271.
We drove out hoping to catch us a phantom shooter. But they all were tucked in bed with
their shotguns under their pillows, so we did not succeed. I decided to find a quiet spot to
park and talk. And since I didn’t drink coffee I told Deputy Malone no coffee drinking
while on-duty, nor any smoking in the car. I worked with too many deputies on extra
shifts that had to light a pipe or cigarette every chance they got, even while doing field
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interrogations and stops. Can you picture some fucking cop trying to relight his pipe
while talking to a car theft suspect or dope dealer? Paying more attention to his fucking
pipe than the circumstances. Same goes for cigarettes and especially chewing
tobacco…disgusting.. Makes your clothes smell and your breath smells like an old
camel. Or some dumb deputy tries hard not to spill his coffee while you are going Code
3 after some criminal. Throw the fucking thing out!
Will Rogers Park was quiet so we went there. I found out that he was my age.
Like me, he had also worked for the Auto Club of Southern California, I believe in the
Van Nuys office as a claims adjuster. From this discussion (and others later on) he told
me his marriage wasn’t very stable. He was dissatisfied with his sexual like, and had the
usual fears of impotency like many males do who are unsure to themselves because of a
wife who tells them they are a lousy fuck like his apparently did. He referred to her as a
bitch quite often. Because he was unsure of his sexual prowess, he never tried to pick up
girls but he did become closely acquainted with a one-legged girl. Combining her fears of
sexual inadequacy because of her injury, and his because of a lousy marriage, they were
able to attain a satisfying relationship. And 90% of this conversation was on the 1st night.
He was a constant talker.
I believe he told me his wife suffered from arthritis so bad that many times she
was unable to get out of bed, and when she was in, was unable to put out. The only thing
that was positive about his marriage was he was a father and loved his child a great deal.
Malone seemed to like police work and he seemed to have a go getter attitude. I
could tell that his mouth seemed much bigger than the rest of him, and although he had a
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tough guy complex, I seemed to think that he could be liked. I felt I could restrain him in
case he got too upset with the local hoodlums.
I do not want to give you the impression this is a ‘bashing Malone’ time. This is
the most sincere and honest evaluation I can give as truthfully as possible. He did send
me to prison but if I was writing this book and didn’t go to prison it would read the same.
I will not use his full name or first name in most of what I write about us working
together.
As far as his intelligence was concerned, it wasn’t what I would call bright.
(There were times he didn’t spell his name right, but that was probably from laziness.
One thing I found out for sure, he couldn’t spell worth a damn, like most deputies of his
caliber, and he said he almost flunked out of the academy because of it. And he gets
transferred to Firestone or even to patrol for that matter where writing reports of 80% of
what we do!)
On that night I also felt he would probably make a ‘average’ deputy at most but with
someone else training him, but I wanted people to go to him for advice, like they did
me. I wanted him to excel because he would be a product of my training ability, and
my reflections so to speak. I didn’t want him to be like the many other deputies I had
seen, hardly able to pass their radio car training and only staying because of the
shortage of deputies. If Curtis William Malone couldn’t make it, he was gone with a
capital ‘G’.
(Because the sheriff’s’ department homicide took many valuable records from my
locker when they searched (and destroyed ) it, it is hard to recall certain instances in
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which we were involved in. I will try and describe the man as best I can, with impartiality
as best I can, and incidences from my field notebook, although he was the one who sent
me to prison. I said that, didn’t I?)
In subsequent talks he told me he did his jail time at Wayside Honor Rancho
trained by an ex-Firestone deputy named McCloud. In 1968 there was a Eugene L. Mc
Loud that worked here but his face is a blur to me. When Malone first arrived at the
station, the real reason for his gung-ho-ness was because of the stories McLoud told him.
Curtis was ready to pull the ‘shadier’ parts of police work without first being accepted by
his fellow deputies. I’m sure that’s why his first revealing words were, “When we going
to kill us up a nigger?”
Now, that was a bit too much and too fast. Like going into a classy cocktail
lounge and meeting a beautiful woman who says right off “wanna fuck?” I could have
said ‘anytime soon’ and laughed it off, but I think his conception of the area was much
different than McLoud had told him it was. I have always thought that Malone mixed up
too many stories he heard from McLoud, then stating later on that I told him certain
things when in fact McLoud told him. (This could have been a factor in his subsequent
mental breakdown months later).
Our first night we assisted LAPD unit 12T58 on Florence Avenue, who had
arrested Ralph Mathis, a local. When we arrived to assist them one officer had his arm
around Mathis’ shoulder in a father-son like talk, which I thought was very unusual, but a
nice public relations stunt for the passing motorists. But when I got out of my car, I could
see the officer was stomping Mathis’ feet with the heel of his shoe, trying to interrogate
him. That was a new trick to me. Apparently Mathis was driving a stolen car, and had ten
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juicy marijuana cigarettes on him, and as most good policemen, LAPD wanted to know
whom his supplier was. And although Mathis was in agony and tears, he didn’t say a
word.
Our presence there was to wait for the tow service to pick up the car while they
drove to the jail. Big damn deal. That’s all I can remember happening that night.
We returned to the station after this boring night, thankfully, filled the car with
gas, returned the shotgun and told each other ‘later’. I went into the watch sergeant’s
office and told the sergeant he HAD to get me out of this training deal. I expressed to
him that Malone was either a plant from internal affairs or he was a few cards shy of
having a full deck and told him what Malone said about ‘killing a nigger’.
He said it was probably 1st night jitters, and that ‘no’ I wasn’t getting out of
training him.
July 5, 1969:
We checked out the car before leaving, or rather he did. I made him do all the
things I had to, telling him to ‘do what I say, not what I do.’
The only thing I have in my notebook was we talked to a Rufus Lane Daniels,
1614 E. 90th, L.A. We didn’t do a lot at first because I wanted to stay out of the bad spots
because I couldn’t trust him yet and didn’t know if he could “hold his mud’ (take care of
himself). He wasn’t familiar with the streets or our radio codes. He should have known
the radio codes before he arrived at Firestone. And like Lew was with me, I was with
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Malone; I didn’t want to test him under critical situations until he had his feet wet. We
received mostly assist calls as the desk deputy knew I had a trainee and tried to take that
into consideration when assigning calls. At least, most of the time.
July 6, 1969:
We had a new police car with air-conditioning and drove fifty-three miles that
night. We impounded a 65 Pontiac, an out-of-state stolen.
Although this was only our third night together I could see he was developing
some bad habits. For two nights he told me he couldn’t find the hot-sheets, and I had to
take him inside and point them out, in plain sight. Some people might think I was being
picky or chicken-shit but it meant to me he wasn’t paying attention.
He was developing a habit of bringing a cup of coffee with him after briefing and
then going to the car. I got mad one night and knocked it from his hand. It was probably a
stupid move on my part but every time we booked a prisoner he would incessantly grab a
cup and I was always looking for him to start explaining procedures and things, always
finding him gulping coffee somewhere. If he had been knowledgeable in these things, I
would have said he could go fuck off until we were ready to go back in the field, but he
wasn’t and he seemed unwilling to take my advice or not taking me seriously.
July 7, 1969
A very dead night, thankfully.
Tuesday and Wednesday off.
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Thursday July 10, 1969
We took a burglary report.
It is unfortunate that my field notebooks were taken or destroyed because I could
have presented more comprehensive information about our time together, and since it is
abbreviated it seems to just show the negative.
Friday, July 11, 1969:
Clear weather. Sgt. Russ Owens in charge. I might add here that Sgt. Owens did
not like Malone in the least. To Sgt Owens Malone didn’t present much of a macho
image with his 135 lbs of pear shaped body. And when Russ asked Malone very easy
questions about police work things that Malone should have remembered from his
academy days, Malone didn’t know the answer. And because of it Russ kept putting
Malone in his place, calling him ‘stupid’ , whenever he had the chance.
Saturday, July 12, 1969:
We arrested two robbery suspects, Albert Young and Richard McKnight.
Sunday, July 13, 1969:
Bernard F. Halloway, a recent transfer in, was field sergeant (he didn’t like Malone
either. See a pattern here?) We arrested Frank Johnson and Troy Dupree for robbery,
LAPD case # 69-555159.
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Things go like this so I have to rely on my notebook and my poor personal notes.
Mine doesn’t reflect much because I made Malone copy everything down in his, but we
were working.
July 18, 1969:
Steve Beeler did a righteous description when he wrote about the 1968 or 1969
Chevrolet patrol cars. They handled like a tank and rattled worse. The only good thing
they were for was crashing into walls with. Whomever got talked into buying these turds
for the county must have been given a payoff. And on this night Malone wrote his first
citation. The period of time was about right because he would have been an observer for
about the first two weeks unless he was really sharp. Otherwise, a trainee is supposed to
watch, listen and keep his mouth shut.
To make sure he was putting things in his notebook I made him write in mine
also. His writing is hard to read but he cited Mark Ostrander from Mass., whose exhaust
pipes were too loud. Oooohhhh, he was a ‘baddie’.
At 1:41 AM we had a prowler at 1422 E. 83rd Street but I can’t read the rest.
At 1:55 we had a burglary alarm at 8501 South Something or the other. I can’t
read that either. All I can make out is he referred to it as a 211 (robbery) alarm. He kept
mixing up burglary alarms with robberies
.
At 4:20 AM we arrested Michael Howard at 1939 E. 76th Street for peeping into
windows. I can read that because I wrote it down.
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On July 26, I got a break from training and worked security at Compton
Municipal Airport from 11 PM to 7 AM. It was a gravy job (overtime), because the
Board of Supervisors wanted the plane radio thefts cut down. The deputies who worked
this job usually slept between the hangars or sat in the control office reading flying
magazines and drinking cokes we’d ‘find’ from the unlocked dispensing machine.
One over time night someone found a Polaroid and took pictures of me, Lewis
Cornelius, Bob Moeller and I think Lou Schumacher, an academy chum of mine,
lounging in the large leather chairs in the airport manager’s office.. Then we went out and
drag-raced down the closed runway. I even did some figure eights on a newly graded
portion of it and got my ass chewed from the sergeant because the engineers had to grade
it all over again. Sorrryyyy.
A detective named Sam Chaffey and I had the most fun there. Besides making the
only arrest on airport grounds in months on a guy trespassing and loitering, we also
snagged us a big white duck. This duck was flying around and occasionally landing on
the run way. We would spy it and I would try and run it over with the radio car, finally
hitting it breaking its neck. Sam gave it to the manager of the liquor store next to the
runway because he was complaining about the noise we were making. The manager was
happy.
The most exciting thing to happen was one night one of the deputy’s decided to
sleep in his car on the runway but a small plane decided to land and he couldn’t see the
black patrol unit and the propeller started chopping big holes in the trunk lid. The good
thing about that was the car was a Chevrolet. I think Carl Spreen was sleeping in that car.
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Some deputies, including me, would also have female visitors to spend our eight
hours. I had a station secretary meet me one night and she even brought me a tuna
sandwich and a six-pack of Michelob beer. We parked inside a hangar swapping spit and
me feeling her tits (yes, they were very nice) and almost got nabbed by Sgt. Owens who
was making his rounds trying to nab a sleeper.
It was so well known that airport time meant sleep time that the desk sergeant
would have the dispatcher ask us for weather conditions at all hours of the morning to
keep us alert. The guy was a prick.
When the detail first started there were two men to a car but the theft rate kept
going up so we had two one-man units. All that happened with that was someone would
fail to wake up on time and was so well hidden the other deputy couldn’t find him.
On one of the evenings I was working Compton Airport, Malone was working
with Dave Tankersly in an overtime slot. The only comment I received from Dave was
that Malone failed to find a 14’ hunting knife on a suspect they arrested and that Malone
was asked to search. Dave found it in the guy’s boot after he booked him! Malone made
no mentions of this slip up, and he had no answer when I asked him about it later on. I
was really starting to wonder about his ability as a Firestone deputy-sheriff. I know, I
fucked up with Bill Sieber that night with the drunk driver with the gun, but Malone
didn’t know that and that’s exactly what I didn’t want to happen to him.
Tuesday July 29, 1969:
I let Malone handle a pill bust. He seemed to be coming along in spurts and I still
felt he just might workout if he tried harder. But it was after this bust that Lt. Hansen
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asked me if Malone could ‘cut it.’ I had to answer yes out of sympathy for Malone. But I
did tell Lt. Hansen it was only a ‘yes’ if he improved in the very near future.
You might think that Malone was being pushed on his field training and in a way
he was. The lieutenant needed another capable body to fill empty shifts and Lt. Hansen
did train at our academy and he expected experienced deputies even from the jail to catch
or get the hell back to the jail.
I let Malone take charge of arresting a Lavoinal Alexander, in a 2 door Cadillac,
for possession of dangerous drugs, file # 469-17411—0182-181. His procedures were
clumsy and according to my notes Malone had to re-write the arrest report twice before
the watch sergeant accepted it. We just rolled along night after night without trying to
find anything to get us into trouble. Malone also had a problem handling domestic
complaints. It seems he would always anger the male counterparts and start over-loading
his ass and I would have to step in and cool things or make the arrest.
August came and so did the Watts festival. I’ve had some hairy times at the
festival last year and was looking forward to it this year. But I wasn’t the same deputy I
was in 1968. I found myself getting a bit more aggressive maybe too big for my britches.
I felt I was invincible and not fallible.
My marriage life seemed to be going to hell in a hand basket. My high school
sweetheart Marilynn was developing a habit of coming home very late and very drunk at
times. I knew the advertising business was tough, and she was handling accounts like
Levi-Strauss, Chrysler, some beer company and a few others. When Honig-Cooper and
Harrington had grand-openings or won an important client they would celebrate. One
night she come home late drunk and vomited all over the bathroom floor. I undressed her
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(which was always a pleasure) to put him in the shower and she had no underwear on!
That party got way out of hand and she admitted much later she had sex with someone
she wouldn’t name out of fear I would get him. And I may have.
Sometimes I was having sharp chest pains so I decided to see our family doctor,
the one who told Marilynn when we first got married she should be a ‘topless’ dancer as
she could make a lot of money with her tits!
After we talked he told me I seemed to be a lot more ‘hard and callous’ from my
last visit a year or two ago. He thought I was experiencing too much mental strain plus I
was pushing myself too much physically and said I was suffering from ‘angina pectoris ‘
or ‘exertional angina’. The first deals with loss of oxygen to the heart and the 2nd from
exercise or too much exertion, be it physical or mental. He also suggested I see a
counselor, or a psychologist.
On the sly I started seeing a psychologist who said I seemed to be ‘strung out
pretty tight’, and that was an understatement and told me I needed more civilian non-cop
companionship and to absolutely set private time aside for Marilynn. I didn’t listen to
him.
He thought I was suffering from the ‘Wyatt Earp Syndrome’, that I was making
myself responsible for arresting every bad person on the streets. He said it’s a neurotic
sickness among cops, but I wasn’t able to recognize its symptoms, and probably wouldn’t
have if he hadn’t told me I had it. Usually it meant trouble.
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Because of this ‘problem’ I had and the numerous overt actions I was showing, I
was discreetly told by the station brass that I would NOT be able to work inside the Will
Rogers Park boundaries. The department would set up a command post in the gym with
numerous deputies monitoring walkie-talkies (that just might work) and a portable
emergency radio setup.. The command post kept in touch with the foot deputies, and
vice-versa when an arrest was made. This year, members of the Special Enforcement
Bureau would transport all arrestees to the station for booking.
As the deputy teams patrolled on foot, scores upon scores of special units would
drive around the park looking for drunks, dope-heads, and violators in the open. There
were so many sheriff and LAPD units driving around one might think this was a driver
training course, as they numbered over thirty units. And I suppose the park was maybe a
few hundred yards in each direction. It is actually called ‘Will Rogers Memorial Park, it
is bordered on the West by South Central Avenue, on the North by East Century Blvd, on
the East by Success Avenue (that’s a good one) and on the South by East 103 Street.
I was making some good observations on the dudes in the black leather jackets
and black berets that Malone didn’t seem to spot. I think we came up with at least ten
‘carrying a concealed weapon’ arrests in one week and about the same for carrying
dangerous drugs or marijuana. (Personally, I didn’t know why any shit head would wear
a black leather jacket and a black beret and carry a gun. The clothes meant ‘Black
Panther’ to us, and is a target to fix a gun sight on. Do you think a Klansman would wear
his white get-up to a park on Memorial Day and expect not be seen?)
One night I worked with Ned Day on a volunteer shift (see how nuts I was to
work on my days off? I met Deputy Day when I worked foot patrol while in the academy
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at the West Hollywood Station. I was assigned to the beautiful and wired Sunset Strip
area. Deputy Day had quite a few more years at Firestone than I did so I was real relaxed
this evening with him as my partner. We were parked at 103rd and Success Avenue
watching the natives beat their bongo drums. Next to us was an LAPD car, also keeping
an eye on things. The spot we were in was a recessed alley, dark and very hard to tell
what kind of car, or how many cars, there were.
Sitting here was cool. We would watch as the patrol cars cruised around the park,
in groups of three, and inevitably when the last car drove by some dip shit would throw a
bottle to show off for his friends, and we were in a good position to watch the crime and
swoop in and make the arrest.
In this situation, both LAPD and sheriff units came to assist in a hot second.
There would be no repeat of last year’s shootout as the park was saturated with lawmen.
A man in uniform who wore a badge was a brother, regardless of the color of his
uniform.
The festival was winding down and although over 1000 arrests were made, a
grand finale with rocks and bottles was always in the making. A local judge was trying to
assist us by making fines heavier than usual to keep the undesirables in jail longer, but
someone complained to the board of supervisors that the judge was discriminating against
black people and so he had to slack off. Can’t loose that black vote, you know.
So Ned and I are sitting in the alley and Ned’s mumbling something about ‘check
the car parked next to us’. I looked over at a red 65 Chevy Impala, and it was rolling back
and forth but I couldn’t see anyone inside. All I could tell by the rolling motion that was
someone was indeed inside and probably getting laid in there, I was sure.
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We got out of the car to investigate this strange para-psychological happening. A
car rocking back and forth, on its own power. Inside the car was a naked black girl
slumped over on the passenger side front bucket seat. Her head was sort of slumped back
like she was 1) enjoying what was happening, 2) asleep, 3) unconscious. Her date
somehow got himself on the floorboard and had his face buried deep into her crotch,
going at it so hard the car would shake.
The Sheriff had an unusual stance on couples locked in some sort of romantic
embrace. Deputies weren’t supposed to go running up at cars parked in lover’s lane
places without first shining the spotlight at the car, honking the horn, and if you did
approach the lovers car, you had to hit the fender with your night stick to give them
notice you were there and that the couples should get themselves presentable. I don’t
know how that worked when the woman was being raped and now the man had plenty of
time to tell her to shut and he may kill her if she said anything?
Two adults having sex in a car. I looked at Ned, shrugged my shoulders and got
back into the patrol car. Ned didn’t seem to give a damn either and after watching a while
longer he got back in too. As the car kept rocking we discussed the legal ramifications of
the situation. He could have drugged her to take sexual advantages of her. We also
figured that if she was drugged she didn’t know what she was missing, (we were male
chauvinist pigs then) but it all figured out it had to be some kind of unlawful oral
copulation.
Of course, she could have been a victim of a crime, and something should be
done to help this girl to make sure she was doing this with her permission.
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We always had those strict rules when it came to breaking up couples in parked
cars, and we just might be violating some kind of departmental policy by interrupting a
private affair although it was in a parked car in an alley in view of others. But then, this
was usual for this neighborhood so it was a part of the social structure of redeeming
sexual mores.
There was the LAPD car parked next to us. I had Ned ask them if this alley was in
the city territory and they said it was. Since it was city territory I told them they had a
possible rape and oral sex suspect in the car next to ours. As they got out to investigate I
saw a bottle thrower hurtle his bottle at another police car.
As we pulled out to make the bust numerous units came to assist us. Most of them
stayed parked on the street as our suspect was only a few feet into the park. Our young
suspect came along peacefully until we were almost back to our car, then he started to
struggle. We referred to this as last minute acting. Lots of guys would really start to
struggle when nearing the police car as it seems it’s a psychological outlet letting those
watching know that they really tried to resist and to show us cops how bad they were. As
we started forcing him into the backseat of the car, three or four blacks with cameras
came running up taking pictures. The whole thing was probably an act to show how
brutal we were in arresting the poor black residents of Los Angeles.
It made no difference to me who saw me pushing this guy into my car because
how else was I going to get him to the station? I mean, we don’t let people go just
because they don’t want to get booked, and if a felon resists getting into my car, I use
whatever tactics I need to get him in--force, hands, feet, Mace, clubs, etc. And while I
was forcing this arrestee in my car other deputies were shining their flashlights into the
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lenses of the cameras (Larry Brakebush for one) thinking it would ruin the film or
something.
One of the photographers argued with one of the deputies about them interfering
with newsworthy items, and got a broken camera for it, but I wondered if we were
violating any civil rights in the process. As policemen we could take pictures, but as
citizens, they could not? Just a philosophical thought.
As we were leaving I noticed there were now 6 LAPD officers watching the
couple in the car that we were parked next to. Later I found out the man was arrested for
forcible oral copulation because the girl was indeed passed out. He had given her a few
downers (‘reds’) and a can or so of Schlitz malt liquor and she was out for the night.
We booked our suspect and wrote the report. Then we were advised to stay out of
the park- again. I argued the crime took place on the street but to deaf ears. To
accomplish this we were assigned further north, as north as we could go.
I often wondered if the station brass was seeing in me something I couldn’t see
but for some reason did not have the courage to bring it to my attention. Was I getting
wilder or more brutal or out of control or like a loose cannon? No one said.
So Unit 11-Frank took a homicide report, arrested a robbery suspect and latched
onto one prowler that evening after leaving the Will Rogers Memorial Park area. Not a
bad job for eight hours work.
The next few nights Malone and I were ordered to follow other units around so
Malone could watch how other deputies operated. He was still having problems writing
reports, handling calls and generally unable to handle things of normal procedures a
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person of his total experience should know. So this night we followed Ned Day and his
transfer in, Larry Rupp, who was a transfer in from Compton PD.
They were checking what used to pass as a bar near 59th Street and Central
Avenue called the Raven’s Club. Numerous dip shits hung out here and this area had a
very high violent crime rate. When Larry and Ned tried to enter the club, some black
dude refused to let them pass, and this had its ramifications. Can you believe someone in
their ‘right mind’ refusing a cop the right to enter a public establishment? The guy could
be a ‘slow down man’ so that whatever illegal activities were happening inside could be
dispersed with quickly. Usually they would just whistle or yell ‘The Man’.
Seeing trouble ahead I immediately bailed out of the car to assist them but Malone
got caught in the seat belt and was having difficulties getting loose. It seems the belt had
wrapped itself around the handle of his revolver. I pulled the point man aside while
Deputy Rupp and Deputy Day rushed in, and I was counseling this guy for calling Ned a
punk. A local thug actually had the balls to call a Firestone deputy-sheriff a punk to his
face. That WAS grounds for arrest i.e. drunk in public. He had to be drunk to call a cop a
punk to his face. He said he wasn’t drunk and I told him it would really be in his best
interest if he split or else go to jail without collecting $200 and running in Ned Day’s fist
when he resisted arrest.
He decided to split. Malone finally got untangled so I had him watch the doorway
while I went inside. All that was going on now was a game of gin rummy, and there was
no money on the table and the patrons were very friendly. (Any money on the table
automatically belonged to us because no one ever made claim to it when we found it,
there fore it was ours. It went to the station coffee fund or towards breakfast)
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As we were leaving guess who came back and was giving Malone a ration of shit
but the dummy I told to split. He must be drunk or very stupid. Dummy looks at Ned and
calls him a Gestapo asshole, and with this Ned slams him against the building and cuffs
him. The charge was 647f (intoxication in public) and some obscure section about
uttering or singing profanities.
When Ned searched him he found ten reds (seconal, a barbiturate) so we now
have a possessor of dangerous drugs--a felony. And because Ned was very uptight about
being berated in public, he decides to take our suspect, who said he was Viesta Miller,
for a ride and some personal counseling.
We asked the radio dispatcher to run a records check on him and Viesta had a rap
sheet with over a hundred arrests. He has been suspect in so many crimes that if you
knew him it was almost standard operating procedure just to arrest him on sight.
We followed Ned to Roosevelt Park at Nadeau Street and Graham Avenue. There,
in a darkened spot, we stop, turn off the engines and get out.
I told Ned that if wanted to beat this guy for being an ass then I wanted no part of
it so don’t mention Malone and I in his arrest report. Ned took Viesta out of the car and
to my surprise Malone said he was going to give Ned a hand and for the next few minutes
Ned Day and Curtis Malone (who come to think about it were built very much alike),
systematically beat Viesta about his body, everywhere but the face and head, with fists,
saps, batons and feet.
Malone was in a frenzy. He looked like he was drooling with every punch, and his
helmet fell off when he started swinging. Rupp and I stayed in the car. Rupp was
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finishing paperwork and ‘probably’ not aware of what was going on behind him, and
although this was actually a first this way for me, in a park like this, I didn’t like the
exposure but then fuck Viesta too for having such a big mouth.
(When I was on trial Malone was asked about this assault on a handcuffed
prisoner and he said he didn’t recall such an incident, and he had immunity from
prosecution.)
After the counseling, for some reason Viesta is brought to MY car. I asked Ned
why was I getting him now that he beat the fuck out of him? Ned said he forgot he had a
meet with the north end sergeant and would I take him and book him? I said OK but as
soon as Viesta sat back he started crying. I felt a bit of compassion for him at this
moment and knew he was hurt bad, at that time I figured he caused his own problem and
he could find his own way out.
After booking him we decided to go back to Will Rogers Park and see what’s
going on. Now I know the brass didn’t want Ned and I there last night but they didn’t say
any thing about me taking Malone there. So, it’s off to work we go, high—ho, high-ho.
We met at the command post in the gymnasium. I forget who was there but they
were glad to see four new white faces arrive. We just sat around and talked, and Malone
could finally get a cup of coffee without me throwing it away and telling him something
derogatory about his bad coffee drinking habit.
Ned pulled me aside for a talk. “Hey, about Viesta, I don’t do that kind of thing
often, and I just want you to know, well. . .
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“Hey man, you don’t have to worry about me. Hell, apple core, Baltimore, who’s
your friend? Me. Just never again when I’m around.”
“What?” he asked about the apple core stuff.
“Forget it, it’s cool.”
We were just about ready to go because the sun was coming up and all the
vampires had to get back to their caskets, then a young black couple came running in
yelling, “We’ve been robbed, we’ve been robbed.”
A robbery right in front of the command post! How utterly stupid could a robber
be? In a flash we got the where, what, when, how many and rushed out to look for three
young blacks in leather coats (the whole city), with knives (half the city) who robbed
them of some small change (probably to take the bus home to Beverly Hills) and stabbed
the young man when he resisted, who showed us a lacerated arm. And he last saw them
near the ball diamond.
Now I thought that any crook with half a brain would immediately split when he
saw three police cars parked near the gym, but I guess giving some people credit for half
a brain was too much, as most Watts cops can attest to. I just knew they wanted to get
caught or figured we’d just take their library card away.
As we looked up, who’s standing but twenty feet from us in leather coats and one
still holding knife? I rest my case, your honor. These three upstanding Los Angeles
citizens of the ghetto now must face the four of us as it is our sworn duty to arrest them in
the name of the law! And take them to jail.
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Then never knew what hit them. Ned and Larry collared two right away and the
one with the knife started running towards Central Avenue. Malone had a few feet head
start on me but he stopped and drew his revolver and starts to take aim.
“NOOO! you want to start another riot,” I yelled pushing his gun downward.
He looked up with a dumb look on his face, unaware of what I was even talking
about, and all the while our suspect was getting away. Then I looked up and saw our
suspect laying on the ground, unconscious. He was so intent on getting away he ran into a
silver colored light pole knocking himself out! While Malone and I were cuffing him
Malone commented, “Shaf, I could have nailed him good. He was right in my sights. It
would have been my first nigger.”
I had told this incident to many deputies and even the homicide detectives who
were prosecuting me. Many of them thought this was ‘fairy-tale’ time to get back at
Malone and anyway, to them, saying you wanted to kill a ‘nigger’ didn’t really mean you
were going to.
I tried to explain to him why I thought his actions in trying to ‘cap’ this guy on the
run weren’t too bright.
“Listen dip-shit, expert marksman have missed moving targets at five feet, and
here you are trying to shoot this asshole in the middle of Will Rogers park, with a
thousand other bystanders right behind this dude. What would have happened if you
missed and got someone else? A riot, that’s what. And we would have gotten out of here
and gotten ready for Phase II.”
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(Phase I was our code for containment of the park, Phase II was a potential riot in
the process and Phase III was to abandon the station and every cop for himself.)
“But I know I could have hit him,” he insisted.
“Listen pea-brain, under these conditions if you can’t catch the guy on foot, let
him go. Who’d he rob, another dummy who shouldn’t be in the park anyway. Any fool
who comes down here should expect to run into trouble, unless it’s Huey Newton.”
I didn’t finish on the subject either.
“If you want to shoot somebody, shoot them on your way home from work, but
this is bullshit. Now get this asshole into the car so we can get to the station. And I told
you not to call anyone a ‘nigger.”
(I tried to bring these incidences to the jury but Judge Kolts ruled that Malone’s
state of mind and actions while he worked with me were not relevant to the trial.)
Believe it or not, hardly anyone in the park paid any attention to us making the
arrest. Our victims were willing to testify in court and one suspect already ‘confessed’.
We had a good bust. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if Malone really understood what I was
saying to him. At times I think he thought I was talking to him like I did in front of other
deputies just to impress them.
The next night, we stopped a car near the park, and the driver bent over like he
was hiding something under his seat. When I asked him to get out I reached under the
front seat and found a .32 pistol. So I arrested him for carrying a concealed weapon and
placed him in the back seat of my radio car and called for a tow truck to impound our
arrestee’s automobile. Then a dark 4 door sedan pulled up alongside us with five black
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male occupants who immediately started cussing at us with the usual ‘pig mother
fuckers’ jargon.
This gets real interesting. One of the occupants I recognize as Woody Polidore,
the ex-Firestone deputy who blew away two unarmed daylight burglars a while back and
who was now working undercover with our intelligence bureau. Polidore was dressed in a
black beret with a black leather jacket and numerous Moa buttons and the Black Power
fist button pinned on it.. I would have guessed the others were all Panthers, Panther
sympathizers or that everyone in the car was an under cover cop, undercover FBI,
undercover whatever and unknown to the others.
Malone became real agitated with their language but after I recognized Polidore I
played along with Polidore’s role playing. I wasn’t sure if Malone was scared or not but
when I told Polidore if he didn’t get his black ass out of here I was going to shoot it,
Malone started for his gun with both hands and really went wild. I put my hand on his
arm and kept threatening Polidore who now got out of the car in a show of ‘black
defiance’ to get back in the car and get the fuck out of here before they too go to jail, still
continuing with the ‘fuck pigs’ stuff. I told Curtis soon afterwards who the guy was and
what he was doing, but when we got to the station we found Polidore, who somehow
arrived ahead of us and the rest of the cars occupants, in the booking cage, arrested by
another unit for disturbing the peace. Some other deputy was in the process of spraying
the whole booking cage with Mace, and right in Polidore’s face. He sure could play role!
In the next few weeks other deputies began complaining that Malone was a fuck
up. Ed Roszyk had him as a fill-in partner and evening and Ed told everyone at the top of
his lungs how Malone pissed his pants trying to take on some Wildman they were
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arresting. True or false, I couldn’t say. I guess he was riding overtime cars on his days
off and not making a very good impression. Because of this Sgt. Bud Wenke called me
into his office. Sgt. Wenke said he had also received some complaints and wanted to
know Malone’s progress. I told him it was slow and that I had seen worse, but I still felt
there was something salvageable if he tried another station, one much slower, but not
Firestone. I indicated that Malone is deeply bothered by something in his personal life,
and I think had the wrong interpretation of Firestone, probably from McLoud, and had a
terrible case of little man complex. I told Sgt Wenke if Malone could slow down his
mouth and speed up his brain he just might work out somewhere else.
Sgt. Wenke agreed but not very strongly, and said it was obvious to him that
Malone was trying to copy me in every way. I told him Malone would have a long way to
go, and anyway, who would want two Shaffer’s here? It was agreed that I was to let him
drive a few nights and to keep a log of the incidences when he makes mistakes for
possible future reference. That meant to transfer him back to the jail division.
At briefing the next night Sgt. Wenke advised us that there seemed to be a rash of
‘smash and grab’ early morning burglaries along Central Avenue usually starting about
2am til 5am. The suspect seemed to know that the east side of Central Avenue was
Firestone and the west side was LAPD. So, he would hit the eastside because there was
less coverage and when people reported the crime the call took longer to get to us as the
victims or informant would call LAPD first who would finally relay the call to our
dispatcher and finally to us. Smart burglar. So, I let Malone drive as a morale booster.
We were on 60th Street taking a burglary report when the dispatcher advised a few
Lennox units that there was shooting at the Cotton Club on Vermont Street in their area. I
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knew about the Cotton Club and its bad reputation, but when she went on to say
‘numerous men firing shotguns’, I figured we had better roll to Imperial Highway and sit
by in case we had to assist the Lennox units. Imperial Highway would be the quickest
way there, and if their five units couldn’t handle it, we’d roll (needed or not just to make
sure).
Malone cruised to Will Rogers Park where we found two other cars waiting in the
parking lot for the go ahead. We pulled up to the curb to wait. In one of the units was Ed
Diaz, a very tall and large Mexican deputy and a fifteen year veteran who was on his
second time at Firestone. That’s a deputy I wish I had for a partner. Experienced and
Spanish speaking..
Then the word came out for units 11, 11 Adam and 15 to respond to the Cotton
Club as more shots were being fired. We all decided to roll Code 3, red lights and sirens
but in an unauthorized manner. Unless the dispatcher authorizes you Code 3, you really
aren’t suppose too. If you do you take all the responsibilities yourself. It’s another one of
those ambiguous regulations. If you make it OK you’re possibly a hero, but if you fuck
up, it’s your ass, not theirs.
Deputy Diaz was car 11 with his ‘trainee’, and I don’t know who was 15, and
since Diaz was in the parking lot he had to pull only Central Avenue in front of us as we
were parked by the curb. Ed Diaz knew the quickest way to the Cotton Club as I did not
so I told Malone to let him go first but instead of Malone slowing down to let them out,
since he didn’t know the way either, for some reason Malone cut Diaz off almost causing
a collision, and then almost ran Diaz off the road.
I knew someone was going to be very pissed off.
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Cars 11 and 15 went south on Central Avenue to Imperial Highway and then west
to Vermont Street. This was probably the best route because the Harbor Freeway
blocked most other east/west streets. For some reason Malone turned west on 106th
Street or 107th Street, I don’t know why. He was a San Fernando boy and I knew he
didn’t know the streets down here. I didn’t know this part of the city either, and in a
situation like this it was much better to rely on the main arteries instead of trying for short
cuts.
Like some other deputies I knew, he drove like a wild-man, not slowing down at
intersections with stop signs, just blowing them without caution or due regard. He got up
to about 70 and I was yelling at him to stop, trying to hold onto my helmet as he hit the
dips in the street, and I’m scared shitless. I wasn’t sure if he could hear me or not, since
he only slowed down when we got to the Harbor Freeway to find out route blocked..
I wasn’t too happy about this. “You dumb mother-fucker, you trying to kill us?
Turn left here and find a way under the freeway.”
I was so pissed off at him that I couldn’t control myself. We wasted valuable time
getting to the Cotton Club and when we finally arrived the other cars were already there,
beating us by minutes. The place was in chaos after the shotgun fight, with large holes
blown out of the walls, and some cars and people peppered with shot.
We got out and surveyed the situation and since it was way over with and I
figured we weren’t needed I told Malone we should go. On the way back big and bad
Deputy Ed Diaz stopped me.
“Hey Shaffer, were you driving?”
‘ooo, I knew this was coming’ I thought
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“Nope, I was ordered to let Malone drive tonight.”
“I want to talk to him.” He replied.
Malone was about 10 feet behind me heading for our black and white.
Diaz called out to him, “Hey! Short shit, come over here.”
Malone walks over with all smiles, his crooked teeth flashing and his eyes
sparkling like he was going to get some kind of commendation.
“Yeah, what’d you need Diaz?”
‘Wrong answer” I thought.
Ed Diaz walks up to Malone, and truly grabs him by the shirt collar and yanks
him to his toes (Diaz is 6’2” and 260 lbs! And from the ‘old’ Firestone school).
“Listen punk, first thing is you never call me any thing but Deputy Diaz. Second
thing is you never, never talk to me again, and the third thing is if you ever pull a stunt
like you did at Will Rogers I’m going to knock your crooked teeth down your throat. Do
you under stand me?”
I have never seen one deputy get this mad at another deputy before. I am sure to
this day had Malone had another partner Ed Diaz would have punched him right there.
Malone didn’t do anything but gulp, and Diaz finished.
“You almost ran me off the road and if I was your training officer you wouldn’t
drive until you’re off training, if you ever get off.”
With that he pushed him back and walked away.
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“Ah, I think I’ll drive back,” I told him.
On the way back I didn’t say much to him, if anything at all. I felt Ed Diaz
covered everything I would have wanted to say, but it was too bad Diaz didn’t punch
him. Maybe Malone would listen to me. Then I discovered a possible reason he didn’t
break much. The seat had to be back for my 6’7” frame and Malone was only 5’7”. He
probably had a hard time reaching the brake pedal!
A couple of days later Sgt. Wenke stopped me before briefing, regarding
Malone’s driving. He wanted to know if the near collision was true, and I acknowledged
it. Then he told me that Malone wasn’t to drive anymore, and that he had already told
Malone just a few minutes prior. With that I once again left his office after a ‘Malone’
talk.
Before I made it out the door Deputy Wayne Lingo stopped me. Deputy Lingo
worked as our station jailer quite a bit and he started with, “You need to give your trainee
some better pointers on how to search prisoners.”
“I have, what are you talking about?” I asked him.
“He worked an overtime shift the other day and missed a hunting knife in a
prisoners boot. About 10” long too. I found it when I went to put the guy back in his
cell. He had it in his boot while uncuffed and in the booking cage. I think he was
working with Gary Holland.”
“I’ll find out,”
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“Yeah, do something before he gets someone killed.” Were Lingo’s last words as
I exited.
I asked Malone about this in the car, he just nervously smiled and said he wasn’t
feeling very good that night and the other deputy made him feel ill at ease.
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Chapter 16
Our Final Days
I believe it was a few days later that we were cruising the alleyways of Firestone
having another discussion on deadly force and use of fire arms. I was telling him to think
about hypothetical problems when deadly force could be used, and when to possibly
chance deadly force if you’re not sure but feel endangered. I could tell that he had other
things on his mind and wasn’t listening to me.
Malone reminded me of the character in the Pink Floyd album ‘The Wall’ when
the doctor was singing, “hello, is anybody in there?”
Then Malone started telling me again for the 20th time what a problem he was
having with his wife, and that succeeding in patrol meant so much to him. He asked me if
he could sleep at my house after work and not drive home. To my surprise I told him OK,
since by now my dear Marilynn was working later and later. I even fixed him bacon and
eggs for breakfast. I was able to talk to him under a less strained set of circumstances, out
of uniform and relaxed. I honestly thought that morning if I couldn’t make a good deputy
out of him, at least I could make him my friend.
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He was so different at my home. Relaxed, comfortable, no bravado and
impressed me with his conversation. At work he just wasn’t this casual or smooth.
I asked him why he chose Firestone over say Malibu or Lancaster station, which
were both much closer for him, and an easier setting. He told me that he heard so many
stories from McLoud about Firestone and its reputation that if he could work here he
could transfer anywhere in patrol he wanted and have an education many deputies only
dream about.
“At what cost?” I questioned.
“Wada ya mean” he replied.
“Look around man, you see any woman’s clothes here? My wife is about to leave
me ‘cause I put this job above everything. I hardly go to church anymore, I hate being
around her commie friends (Hollywood types), we worked different shifts and became
strangers for all this experience and education I am getting,” was one the most honest
answers I ever gave.
“Yeah, but you’re a legend at Firestone” he quipped.
“God, quit saying that. And go back to Wayside (Honor Rancho). You’re still a
deputy-sheriff. Who gives a shit if you work the jail system, be a bailiff, drive a bus or
work a sleepy station in the boonies. I’m only at Firestone cause it’s what, 5 or 6 miles
away. It was convenience first and maybe the reputation second. Hell, East LA and
Lennox are busy too.”
We chatted a bit more and then he left to go home, hardly getting his Volkswagen
Karmen Ghia to start. Off he went and I hoped this conversation helped him.
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But it wasn’t soon after that we had another falling out over his tactics at a
burglary call. I can’t give exact particulars because the homicide investigators took all my
papers from my personal locker at the station and I never saw these reports again so it
will be by memory and court transcripts that I piece this together.
Around 1 AM we received a burglary call to go to Vering Inc, a business, I
believe at 92nd Street and Bandera Ave. When we arrived there were already two
sheriff’s units there, with two deputies covering the perimeter and two already inside.
The perfect burglary call containment. It was almost a waste of our time being there or
keeping the call as ours since others were inside already. Night time burglary calls are
not that successful in making an arrest, maybe 10% of the time.
Inside was Deputy Ray Verdugo, perhaps the finest deputy-sheriff to work at
Firestone and his partner John Null. Amazingly they had a suspect in custody, a very fat
260 lb. Mexican. They were questioning about his presence here and for being inside the
machine shop.
As I looked around it was obvious that the place had been capered, with stacks of
tools near the exit doors. I asked Ray who the ‘mother-fucker’ was, and Ray told me he
spotted him coming out the door about the time Ray was going in, almost shooting him
from reaction and as the burglar split back inside but thinking it might be a night worker
wetback hesitated (Ray’s words, not mine). Being that Ray was faster a foot, he caught
this Taco-Time supporter quickly.
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We found the point of entry, a pried open garage door, but it was too heavy for
one person to pry open, so this guy must have a partner somewhere. I asked Ray about
that and he said he didn’t want to interrogate our puke until I got there, which was nice of
him. He said he would handle the report if I wanted him too, but since we had one in
custody I declined.
I went back to the burglar who was sitting on the floor and started advising him
about his constitutional rights, and he replied he’d been around and knew them pretty
well. When I asked him how he got in he told me he actually told me he didn’t know
what I was talking about.
That really wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear, so remembering that LAPD cop
months ago squash his suspects feet with the heel of his boot, I violated this guy’s rights,
I stomped down on his ankles a few times, letting him know that I wanted a better reply
than that. Then I looked around and asked someone to turn on the rest of the lights so we
could see better in here. I also asked Ray about what was in the next room.
“A 200 lb. German Shepard that has 8” teeth and can have the whole thing.”
I told the burglar that I wasn’t going to be very patient and wanted some better
answers real fast. Then he told me he was taking the tools to his house in Cudahy, a few
miles away.
“Not good enough.” so I kicked him in the side.
“How the fuck you getting there, walking?” another kick in the side.
“With a shopping cart, ”was his lame answer.
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Just for your information the City of Cudahy, where author Steve Beeler of The
Firestone Syndrome grew up, was 4.9 miles from the parking lot of the station to the city
limits (not 10 miles Steve.)
Two more deputies dropped in, saying they hadn’t heard an ‘all clear’ come out
and had better check things out. I told someone to call the station and advise them we had
everything under control.
I told the newcomers that my burglar was very tight- lipped, and then someone’s
sap flashed out and crashed on his head a few times. And it wasn’t mine. When he still
wouldn’t talk he was kicked, sapped in the balls, ankles, elbows, and chest. Then he stood
up and used for a punching bag. Up, down, up, down.
Yeah, I suppose every deputy there should have gone to jail for assault but
haven’t you ever watched The Shield? This is how Firestone deputies in 1969 usually
got our information. I’m sure it doesn’t happen today.
“OK, OK, OK”, he gasped. “I came here with another Mexican who lives at 95th
Street and Anzac. He’s in a 55 Ford 2 door, green. He had the stuff in his car but drove
off when he heard tires screeching.” Now that sounded reasonable enough.
“Hey, Shaffer gets another one,” said John Sondgerath, as he came walking in
with his cadet, Deputy Biscaliuz (who is a relative of the past LA County Sheriff Gene
Biscaliuz).
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(John Sondgerath used to tell the other deputies in the locker room, when I wasn’t
around, that I was a maniac, always waving my revolver around. And I think we had
made only one arrest together when everyone else missed a burglar hiding in some
shrubs. When I saw the burglar they all over-looked I just walked up to the bushes, aimed
my revolver at him and told him to “get the fuck out or I will shoot you”.
The other three deputies at the scene, including John thought I was nuts pointing
my revolver at a ‘bush’. When our suspect came crawling out they all jumped on his ass,
yet I’m a ‘gun waving’ maniac.)
“Hey Sondagrath, have your partner wait in the car and listen to the radio,” I
requested.
“Yeah OK’ he said. “Hey, you hear we had two ‘smash and grabs’ on Central so
far tonight?”
“No, but thanks. Just take your partner outside for now please”. I replied.
.
I certainly didn’t want any academy cadet around watching this guy get punches
since cadets had a reputation of being very reliable snitches for the brass. And certainly
not one named Biscaluiz. I was about finished up and asked we all make a systematic
search the other rooms for suspects just to make sure and then get to the station.
The doors to the other room were both the large 10’ high sliding and had a smaller
one opening outward. One was slid open and I opened the regular door, instantly coming
into contact with a German Shepard that resembled the werewolf in “American Werewolf
in London”. I was easily 200 lbs. of teeth and fur with shiny eyes growling from the dark
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“Someone keep an eye on that thing. If it moves, shoot it.” I ordered.
Then it occurred to me that the other deputies had their partner with them and
mine was no where in my sight, and then suddenly, what sounded like a distress call
came out loud and clear.
“Shaffer, help me, I’ve found one.” Malone yelled.
When I use the word distress, I mean it in the sense of pain, anguish, or trouble. I
didn’t know where he was, he didn’t say he was going out on his own, didn’t know
what’d he found, or how many or if armed. In my opinion, his plea sounded real enough
to mean worse trouble for the rest of us here, and I knew if he fucked up it would be my
responsibility and my ass.
Remember this isn’t like the actor in ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ who
says, “excuse me, but those are longitudes and latitudes”. This was a deputy-sheriff who
sounded terrified.
“Shoot man, shoot.” Was the only thing I could think of saying as I ran in the
general direction of his voice, running around machinery and boxes.
I hadn’t the slightest idea where he was nor did anyone else.
I didn’t know how long it would take me to find him but I knew he was in the
process of arresting a felon, who may be in the process of assaulting a deputy-sheriff. I
also knew Malone wasn’t exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger..
“Shoot.” I yelled out again.
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I was the first one to find him as he was falling over back wards almost dropping
his revolver, as he was being thrown about by a very big black man who looked like he
was chisled from a 220 lb. steel block, and solid muscle. I ran up and kicked this guy in
the chest with everything I had, landing square and knocking him over.
Malone fell on the bottom, the black suspect next and then five deputies on top,
all trying to grab this dude’s arms and cuff him. After getting cuffs on him, he was given
one of the seldom done Firestone ass-kickings. As he is being dragged and kicked
through the refrigeration shop, I mistakenly started in on Malone in front of the other
deputies.
(Neither of these suspects were called by the prosecution to give their version of
what happened here even though the Deputy DA tried to show I wanted the 2nd arrestee
shot on the spot. Can you picture them telling a jury how we beat the crap out of them?)
“You son of a bitch. You stupid mother-fucker. When I tell you to shoot, shoot!
Had we been two seconds later that guy would have had your gun if he wanted it! You
put the lives of every other deputy on the line because you try to take a bigger bite than
you can handle. You god-damn asshole, what do you think we’re doing out here, playing
games?”
Can you tell that I was pretty mad? I think I even grabbed him to make my point,
thinking I would never be able to live with this if someone I am training get killed or gets
one of us killed or shot, really out of poor tactics and stupidity.
I have been to police funerals before and I had told him that when in a felony
situation like this not to take any chances because he wasn’t getting enough money. I was
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told lots of times by many other deputies, that when in doubt, shoot first and ask
questions later but stay alive.
A cop can always worry about things later on, but at least he’s alive to do the
worrying. Some cops didn’t figure it that way and some died for it too. “To be alive or
not to be alive, that is the question,” Shaffer quote..
When some looser breaks into someone else’s building to steal hard earned
money or materials, the ass-kicking was what most deputies knew best. And Malone
taking my ass chewing out on the Mexican, giving him a few more blows and kicks.
After a few minutes the black burglar started crying and complained of a kidney
injury, saying he just got out of a hospital for an operation. At first I was moved to tears
by his complaint but then I thought different. So Malone and I carried him to the car and
we drove him to St. Francis Hospital in Lynwood, not too far away.
At the hospital I told the doctor he was thumped because he resisted arrest, but
Kennedy, (his name) said we had beat him, singling me out as the one who kicked him in
the kidney area, and starting internal bleeding.
The doctor checked Kennedy out very thoroughly and said he was OK, there was
no injury, nor had Kennedy ever had a operation, nor a shower lately either.
Kennedy got mad calling the doctor a mother-fucker and that he wanted the
doctor to help him and would sue him if he didn’t. The doctor walked out and I
whispered to Kennedy that apparently I hadn’t kicked him hard enough, and all of a
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sudden he fell off the examining table onto the floor. Kennedy was still handcuffed and
had a problem breaking his fall.
On the way to the station we were stopped by one of our station detective units
who wanted to talk to Kennedy about the burglary. I told them where I had been and one
of the detectives got in the back seat to talk to him. When Kennedy wouldn’t look at him
the detective hit him across the forehead with his flashlight.
“There, that’s for lying. You don’t mind, do you Shaf?”
“Nope, but no blood. He’s been OK’d for booking.” I said.
Kennedy took a few more lumps in the ribs and then was taken from our car to
theirs and driven to the station for more interrogation and booking for 459 PC, burglary.
Malone and I went back to Vering Inc.
Ray Verdugo and his partner were the only ones left waiting for the owner to
arrive and re-secure things. We were sitting outside by the cars, when a sound came from
some nearby bushes.
“Psssssst, pssst, psssst.” Came the sound.
“Hey you guys, there’s someone in the bushes.” I said.
“Don’t come over here, officers, just listen,” the voice of Moses said.
“I live next door and I don’t want anyone to see me talking to you all. The things
you’re looking for are in the garage in the white house there, and some are inside.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
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“Mister, I’m a minister, and I don’t lie.” Was his reply.“Honest to God, Mr.
Officer, go look for yourself.”
The four of us went to the front door and I knocked. When no one answered the
door mysteriously popped open after someone kicked it. There was a pool table in the
living room and balls and pool sticks were scattered all over the floor. We searched the
house about ten times, coming up with a booking slip from the county jail, and the
description on it fit our Mexican. In the kitchen was a small water glass that had
marijuana seeds floating in it, and in the bedroom was a BB gun that looked like a 9mm
Luger.
We then went out to the garage, the picture changed a bit. It was filled with power
tools, welding equipment, lathes, wrenches and toolboxes. Every corner had a stack of
something, and when the owner of Vering arrived, he identified the items as being his,
showing us receipts. Only a few items were stolen from other burglaries, as the radio
dispatcher confirmed then when we ran some serial numbers over the crime computer.
These guys were in the place for a long time before we arrived.
Things being all wrapped up we decided to clear out, but some asshole started
throwing Coke bottles over the roof tops at us. After ten or more hit and broke, we started
jumping over fences looking for a culprit without success. Things were quiet again, with
no clues of our mysterious bomber, so we tried to leave once more.
Ray Verdugo and his partner left and another black and white pulled up out of
curiosity. And as Malone and I got to the sidewalk, another spectacle presented from the
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City of Watts appeared before out eyes. Coming around the corner are two young black
men who are bodily carrying a completely naked black young woman, who was in her
twenties. She was dirty and dusty like someone rolled her from a car into a vacant lot. I
just had to ask these inebriated gentlemen where they obtained their booty.
“We just founds her and we’s taken her home wif us.”
Yeah, sure.
They said she was laying near the railroad tracks in the gutter, and her condition
confirmed that. The sight of them was comical, but I’m sure illegal. But since I already
had my hands full with the burglars, I didn’t want them. The newly arrived deputies said
they would handle things. (Actually, they should have been arrested for suspicion of rape,
kidnapping, drunk, indecent exposure (her), and unlawful detention just to name a few
violations.
While in the station, the lieutenant wanted to talk to me about the complaints he’s
received from my burglars about some injuries. Neither Kennedy nor the Mexican could
stand up straight, and they did admit they were injured during the arrest. Kennedy said he
accidentally fell while burglarizing the place and that none of the deputies touched him. I
couldn’t believe that they would actually say nothing about our treatment to them and our
‘interrogation’ methods, but these old-times knew when to talk and when to shut-up. So I
guess I could say it never happened.
I saw the other deputies come in who said they would take care of the naked girl
and her ‘friends’ and since they didn’t have anyone in custody I didn’t want to venture
what they did. Probably let those guys keep her.
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The rest of the night was uneventful and we ended the watch with a pretty good
log sheet. I was glad Sunday was over, but Monday’s are the dangerous days for most
policemen, and Monday was coming up next. I refer to Monday being dangerous because
weekend frustrations are taken out on Monday.
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Chapter 17
August 18, 1969
My Web of Lies
August 18, 1963, James Meredith graduates from the University of Mississippi,
August 18, 1964 South Africa is banned from Olympic Games, August 18, 1965,
Operation Starlite begins in Vietnam and August 18, 1983 a hurricane hits the Texas
coast killing 22 and causing a billion in damage. For me I wish August 18, 1969 never
happened.
Approximately 2am a young black man got out of his bed, walked down his
hallway into the bathroom and took a leak. His father, an elderly man, asked him if he
was going back to bed. He told his father he was and that he was just up to use the
bathroom. He didn’t go back to bed. He opened the bedroom window after dressing and
slipped out into the dark night.
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Malone and I were Unit 11, covering the northern most part of our area, and
around 5 AM we met unit 11-Adam, Carl Spreen and Hal Manskar in Roosevelt Park for
some paper-work catch-up time.
Carl was the senior man, with a few more months than me. He graduated from
class 108 and I was 110. Hal was his semi-trainee, who was a big man with a deep
commanding voice, who had a good reputation in handling himself. Bill Sieber used to
call Hal Manskar a “man’s man”
We were relaxing our eyeballs and Malone was catching up on his log work,
asking when we were going to Winchell’s for coffee and donuts. At times Winchell’s
could have been mistaken for the station as there were more cars there than on patrol. It
was rumored that citizens should call there instead of the station if they wanted help.
Carl remarked that there was 6 burglaries reported the day before on businesses
along Central Avenue. He said we seemed to have a ‘ghost’ burglar on our hands.
About ten after five the radio crackled.
“Attention Firestone units 11 and 11 Adam, 11 Adam handle, 11 assist, 459 now
at 8464½TS. Central Avenue.”
We came to attention, thinking this was our early morning burglar who had been
plaguing us lately with small smash and grab crimes. Hal answered his call and so did I,
also putting the car in gear and digging long ruts in the park grass trying to get traction. I
requested that Hal go on car- to- car frequency so we could lay down a plan of approach.
The address told us it was in the county area on the east side of the street and not across
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in the city, and we also knew from experience that there were alleys running parallel
behind Central Avenue, and there were connecting alleys running behind the north-south
streets. I knew all exits had to be covered, as I had one bad experience with Carl Spreen
in the past and I didn’t want a repeat. (Carl refused to cross over a raised center-divider in
front of a TV warehouse and when he drove to the intersection to make a u-turn the
suspects simply drove away.)
I told Hal that Malone and I would come up 85th and cover the alley, and that he
come down Central Avenue and we’ll meet after I drop off Malone in the alley.
When we got to our location I dropped Malone off telling him to go to the middle
of the block and to stop anyone he sees, not to expose himself and to scream if he needed
help, or even fire & shot. At least I knew where he was.
“OK, Shaf,” he said and he ran down the alley to the middle, and I went around
to the front.
In many cases like this the responding cars will pass up the suspects who have
already left the building because they are screaming like hell to get to the call. After all, it
takes about four minutes for a radio car to receive the call after the crime has been
reported. That was one reason that I didn’t want both cars to arrive at the same time. As I
pulled around the corner I could see them driving on the wrong side of the street with
their lights off. We met head-on in front of Nomy’s Variety and Jewelry Store, 8464½3..
Central Ave. parked and got out. (In many reports it is also referred to as Naomi’s
Variety.)
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Hal, Carl and I observed that the front door was glass and had some brace bars on
the inside that were supposed to keep burglars out. On the sidewalk was a brown paper
bag that had some cuts in it. The glass on the door was broken about mid-height, and was
so small that I thought someone just came by and broke the glass out of malice, but
alerting someone who thought a burglary was going on. It just didn’t look big enough for
an adult to crawl through without severely lacerating himself.
Hal and Carl agreed with me that we probably didn’t have anything but a window
smash but since we were here we might as well go inside and find out. I broke some more
glass out and a few more bars so we could enter safely. The door was heavily pad-locked
so we couldn’t open it in the conventional manner.
Carl volunteered to stay out front a minute or so and suggested that I go in with
Hal Manskar since they were the actual ‘handling’ unit. No problem by me. Hal and I
were the biggest anyway. After we got inside he followed.
Once inside it was like crossing into a twilight zone. A cop is transformed, with
his gun drawn, like a hunter looking for prey. The thought of survival is paramount, and
although we entered thinking that there might ‘not’ be anyone inside, once inside we had
to think there was someone in here, and that someone could be armed and dangerous. To
think otherwise could prove to be fatal.
I had Tom Looney’s Smith & Wesson 6” .357 magnum loaded with Sgt. Bud
Wenke’s special made cup-pointed half-jacketed swaged hollow-point magnum rounds.
Wenke was a gun nut and a re-loader and it turned out I was a nut for using them.
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Body senses were working far above normal, and the darkness of the shop made
things much worse. We couldn’t find a light switch so we had to rely on flashlight and
owl eyesight. The perspiration beads were forming on my forehead because of the
adrenalin flow within my body, waiting for the unexpected to happen.
We started going down the main counter looking for hiding places. Clothes were
scattered about on the floor and cosmetics were stacked on the countertop, so we had
positive proof that someone ‘had’ been inside at one time or another. This kept us on our
toes, checking every little nook or suspicious cranny.
We got back to the end of the counter and found the cash drawer pulled out, and
small change was scattered about on the floor. We were nearly half way through the store
and the expectation of finding someone increases with every step forward. We moved
toward a small bathroom and shower room, Carl using the barrel of the shotgun as a prod.
The thought runs through my mind that if Carl shoots anyone at that close a range we’d
be covered in blood and gush and we’d have two halves instead of a whole.
Then I heard as if someone was throwing boards around. At first I thought it
might be Malone coming in a back door, and I could picture the two of us shooting at
each other thinking the other was a burglar. I wasn’t sure what he might do and I wanted
to be safe just because of the incident at Vering.
“Malone, Malone, is that you?” I called out.
I believe Carl later said he heard the noises but I don’t know about Hal. Next
door were some dogs, barking furiously and scratching at a side door. Then I thought the
noise may have been them jumping around knocking things over.
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The three of us spoke in one word sentences as we made our way through, saying
things as ‘..cover (me), ...there.. .desk....open (door).’ When we thought we had
something a low whistle would suffice as an alarm. We got to a middle room that had a
small bed and a phone in it, with a bare 100 watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. Carl
picked up the phone and commented that it worked. To the east of us was another room,
hopefully the last one. Hal nodded his head and we started for it. The door to it was
almost closed, so Hal and I each took a side and he pushed it open with his foot. When
the door was open we scanned it, noticing it was only a storeroom filled with junk and
nothing stacked over 12 inches high. The ceiling was plastered and offered no refuge. We
looked at each other with a question mark?
“Nothing,” he whispered.
“Let’s go, he’s gone” I said.
I felt somewhat relaxed that the search was over, knowing that the game of hide
and seek had ended. I didn’t feel naked in this dark wilderness not knowing where my
suspect(s) was, possibly pop up every time you take a step. I always think of the
Huntington Park officer who was shot to death not long ago when a man ‘popped’ up and
shot him, leaving him to die on the sidewalk. The suspect was never caught. And this
building felt so stuffy for some reason.
As we were turning around I had to spy a large black hole in the north wall of the
storage room. It didn’t look like a professionally made hole, but appeared as if someone
made a doorway with a hammer.
“Hal , I whispered
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“Let’s check it out.” He whispered back
‘Back into action nervous system, here we go.’ I thought.
We slowly crept to the black hole, finding a blacker room inside if blacker was
possible, and I mean blacker. The room ate up our flash light beams. I could see a pool
table inside and pool cues scattered on the floor. We stood there for what seemed like a
minute, neither wanting to volunteer to go into that black room and when Hal didn’t say
anything I said, “cover me.”
“Yep” was his reply.
I went in, at first I turned off my flashlight so I didn’t make myself an easy target,
and jumped behind the pool table. Hal slowly followed me in so I turned on my flashlight
again. Our guns were drawn and ready. I could feel the sweat and my glasses started to
fog up. ‘Great, that’s all I need now is to have fogged lenses’. I took them off swiftly and
wiped my face and eyes off. My attention was directed to one corner of the room after
making a quick cursory search. I didn’t see anything out of the place anywhere else but
there was a small cabinet in the far corner, big enough for some one to hide in.
I noticed quickly there were some boards, 2 x 4’s and whatever, stacked up
against the opposite wall but I shined my flash light there and didn’t see anyone or
anything unusual.
I quickly also looked under the pool table and no one was under it so I started
walking around it very cautiously heading for the cabinet. I figured our burglar had to be
in there and I was going to be ready for anything. When I opened the door, all I found
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was a water heater! A fucking water heater! No one, the room was empty! The noises
had to be Malone out backing the alley.
“What the fuck” was on my mind. I couldn’t have under stood where this dude
had gone, unless he left before we arrived. I didn’t think we overlooked him coming in
but it was possible.
I came to a full stance from my crouching position, feeling relaxed and relieved
once again. As I stepped back and was turning around I felt as if I had cold water thrown
into my face, shocking me into reality. I saw our suspect, crouched behind those 2 x 4
boards that were so narrow that either I subconsciously thought no one would hide behind
them, or else they blended into the woodwork perfectly. I had walked right by him going
to the water heater. Both Hal and I shined our lights on these boards and had no response
to them. It was weird.
What happened next only the inner parts of my mind will ever know for sure.
(The state’s psychiatrist who put me under hypnosis after I got out of prison, would only
tell me that yes, I was in danger). These things happen extremely fast yet also so slow. I
can remember seeing a hand in his right pants pocket, a flash of his face, his popcorn
style knit shirt, and he began jumping out knocking the boards out towards me. I can
remember I started to fall backwards onto the pool table in slow motion, with my left arm
going up in a protective fashion, and my legs giving out from under me. I saw a bright
flash from the barrel of my revolver but heard no sound, and as I fell onto the pool table
I watched a man fall to the floor. It was nothing like I ever saw or experienced before in
my life, it was an impulsive shooting action way beyond my control.
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The burglar actually collapsed and fell to the floor. My mind was spinning like
the universe and I could hear Hal yelling, “Where’s the gun” or “Do you have a gun?”
“Gun? ” I thought. I actually didn’t know if the burglar had a gun or not. Maybe Hal saw
something that I didn’t since I was on the pool table. All I knew is that I shot a man and I
didn’t have the intention of doing so, as in a reaction to a perceived, dangerous, stimuli.
Out of fear that I accidentally shot an unarmed burglar, and that my ass would be
in trouble if I reported it that way, I made a bigger mistake. I could have said the hand in
his pocket lead me to believe he was going for a weapon so I fired. Or that I was scared
(what? Me? Bob Big Bad Shaffer?) or else I could throw down a white handled .22
revolver # 10912, that I had in and out of my rear pocket for over a year. These were the
circumstances Lewis Cornelius and I talked about and the only reason I was carrying it,
so that’s what I did.
Then I figured it out, Hal didn’t figure the guy to be armed and was asking me if I
had a gun, a throwaway gun, so with my left hand I quickly reached into my left rear
pants pocket and I pulled out the revolver, which I will add at this time was NOT in any
plastic bag, paper bag, baggie, canvas or anything. It was by itself unwrapped, in my
back pocket. If I had to take it out of a bag certainly Hal would have seen that and I
threw the .22 near the burglars legs. (But that was not what Hal was really asking me.)
“Yes, there it is.’ I replied, pointing to the floor.
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I don’t think Hal ever saw me take it out of my pocket because of the darkness
and the confusion. If he did he has remained silent about it over 3 decades.
I took a chance doing that as it was loaded, but it had to look good. While Hal’s
flashlight was trained on the .22, I bent over carefully picking it up by the handle with my
fingers. Then I turned to the man on the floor. I noticed he was wearing a neck brace ala
whip lash injury, and when I asked him about it he grabbed it and tore it off. Then I
started to transfer the shooting on other things. I wondered why a guy has to steal to get
money in this rich country, and why did he have to pick this shop. What a fool he was. I
was getting a little upset and sick like I wanted to throw up. He was a thief who didn’t
want to get shot and I didn’t have the intentions of shooting him, and then to look at this
man who lay on the floor grabbing his legs and bleeding profusely from a gaping hole in
his stomach and wonder where the blame for his actions and my reactions really lie? It
was really hard to understand.
“Carl, get an ambulance,” I yelled.
I looked down at him and he appeared to be quite young so it was important to
know for medical reasons what his age was. “How old are you, asshole?’ I screamed at
him.
The area around the bullet hole started to bruise badly and liquidized intestines
were excreting from the wound, with blood and fluids. It looked like scrambled eggs
coming out of the hole.
“Twenty.” He yelled back at me. “I’m fucking twenty.”
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“Twenty years old and struck by a cop’s bullet. What the hell you doing here
anyway?” I whispered. “There’s nothing of any real value you idiot.”
“What’s your fucking name?” I asked next.
“It’s Molette”. He said. (It was spelled three different ways, Molete, Molette and
Mollette in follow-up investigation)
I started getting faint so while Hal stayed with the wounded suspect I went out to
lie down on the bed in the next room. My hands were trembling like a portable paint
mixer, my knees were quivering, cause I knew I was going to have to lie about this one. I
just couldn’t see myself telling anyone I accidentally shot this guy. And after Polidore’s
shooting I doubt the brass would accept an accidental shooting story, and not even that I
saw his right hand in his front pocket.
And his right hand was in his front pocket but only later on was it determined it
was to empty it of the small jewelry items he had stuffed into it.
I could hear Hal asking the guy where he got the gun, also hearing the replies of,
‘Ain’t had no gun,. ..that ain’t my gun.’
Carl Spreen radioed for an ambulance with a such shaky voice that the deputies
monitoring the radio calls in the station knew something had happened, so the lieutenant
and sergeant were on their way..
And when the headquarters dispatcher confirmed an ambulance was rolling to the
scene every other deputy on-duty knew there was an injury or a possible shooting and out
of curiosity or concern started rolling to check it out. The place would become a circus
almost.
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Sgt. Wenke was the first to arrive. I never tried keeping anything from Bud so I
told him I shot the burglar with one of his homemade bullet loads, asking him if I should
substitute a spent regulation bullet casing for the magnum one, which I would have to
eventually show the homicide investigators.
“I don’t care if you shot him with a howitzer as long as it did the job.” Was his
answer.
Using an unauthorized bullet was not illegal. Let’s face it, a bullet is a bullet,
regardless of its caliber. But our department had their specification as to the type of
revolver and bullet used in the 60’s. I knew many deputies who carried magnums and had
spent .38 casings that would be substituted after a shooting so they wouldn’t get into
departmental problems. .38 bullets can be fired in a .357 but .357 cannot be fired in a .38
because they are too long and a bit wider, but the bore diameter and bullet weight is the
same in many cases. Were we cheating? Yep. Was it illegal? No.
And even-though years later they may have changed the regulations on the type of
firearm a deputy could use you were still in semi deep shit if it wasn’t regulation today.
The bullet casing switch is an outgrowth from issuing an inferior police weapon,
and probably 90% of all policemen will tell you that. There will always be those that say
if you shoot a person between the eyes or in the heart with any caliber of bullet you will
kill them, and that’s probably true, but who in the field makes such precise shots? And I
wasn’t being dishonest about using a .357 as I told my sergeant. And my shot, a bit left
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of and above the navel isn’t exactly what I would call a deliberately placed shot. If I
wanted to be deliberate it would have been a heart shot, especially at that close of range.
Sgt. Wenke went into the rear room and I managed to follow him. The burglar
was grabbing for his legs and now was also trying to hide some jewelry under the boards.
‘You mother-fucker, I hope you die because that’s what you get for trying to
shoot one of my deputies.”
“I didn’t have no gun, man, no, man, no.” he cried out.
Then Malone came strolling in and I asked him why he left his post without being
told to do so. I told him there might be someone else still hiding and just waiting for him
to leave so they could split. He didn’t under stand that logic so I sent him to my car for
my camera. I wanted some pictures of the area before the ambulance crew arrived
because it would be evidence this guy was inside when shot and I wanted a photo for my
personal photo album. Police personal photo albums are a macabre side hobby with
some cops.
Sgt. Wenke asked me what happened and I told him I thought I heard someone
trying to fire a gun so when I turned I saw this guy pointing a gun at me so I shot him.
The story sounded good but the burglar kept crying out that he was unarmed, but who’s
was going to believe a thief anyway? No one apparently did because no one put the
burglars comments in any of their reports.
Malone came back with my camera and I took some pictures and began to tell
him some more basics about crime scene preservation and keeping lookie-loos out.
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And I did emphasize to him that he should not have left his post until relieved or
summoned since there were three of us at the front, and if one of us was had been shot by
the noise he heard, how’d he know if the suspect didn’t leave by the back way, because
he abandoned his post? But since he was here I told him to go by the outer storeroom
and guard the entrance, letting no one else pass.
Carl Spreen was posted at the front door on orders of Sgt. Wenke, because he
knew other deputies would be coming soon for a look-see.
Sgt. Stu Hansell and Lt. Bud Hansen then came in, and Sgt Wenke and Lt.
Hansen began conversing. Then Lt. Hansen asked to see the .22. I pulled it out from the
front of my waist area as it was tucked in between my Sam Browne holster belt and my
stomach area.. I gently held it up by the pearl like handles for him to look at it, and
besides Sgt Wenke, he was the only person to visually examine it in this fashion inside
the store. Absolutely NO OTHER DEPUTY touched or handled it except me. Period,
end of report.
Lt. Hansen looked at it and then at me, then, in my opinion, mumbled something
that sounded like, “A nice throwaway,” then walked away. Before the ambulance arrived
about eleven other deputies rolled by to find out what had happened. At the scene were
Carl Spreen, Hal Manskar, Bud Wenke, Stu Hansell, Bud Hansen, John Null, Ray
Verdugo, two detectives ( I think Hank Barrett and Sam Chaffey, Malone and Steve
Beeler told me in 2004 that he and his partner were also there, but I wasn’t paying too
much attention to who was coming and going outside the premises..
An agonizing twelve minutes after the shooting the ambulance crew finally
arrived and carried the fallen suspect to St. Francis hospital in Lynwood. I still didn’t
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know much about him except as Molette. Wasn’t sure if that was a first, last or street
name. Then someone suggested a picture be taken of the mop of deputies standing out
side many clowning around which was done. I don’t remember who’s camera was used
but I was given 2 copies, one was in my locker and someone posted the other under a
sign in the locker room. The sign was a drawing of two vultures sitting on a tree branch.
One was saying to the other “Hell, let’s just go out and kill something”
I used to look at it and see Malone’s cocky smile, until the homicide men took it
and the one from my locker months later..
Hal Manskar and Carl Spreen went to the hospital to get more information on the
burglar so I could start a booking slip and reports. Malone and I got into our car and for a
moment I didn’t move. I think I actually took a cigar out of the glove box, lit it up and
slowly took a few puffs on it, just sitting behind the steering wheel starring out the
drivers side window and blowing the smoke out into the cool morning LA air. (‘Hello, is
anybody in there?’)
“What happened, Shaf?’ Malone asked me.
I slowly looked at him and said, “What happened? What happened? I shot him.
That’s what happened”. The was our total conversation from Noami’s Jewelry
store on Central Ave til we arrived at the station to finish up.
On the way there I had real reservations about my post-shooting actions,
wondering if I should take the lieutenant aside and tell him what he probably already felt.
But then I thought that I’d be fired on the spot for telling a lie, and I had best keep to my
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story the way it was, because I didn’t do anything illegal in shooting him, just going to
file a false crime report and embellish the facts a bit. ‘God, what a mess’, I thought.
When I got to the station ‘everyone’ was had an opinion was telling me what I
should put in the report, and I was watching a lot of mouths moving but not hearing much
of anything. I had my notes to work from so I headed for a report writing room and took
my shirt off and began to write. Hal Manskar and Carl Spreen came in and started their
supplemental reports, and showed me more jewelry they found in the burglars front
pockets at the hospital. They had his name as Roderick Thompson.
I told them he told me it was ‘Molette’, but they said Roderick Thompson. So
‘Molette’ must be an alias or street name.
Hal began putting his initials on the jewelry he could for the chain of evidence,
and Carl was writing when Malone came in.
“Shaf, what do I put down on my report?” he asked. He kept calling me “Shaf”
and this is a deputy with over three years law enforcement experience.
“Just put down what you heard, saw, what was said, what you did. Just like any
other report. In other words, what was your role in this and what can you add. I was
scratching away when Hal interrupted me. He had a very serious look on his face.
“Bob, I can’t put down I heard the clicks you say you heard before you fired. I
didn’t hear them.”
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I told Sgt. Wenke I thought I had heard two ‘clicks’ before I fired. I took them to
be the clicks of a firing pin being struck by the hammer of a gun. I believe I did hear 2
‘clicks’, but later I figured it was the jewelry our suspect was dropping from his pockets.
“Hey, no problem. We all hear and see different things and interpret situations
different. I wouldn’t expect you to hear and see the same things I do. Ten people looking
at the same object will describe it ten different ways. No sweat.”
Because other deputies kept popping with salutations and comments interrupting
us Hal and Carl went to another room to write. I wasn’t impressed with my self so I
locked the door, only letting in Charlie Stowell and Malone.
I let Charlie in because I could have him do some follow-up for me. (Charlie
eventually became my roommate. He showed up at my house with a small trailer filled
with his belongings and basically begged for me to let him live in one of my three spare
and empty bedrooms.) Anyway, Charlie had killed a young man in a burglary in Watts
just a few weeks earlier so we had something to relate to.
He asked me how I was feeling and I told him not too good. One minute I thought
my actions were OK and the next I hated myself for being in a position to have to shoot
anyone for anything.
I asked him to call LAPD to see if he had any warrants outstanding on the suspect
because the county warrant system showed ‘no wants, no warrants. And I wanted to
incorporate any in my report also. Before he could pick up the phone to call it rang.
“Yeah, Stowell. Oh, hi. Yeah....How long ago?... who was the doctor? …. from
what?……. OK.”
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It was 8:45 AM.
“He’s dead, Bob,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh fuck no.” I said. “Dead from a stomach wound?”
Well, I killed him, and that meant there would be no changing anything now.
There wasn’t anyone to deny being armed and I had to stick to my version of events.
As a cop I always felt there would be a time when killing someone might be a
possibility and although many cops would boast how they wouldn’t let it affect them, it
does. Although I felt that what happened couldn’t have been avoided on my part, the
feeling that those instinctive actions that I ultimately took, however involuntarily, took a
human life, didn’t please me one damn bit. A breathing living entity is now a cold figure
in a dark morgue.
“Bob... .Bob. . . .Bob!” Stowell was trying to get my attention.
“Yeah.”
“His real name is Roderick Thompson Molett. And I’ll call LAPD and our own
records about warrants again.(For some reason the county records had nothing on him,
but the LAPD records revealed Mollett had been arrested for armed robbery, carrying a
concealed weapon, drunk, and recently by the Sheriff’s Department for grand theft auto.
Why LA County had no records on him was a puzzle to me, even after checking three
times.
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I finished my report and went to check on the others. While talking to Hal he
apparently decided to change his written report to state that he heard the ‘clicks’ after all.
“Listen Hal...” I tried to object.
“No, I heard them, that’s all!” he blurted.
(Little would I know that although his intentions were good to back me up, in the
long run they were one of the biggest nails to be driven into my coffin.)
I sat back down with Charlie to do the finishing touches so I could get it approved
as soon as I could so I could go home to bed. I knew that homicide would be down for a
talk and I might as well be ready for them.
The station detectives found out who owned the store, Naomi Ann Clark, and she
said she gave no one permission to be in her store, as it had been closed since May 18,
1969 except for a few Saturdays, so at least I didn’t shoot an employee.
The informant lived next door to Naomi’s in a small room. He heard glass
breaking and called LAPD who in turn called us. And by that time any smart burglar
should have been long gone.
I was in the process of telling Charlie that Hal was covering for me when
someone came in to get my report. Twenty minutes later homicide arrived and wanted to
talk to me in a juvenile detention room. One was Sgt. Paul Whiteley, a deputy I
considered honest and sincere, his partner was Guenther. We all shook hands and sat
down and they got their notebooks out to write. There were no phones here so we
wouldn’t be bothered by incoming calls.
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Earlier I gave Malone the revolver in a plastic evidence bag with the jewelry Carl
Spreen had found on the burglar and asked him to take this to the watch sergeant as
evidence.
I had told them what I had put down in my report. Since it was finished and
approved, any change now would be conflicting, and I didn’t need any conflicts. It went
uneventful except for the part about my revolver. Sgt. Whiteley asked who the revolver
belonged to and I told him Tom Looney, whom he knew. Whiteley, in my opinion, turned
to his partner and said, ‘It looks like a standard Smith & Wesson special to me, wouldn’t
you say so partner?”
“Right,” was his partner’s answer.
“And the shell casing looks like a standard .38 casing too,” Whiteley remarked.
I had to smile because it was obvious to all of us what they really were and they
were only trying to protect me from departmental regulations. They were covering for
me. That was how I saw it then and now.
After some more small talk they excused me and I went to my locker and changed
clothes. As I was leaving Charlie asked me to go to breakfast with him so we went to a
coffee shop at Florence Avenue and Salt Lake in Huntington Park. I ordered bacon and
eggs but didn’t touch them and then told Charlie I had to get home to bed and left.
Many years later country-western singer Joe Diffey would produce a song called
“3rd Rock From the Sun”, and in it he would sing the phrase, ‘when you’re spinning
round, things come undone.’
(My report is as follows:)
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I didn’t go home first but stopped off at St. Helen’s Catholic Church, corner of
Gate and Firestone Blvd in South Gate. I needed to see a priest. I walked in the church
and sat at a front pew til a priest came in and I asked him to please hear my confession.
He said it wasn’t the right time for confessions but I told him I really needed him to hear
mine.
We went into a confessional and I told him exactly what happened, it was much
fresher then than we I started putting my notes together. I remember him asking me if I
felt threatened or endangered. I told him I was. He said something like even though the
commandment says “Thou Shalt Not Kill” I chose a line of work where it may be
necessary and he felt I should not have lied about things afterwards.
He suggested I go back and tell my superiors the truth, gave me my penance and I
left to go home.
(I had converted to Catholicism on the wishes of my wife Marilynn)
I slept until 3 PM and then got out of bed to go to my friend’s house for a beer.
Tom Merchant, my friend and a Compton Policeman, was still in bed as he worked
graveyard also. I sort of sat around with his wife, Cheryl, watching the tube and sipping
from a can of Coors. When she asked me why I was so down I told her I had killed a
burglar that morning and I just wasn’t feeling right. She looked as if she didn’t believe
me, paying more attention to her child who was pulling on her iron cord while she was
trying to iron clothes.
I think she said something like, “oh really, how nice”.
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She didn’t hear a word I said. ‘Damn it, pay attention to me,’ I wanted to scream
out.
I went home and waited for my wife to get home. When I told her about what
happened she thought I was bullshitting because nothing had been on the news. Even
another cop neighbor of mine from South Gate PD, Kenny McCoy, thought I was fibbing
a little, because he hadn’t heard anything about it either.
I reported to work that night and was slapped on the back by a few guys who
thought I was a hero. All we did that night was check on some mini-bikes that were
making too much noise, take a robbery report and drove around. You would think there
would be a policy putting me on desk duty of giving me a few days off but if there was it
was ignored. . But, I had the next two off and was glad when the shift was over.
It seemed to me that it was a few days later that my wife Marilynn, served me
with divorce papers. Married near five years, high school sweethearts, and down the
tubes. In a way I didn’t blame her. Since I became a deputy my personality had changed.
I was loud and had a super-ego that wouldn’t stop. I had all but severed our personal
relations with our past civilian friends and wouldn’t visit her family on weekends and
holidays. I had another love… .police work, and it was more important me than my
family life. I expected this for some time since I was suspicious she had been dating other
guys from her advertising agency claiming she was working late. I told her I would
change and even bought her this lovely, three bedroom, 2 bath house hoping we would
start a family.
When I got back to work I checked to see if I was on a transfer list to another
station which was done some times after a shooting. I could use a change in environment
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so I put in an application for the narcotics division and also filled out an application to be
an investigator for the district attorney’s office like my friend Gary Komers.
Chapter 18
Malone Gets His Chance To Kill Someone
On a call one night, Malone and I assisted Deputy Ronald Herbst and his partner
with a burglary call. I told Deputy Herbst I wouldn’t go in the building but I would watch
the perimeter instead. I was getting gun shy and didn’t want to have any remote
possibility of shooting anyone else for a long time, if ever.
Nine days later Malone and I are driving southbound on Central Avenue from
Slauson Avenue in Los Angeles. We had just been by the Black Panther headquarters at
54th and Central (I think) to see what was going on in the city. There were threats that any
police cars that drove by would be immediately shot at so we drove by to see if there was
any action. There was none.
I think we were just hitting Gage Avenue when I spotted a pair of red lights in the
distance coming towards us. I pulled over and waited to find out what the unit was up to.
It appeared to be a LAPD black-and-white. When it got nearer to our position I saw the
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black-and-white was following a 4 door Plymouth sedan, which I first thought was a
narcotic unit with a plainclothesman behind the wheel. Then I thought better of that
opinion because I think the LAPD sergeant driving the black-and-white started waving
his hand at me in a fashion like “come with me!”
I whipped a U-turn and turned on the reds and siren. Before I advised my
dispatcher I was in pursuit with an LAPD unit, I wondered where his assistance was
because I could see him coming from a long way off and this part of the city is usually
crawling with LAPD cars. Since it seemed we were alone, I put out my broadcast and
gave the 383 Plymouth the gas. Away we went. I recall advising the dispatcher I was in
pursuit with LAPD and that was all. She kept asking me what I had but I couldn’t hear a
thing over the siren noise. All I knew was I was chasing a suspect and I didn’t really
know what for. It could have been a dude who ran a red light for all I knew, but I don’t
think the LAPD cop would have wanted me to follow for that.
I told Malone to buckle down and to grab the shot-gun. “What for?” he asked.
“Because these things get real hairy sometimes”, answered.
By that I meant we wouldn’t know if we might end up in something bigger than
we could handle. This thing could be a set up by the Brown-berets, a militant
Mexican group, the Black Panthers or just about anything. I wanted to be very
prepared.
When police go in pursuit and gives the direction of the pursuit, almost every car
in the area starts coming in on a possible location. Sheriff’s cars from as far as
Willowbrook and Carson heard the dispatcher acknowledge my ‘pursuit’ call and started
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heading our way, and they were five to ten miles south. All they knew was I had put in a
pursuit call and maybe needed help. That’s brotherhood!
The suspect wasn’t traveling over fifty miles an hour so I wasn’t sure if maybe
that first car wasn’t a narcotics unit going to a call and the LAPD car was assisting him..
It was weird chasing someone who didn’t want to go fast. Like OJ’s pursuit. I think it
was at 55th and Central Avenue when the suspect turned right (east) on 55th Street. The
LAPD driver didn’t make the turn and hit a telephone pole head-on. When I was
approaching the corner I figured he was dead because the car looked like a total (see
picture). It was a sergeant who jumped out and kept waving me on since I was the nearest
police unit to the suspect.
See photos below..
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I could see red emergency lights flashing south on Central and I think I remarked
to Malone how they were driving down the wrong side of the street weaving in and out of
the traffic lanes.
When I turned right and punched the Plymouth, I could see I was closer to the
suspect than I thought. I think he was lost or something and didn’t know which way to
go. As both our cars approached Hooper Avenue, two LAPD units went flying past
southbound on Hooper over-shooting their prediction of where the pursuit would go.
(Remember what I said about the units guessing where the suspect might go?)
I was on the radio advising my dispatcher I was on 55th street and that the LAPD
unit hit a telephone pole and that she should send an ambulance and tow truck (I was
thorough) and more assistance. When the suspect got to Hooper Avenue I think he
wanted to turn right (south) but lost control of the car. His started to turn but he did a
complete turn in a four wheel skid and ended up facing northbound instead. While the
driver was getting his head straight I was catching up. In fact, he just started giving his
car the gas when I got to the intersection.
As I pulled out and behind the suspect, the two I units that over shot 55th were
coming back again. I could see them about forty yards behind me. Red lights and sirens
were getting obvious now.
“Listen”, I shouted to Malone. “Take the shot-gun and get ready. I don’t know
what this guy is wanted for but I’m pulling up alongside. You tell him to pull over and if
he looks like he’s going to make the slightest motion to run us off the road, you open up.
Understand?”
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I think I got a response from him, I’m not too sure. Anyway, I found a chance to
pull alongside the now not so fast moving suspect and Malone yelled at him to pull over
and stop. The procedure was asinine now that I think about it. I didn’t know if he was
armed and if he was he could have blown us off the map. I could have sat back while the
LAPD units closed in for the bust but I didn’t work like that. But it was the only way for
me to get a response from the suspect.
Now remember that all of this is going on while we are chasing this guy down a
dark street in Los Angeles. I’m supposed to be doing the thinking for both of us and drive
the car on top of it, not to mention handling the radio. (The dispatcher was recording the
pursuit.)
“OK, get set, here we go again.” I told Malone.
I pulled alongside the Mexican and Malone yelled, “Pull over, you’re under
arrest.” Like that really worked too.
The dude looked over and I yelled, “Pull over you mother fucker.” Maybe that did
something to him because I could see it coming. He was turning the steering wheel of his
car.
‘Crash,’ goes his car into mine. ‘Shoot man, we’re going to die.” I yelled at
Malone.
I said this to Malone because I had lost control of the car and was starting to
broadside a parked car. I figured that if we were going to get creamed chasing this punk
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at least Malone could get a few shots off. But just before I hit the parked car I pulled it
out and gave chase again. I pulled alongside once more and the suspect rammed us once
more knocking us around. “Shoot the bastard,” I yelled at Malone, while shaking him
with the hand that was holding the microphone (which was transmitting).
Malone was holding the shotgun but dropped it for some unknown reason.
Maybe it kicked too hard, maybe he lost his courage. I never did find out.
I thought Malone then fired three shots from his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. I
don’t know how it happened as it did but I will never, ever believe what I saw. As the
suspect was getting ready to ram us for the third time, I grabbed Malone and he fired shot
number 1 that hit the drivers side door at about lower chest level for a person sitting
down. I didn’t see this shot hit but I saw the next two.
If number one had been with a gun that had a bit more firepower our suspect
would have been out for the count. Because it was a .38 using hollow-point bullets, the
bullet did not penetrate the inner door panel. Instead it spread out like a mushroom after
going through the outer door.
Malone would have had what he used to refer to as “When do I get my first
nigger?” but a Mexican instead. Bullet number 2, believe it or not, hit the left rear tire,
just line in the movies. I saw the tire spit out a gray powder but I didn’t think Malone hit
the tire at first because he was firing at point blank range and I watched him aim. I
thought that maybe the LAPD units behind us were also firing at the suspect. The final
bullet he fired hit the rear left door wind-wing, shattering it and going through the front
seat and out the right front door wind-wing. Then he stopped firing….., in fact he stopped
doing everything. He just sat there frozen.
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With a flat tire the Mexican wasn’t going anywhere too fast. In fact, he was
slowing to a crawl. I pulled alongside once more expecting Malone to do something,
anything. Aim his revolver, yell at the dude, tell him he’s under arrest, demand that he
stop the car, anything. Instead, he just sat still with his .38 in his hand looking straight
ahead. (‘hello, is anybody in there’?).
I looked over at the suspect and he looked right back at me. I was in the process
of advising the dispatcher we had fired some shots, when I saw the suspect bend over to
the passenger side of his car and disappear out of sight. I thought he was reaching for a
gun.
“Look out Malone, he’s reaching for something,” I yelled.
Malone still just sat there not moving a muscle. I pulled out my .357, and as the
suspect sat up and looked over at us once more (we were still moving about 5 mph), he
seem to smile just a bit and I figured that was his way of telling us now it’s his turn to
shoot back, so I fired two shots. The suspect was lucky.
I was still using Sgt. Wenke’s special cup-pointed loads. (Since the shooting of
Roderick T. Molette we did not have afterwards, a revolver or ammunition inspection by
our watch commander prior to going out on patrol. In fact, I don’t there ever was one my
whole short time at Firestone.)
The lead was very soft giving the bullet remarkable expanding power but no
penetration power. That was the bad thing about them. Because of this, this Mexican
lived to see another day, and maybe another caper. My first shot hit the wind-wing in
front of his head,(we were partial to wind-wings) and the wind wing just disappeared. My
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second shot hit the partially rolled up driver side window. I watched this window
disintegrate before my eyes. There was no hole going through it like one would expect.
The whole window was gone. And then the suspect dropped over out of sight.
I thought I blew his head off as I pulled forward. His car finally came to a stop
and was immediately surrounded by LAPD units. Two officers grabbed the suspect and
drug him out and then started kicking him. ‘How could they kick a dead man like that?’ I
thought.
Then came about ten sheriff’s units and twenty LAPD units, two ambulances (one
city and one county) and one mobile Channel 5 news truck, taking footage of the shootem up. It seemed that the suspect was very much alive. His only visible wounds were
some small lacerations in the left side of his neck that were caused by the bullet as it
disintegrated upon impacting the window. His invisible wounds were the ones he
received after getting kicked by LAPD a few times.
If I would have shot him with a standard 180 grain .38 bullet, a departmentally
legal round, I believe he would have died at the scene. His neck lacerations were dead
center of his neck about 1 to 2 inches below his left ear. And this would have been a very
righteous shooting in anybody’s book, with no lies, stories or cover-ups.
Things were pretty boisterous. He was wanted for grand theft auto, robbery:,
kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon and grand theft wallet before I ever laid eyes
on him. It seems that he robbed the owner of the car, beat him with a coke bottle, threw
him out into the street, tried to run him over with the car, all in front of the LAPD
sergeant who was parked nearby watching all the action. That’s when the pursuit started
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around 94th Street somewhere. So I had come out smelling like a rose, and in a small
way so did Malone.
Malone finally came into action. He was searching the suspect’s car and found the
reason the suspect bent over. He was apparently hiding the victim’s wallet under the front
seat. He did such a good job at hiding it that it got him shot for his furtive movements.
My watch commander, Lt.William Reid, quickly responded to the location with
one of the sergeants. He demanded to know who was using a magnum. I had one but I
also had my empty .38 casings to show him and he accepted them upon inspection so I
was clear. Malone was also clear. Although he was carrying a 6” .38 that I had borrowed
from another deputy to improve Malone’s image, he was using approved souped up loads
in it. Not magnums but a little faster than the usual .38’s. But if needed, He was also
carrying some standard .38 casings so that meant he was clear also. I suppose the
lieutenant never saw a car with that many windows shot out like they were tonight.
There was an argument over who was going to take control over the now captured
villain. LAPD said they wanted him first because they observed the first crime. I said I
wanted him because I shot him and our people would want to interrogate him. While we
were beefing over who would take him, some deputies removed the suspect from the city
ambulance and hustled him into the county ambulance and to the hospital. I can
remember an LAPD sergeant throwing his hat on the ground and stomping on it yelling
something about registering a complaint about our underhanded procedures. All while
the TV film crews were shooting the scene!
After thoroughly searching the stolen car (in front of the rolling news cameras)
and rounding up my LAPD witnesses because the suspect rammed my unit, Malone and I
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split. While we were going back to the station he told me that he didn’t fire three shots
but rather four. Neither of us knew where the fourth shot went to but we both decided not
to mention it to anyone unless something came up later on. After all, he had shown Lt.
Reid three empty .38 casings. I sure don’t remember hearing him fire more than three but
maybe he did. At least he had the proof that he fired four because he had the empty
casings. His report only 3 said shots fired, a false police report.
We went through the usual reporting procedures once again when a shooting
happens. The only thing that bugged me were the homicide investigators. They treated
the suspect like some kind of hero instead of a criminal. I could see a homicide sergeant
walking through the hallway with the suspect with one arm around his shoulder.
‘What kind of shit is that?’ I wondered.
The other thing that bugged me was homicide expected me to remember ‘every’
small incident during the pursuit. They wanted to know a block-by-block traveling
dialogue that I wasn’t able to give. The only thing they added was apparently I had run
over a big black dog that had ventured into my pathway. I don’t remember any dog but
they said it used to weigh over 100 pounds before I hit it. I didn’t feel a thing.
It could be at this time someone at homicide decided they didn’t like me?
I think I managed to milk this thing out until the end of the shift. I had to go to the
LAPD 77th station to sign a traffic accident report because the suspect had crashed into
my car in city territory, and I had witnessed the sergeant crashing into the pole. In fact,
the sergeant met me at the door to the station. The only injuries he was suffering from
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were sore knees from hitting the dashboard. He had his seat belt on and I know that saved
his life..
The city also wanted a copy of my report but I can’t remember getting a copy of
theirs. I didn’t really need a report because every LAPD officer I knew at Cerritos
College in Norwalk was soon to tell me about it.
I got back to the station to find out that Malone, still in training, was going out in
his own one-man patrol car in the Carson, Wilmington area. I had to shutter thinking
about it. Lt. Reid also knew that Malone wasn’t supposed to drive yet but they were short
of help on the day watch. So Lt. Reid over-rides Lt. Hansen’s orders.
“Hey Shaf,” Malone called.
“I get to work a one man Carson car. What do I do?”
“For one thing,” I answered, “be careful. You’ working an area you don’t know
so get your location and reporting maps. The desk deputy knows you’re a trainee so he
shouldn’t give you any calls unless it’s an emergency. I tell you what you do. Drive to
Avalon Blvd. and about 190th Street and just park there and write citations all day. That
way you can be sure whom you stop. You can take your time setting the brake, checking
the hot-sheet for stolen cars, using the mike and for writing the ticket.”
With those instructions hotshot Malone finally went to work in his own one-man
radio car--for one day. The next time I saw him was that evening, all smiles.
“I wrote a few tickets,” he said.
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Before I went to work that night I buzzed down to Tom’s house. At this time he
had quit Compton Police and went to work for LAPD and was now working LAPD
University Division and he was on duty when my pursuit and shooting went over the air.
He didn’t get to join it because he was booking someone at the station. But he sure told
me about it from LAPD’s end of it.
I walked in his door just as the channel 5 News’ George Putnam was showing the
part where the suspect was finally apprehended. There I was in all my glory taking the
lead in the investigation. The camera couldn’t miss me. All I caught verbally was “...the
deputies fired five shots finally apprehending the suspect.”
“Five shots!’ Tom exclaimed. “How come you fired so many shots and you didn’t
kill him?”
“You ought to try shooting at a dude when you are trying to drive a car, use the
mike and anyway I only fired two, Malone fired three point blank and the only thing he
did was hit was a tire and some windows”, I said.
“A tire, you got to be kidding. Maybe the two of you should go to the range,”
Tom said.
After his critique I drank my Coors and headed for Cerritos College where I had a
class in narcotics and vice given by an ex-Long Beach PD captain who did nothing but
tell war stories. As I sat down, the guy who sat next to me asked me where I worked.
Since most of the students were cops and I knew he was LAPD cause his handcuffs kept
showing from under his shirt I told him.
“Firestone.”
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“Firestone, and your name is Shaffer. Yeah! Shootin’ Shaffer. That’s you. How
come you fired five shots last night and didn’t hit that asshole?” he asked.
I had to tell him the whole thing as I did Tom. I didn’t mind telling this guy
because he worked the 103rd Street station and I would drop in once in a while to
bullshit. (This same officer saw me years later when I was in prison. I can’t remember his
name but when he was on a tour of the prison facility he just asked to see if I was there. A
staff member, Dean Greene, arranged a visit. It was a welcomed visit.)
‘Shootin’ Shaffer.’ That was my LAPD nickname, at least to those who knew
about me. Since March 1969 I had shot three persons, two burglars and one low-rider
who beat up queers. That was way too many in too short a time.
About a week later I got the full story on the low rider. He was hitchhiking from
East Los Angeles and the guy who picked him up was queer and wanted to suck this
Mexican off, so somehow they ended up in Watts. When the fruit starts going down on
the Mexican the Mexican hit him with a coke bottle the queer bought for him en-route,
then decided to steal his wallet and car because queers were repulsive to him. Trying to
run the queer over was an accident. The Mexican didn’t drive too well and had a problem
steering the car, and the LAPD sergeant was watching this all. The rest you know.
The ultimate criminal action was funny. Our suspect pleaded guilty to 38
misdemeanor counts and received six months in the county jail. Why the county never
charged him with assault with a deadly weapon against Malone and me with his car I
don’t know.
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The story about the shooting came out in one of the local papers. Although I have
a copy (attached), I can only guess that the paper was the Huntington Park Daily Signal,
because it had close ties with the sheriff’s department. What I would like to compare is
the differences of ‘story-telling’. And, this is my first taste of how the printed media can
fuck things up.
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The news report relates how Malone and I said, “the suspect was hitch-hiking,”
etc, etc. I didn’t tell the press a fucking thing and neither did Malone. And then when a
newspaper says police when they should say deputies, boy, that irked me. Policemen are
policemen and deputies are deputies. Put the word where it is supposed to go but use the
right one! You wouldn’t call an FBI man a Secret Service agent.
“The sheriff’s vehicle joined the chase a few blocks from the hold-up scene.”
From 94th and Central Avenue to Gage Avenue is 36 blocks! Now if the reporter who
wrote this story considers this a ‘few blocks’, just what is his interpretation of a long way
away?
“The deputies said (here we go again) the fleeing car bla, bla, bla, in an attempt to
ram the pursuing vehicles.” The deputies never said that either but it got into the story.
This deputy wrote that the suspect tried to ram, and did in fact ram his vehicle. But
vehicle is singular and the newspaper story relates ‘vehicles’ and that is plural. I never
saw Hunnicutt (the arrestee) try to ram any other pursuing vehicles but my own.
(I never thought about the discrepancies in a newspaper report until I got
convicted. And boy they fuck things up reporting the ‘news’. All of them....
It was in September that Sgt. Wenke was really getting to the end of the line with
Malone. He even had some meetings with Sgt. Owens and Sgt. Parsons, who also
weren’t impressed about Curtis. Sgt. Wenke asked for complete documentation on
Malone’s poor working habits so he could file a civil service commission hearing to have
him fired. This was pretty severe action against a deputy, and I never knew anyone who
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went through this before. They advised him that he was back on beginning training status
and that was a real shock to him. Although I felt that in the long run he would make it,
they felt otherwise, citing they had no more time to spend on him. They wanted him fired
immediately, that’s how severe it was.
(Sgt. Wenke kept this documentation until 1973. After I was paroled I called him
about getting this documentation and he said his house was burned down by arsonists and
thought the documents had been destroyed. If he had them he would let me know, but I
never heard from him again.)
It was also in September that I was having more severe chest pains, caused by too
much stress. My divorce and now the draft board was after me, and the problem of
Malone. We ran into Viesta Miller behind the Raven’s Club and Malone still wanted to
‘shoot the nigger’. We talked to Viesta and he remembered his last beating and even
commented on how good it was. (The next night he was killed while robbing a liquor
store at 53rd Street and Central Avenue. Not only him but two clerks died also, all shot
by another clerk.)
When the shift was over I found Malone in the most depressing mood. I think he
had an idea of what was happening with him. Apparently Sgt. Wenke had sounded him
again on his procedures, and his head was on his chest it was so low. He couldn’t
understand why he wasn’t doing well because he wanted so bad to be one of the boys.
And to top that off his wife was giving him problems once again. I really felt sorry for
him and wanted to ask him to stay at my house again to sleep instead of driving that hour
trip to San Fernando, but I was going to get drunk.
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We did talk about his training and I told him that not everyone can be a patrolman
and maybe he should think again about going to another division for a while then coming
back out. And I also told him that maybe if he had another training officer it might be
different. He just drug himself to his beat up Karman Ghia and drove away. He looked so
sad.
With that a few of us headed for George’s Bar-B-Que in Huntington Park for a
smash-up. There was Luther ‘Pat’ Smith, Chuck Stowell, a couple of detectives and
maybe four other deputies. I don’t think that George’s was really open but we just walked
through the back service entrance and opened it up.
George’s used to be the hang out for the detectives, narc’s and whoever else from
the station. There was a back room for shooting (or throwing) darts (they served the best
Irish coffee in town), a lunchroom for steaks and bar-b-que sandwiches, and a good
cocktail bar. What else does a cop need when he wants to get smashed all day long?
We headed over there and started drinking Cuba Libras with 151 proof rum.
After that it was gin and tonics and whatever else came to mind. Then a few dart games
and some beer. Soon after, lunch time and then back to the bar, for more drinks and some
juk box music.
It was around 2 PM, so that meant we had been there around six hours. I
remember that Luther was sitting next to me and we were eating free ham sandwiches
that the bartender was providing. After all, the whole flock of us probably left over a
hundred dollars in bar tabs and tips. He could afford to feed us.
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We bullshit over past arrests, tried to pick up girls when they came in. A few of
the guys scored but here was Luther, Chuck and I at the bar. Chuck and I were living
together because his wife threw him out of their Westminster apartment for the tenth time
in four months so we had no place to go but home. Luther, well, he couldn’t even go
home this late.
I knew it was time for me to go when I was talking to Luther and just rambling.
He went back to drinking 151 proof rum. He was talking and went to put his chin on his
hand which was propped up on the bar but instead of hitting the bar with his elbow he fell
off the tall bar stool right on his ass. I just looked down at him passed out on the floor and
got up to leave. Charlie was just as bad.
On my way out I vomited all over the bathroom floor and hallway. As I walked
out the door the sun and fresh air hit me like a hammer. I couldn’t believe it. Then to top
it off I couldn’t find my sunglasses and the weather was in the low hundreds. I was
almost blinded.
I got in my Corvette and raced down to Firestone Blvd. I went east on Firestone
(somehow) to Garfield Avenue in Downey. For some reason I kept having the feeling I
was driving on the wrong side of the street. In fact, as I was nearing my house (driving
south on Garfield Avenue) I remember passing some dip-shit in a Corvair Manza going
15 miles per hour. I was going around 60 and I knew I was on the wrong side of the road
because I saw a car coming right at me.
I must have missed everyone because next thing I remember I was parked on my
front lawn with the drivers door open. Only thing was I didn’t open it. Standing next to
my Yellow Bomb was some fellow about my age but dressed somewhat more
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conservative. (I had already taken to wearing bell-bottoms and mod clothes much to the
chagrin of the lieutenants, sergeants and other deputies.) His mouth was moving but I
wasn’t hearing a thing. I could hardly see him for that matter either. In his left hand he
was holding a badge.
“Downey Police Department,” he was saying.
I looked at him and tried to clear my thoughts. “What did you say?” I asked.
“I’m Officer Blaaaa?), from the Downey Police Department and I’m arresting you
for reckless driving and now drunk driving. Although I’m off duty I can still arrest you,”
he stated.
I looked at his car. It was that white Corvair I passed.
“Fuck your badge,” I told him. “I got one of my own,” I slurred as I pulled out my
nice and shiny badge in its black holder. “See, number 276,” I blabbered out. “And this is
my house.”
“And anyway, what difference would it make. My wife left me and the Army is
going to draft me and send me to Vietnam.”
“Oh man, I’m sorry. Everything’s OK. I know what you are going through and
since you’re one of us, it’s cool. See you later,” he said and walked to his car.
I don’t remember seeing him driving away and I don’t remember going into my
house either. Ken McCoy, my cop neighbor was kind enough to close the door to my car,
pick up my ID and wallet, that I dropped on the lawn. I was really smashed.
I didn’t do that again but I did get stopped for speeding often enough. I think
Lynwood PD or the California Highway Patrol nabbed me about once a week for
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speeding either down Alameda Avenue or Centruy Blvd. At well over a hundred. I liked
going fast to work. Once the CHP aimed a shotgun at me and cocked it when I got out of
my car to identify myself. Oh well
It was in September and I found out through the deputy grapevine that Malone
was truing to transfer back to Wayside Honor Rancho. But before he left he pulled his
most stupid blunders I ever experienced. The first one was comical, the second one
wasn’t.
The first one we were assisting LAPD. We received a call to go to the Mobil Gas
Station at Central Avenue and Manchester Avenue regarding a robbery report. When we
arrived we found two hill-billies in a 59 Chevy convertible and they were beat all to hell.
It seems they made the mistake of going into all an all black bar for a drink and then
showing off their money. Within two seconds they were jumped and beaten, and robbed.
They must have gone into one of the high class bard or else they would have been killed.
One of them was really bad off so I summoned an ambulance to take him to St.
Francis Hospital in Lynwood for treatment. The other one was going to show me where
these punks were so I could do what I was getting paid to do—gently take them to jail.
It seems that the crime went down in the city area around Main Street and 75th
Street. I called for a LAPD unit to meet us and all of us would go looking. But as I
crossed Central Avenue I picked up a nail or something and had a slow leak in my left
rear tire.
Malone and I waited for LAPD. In ten minutes or so they showed up. “Hey, you
guys said Florence Avenue not Manchester Avenue,” their driver said to me.
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“As usual you are fucked up. Anyway, I got a robbery victim here and he wants to
show us where he was robbed and beaten. It seems it went down in your area and since
he’s in my car, we’ll tag along for the ride,” I told him.
Hey, Shootin Shaffer? That’s Ok by me, the more the merrier. You know you got
a slow leak,” he inquired.
Yes sir, but I got me a trainee to change it later on. Lead the way to Main Street.”
As we drove Malone said, “You mean that I have to change to flat Shaf? Why?
You’re driving.”
“All trainees change flat tires. I did it and you’ll do it, anyway if you look on
your training check list you will see flat tires marked on it. That means you get to do it.’
“Oh shit. Why not call a tow truck to do it,” he asked.
“Because you are going to do it, that’s why,” I answered.
The victim showed us the way to the bar where he got his butt kicked. There was
blood from the bar to the place where he parked his car. The manager didn’t even bother
to clean it up. This was why I enjoyed law enforcement.
It seemed that the suspects were a few local Black Panthers who lived down the
street from the bar. LAPD, Sgt. Wenke (who had arrived) and Malone and I went to ‘hit’
a few apartments. The city was kind enough to keep watch on the rear doors while two
other LAPD officers and the three of us went in a few front doors. The contents of two
apartments were the same. People, sleeping all over the floors, beds and sofas. A few
women the objected to the intrusion (I thought we were invited?) and wanted to see our
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warrants. ‘Search Warrants are for property, not for people,” was the usual answer as we
looked high and low.
None of the suspects could be found although we had the right place. It was just a
matter of time before the city detectives picked them up. Our job was finished so we
decided to leave.
Malone and I were walking past Sgt. Wenke’s unit and Bud said, “You know you
got a flat tire?”
“No, Malone has a flat tire” I replied.
Sgt. Wenke and I were chatting on the sidewalk when either he or a LAPD officer
asked, “What is that guy doing to your car?”
“He’s changing a fiat,” I replied.
And I know that he said, “But the tire he’s taking off isn’t flat.”
Oh no, I couldn’t believe it. I turned around and sure enough, Malone was taking
off the right rear tire, which wasn’t flat.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sgt. Wenke asked him. And remember Sgt.
Wenke does not like Malone..
“I’m changing the flat like Shaffer asked me to, why?” he said.
“Because the tire you are taking off isn’t flat. The flat one in on the other side
stupid!”
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He couldn’t believe it. He looked at the tire, at me, and then the tire again. He
slowly jacked the car down, took the jack off and put it on the left side, jacked the car up
and went to work changing the one that was flat on the bottom.
“Bud, I can’t believe it,” I said.
“Bob, I’ve had way too many complaints against Malone. This about does it for
me. Keep a written account of every fuck up he commits. I want to document it and
present it to the boss. I want Malone fired. He had no more business being a deputy than
the man in the moon.”
“Lt. Hansen told me that a few weeks ago.” I told him.
I really heard about the tire episode in the station for weeks to follow. No one else
had a trainee who did anything near that and trainees do some stupid things at times. But
me, I seemed to have the village idiot. But Lt. Reid liked him!
Incident number two was a murder in Cudahy.
Although we were not a contract Cudahy car, we received a call to go to Cudahy
because a stabbing occurred at an apartment house on Live Oak, I think. We got there in
about 6 minutes and found out we had three people stabbed and one of them was dead.
(pictures)
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Cudahy, like I expressed before, wasn’t known in deputy circles as a Beverly
Hills. To Firestone deputies it was full of assholes, oakies and Mexicans, kids and to our
delight wild women. I know because I ran across them much too often while working
there. And the hassle of working there is the nearest backup is at least five minutes away
Code 3.
I walked in and saw bloody people laying everywhere. Three Mexicans had
attacked the manager of the apartment complex, all because he badmouthed one of them
for breaking a beer bottle on a walkway. When the manager was being stabbed a
neighbor and his wife tried to help. In the ensuing fight, the woman was killed and her
husband slashed up. All this mayhem with a small pocketknife with a 2” blade.
The attackers left the scene but people got a description of them and their Ford. I
took some pictures after putting out a broadcast of the suspects and calling for some
ambulances. I told Malone to start the EAP (emergency aid plan) slips for the ambulance
drivers and I went back inside.
In a few minutes he came in to tell me that a Bell PD officer was giving some
Mexicans in a Ford a ticket for running a red light at Wilcox Avenue and Florence
Avenue, and they had blood on them. A sheriff’s special enforcement unit who had heard
my broadcast was also standing by with the Bell PD officer (who was alone).
I told him, “Let’s go,” and we jumped in the car.
I went to start the engine but the battery was dead. “What the fuck is the matter. It
sounds as if we have a dead battery,” I yelled.
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“I turned the key off to save gas,” Malone said.
“Yeah, but you left the emergency lights and head lights on. Now I can’t start this
pig and our suspects are around the corner. If someone else gets there before we do, our
ass is mud.”
I turned the accessories off and counted the seconds. I turned the ignition key and
the engine barely turned over, but enough to get it going. I pulled the transmission into
gear and burned rubber a hundred feet I was so mad. Then I turned the emergency and
headlights on.
When I got to Wilcox and Florence there were the suspects. I got out of the car
and walked over to them. All three of them were spread eagled over the sheriff’s unit. I
found the one guy with the most blood on him and when I took him to put cuffs on him
Malone bashed him in the head with his lead filled sap. With that action every lawman
there started kicking ass. I had three pair of handcuffs, so I wouldn’t need any help from
the SEB deputies. That way they wouldn’t have to go to the station with a prisoner and I
wouldn’t have to put them in my report either. Also, we get the ‘atta-boy’ for a good and
lucky arrest.
We threw them in my car and on the way back to the station we had to go by the
apartment cause Malone dropped his field notebook. There was another unit that had
some witnesses. I just happened to stop at a stop sign under a bright light and shine my
flashlight on my suspects so the witnesses could have a look-see for a good identification.
The word was a final ‘yes’ , it was them. Into the station for a murder booking and for the
writing of another beautiful report where the report is written around the crime and where
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the suspect is so tightly wrapped up as being guilty that the best he could do was go take
the best plea bargain offered.
The prisoners were booked in the usual manner. The only comment that was made
by the lieutenant was I wasn’t wearing my helmet when in the field. He even noted that
‘violation’ down in a station file kept on the deputies. And in this file I had three such
‘violations’ but twenty-one comments for good arrests. Only Charlie Stowell was in front
of me, not that I was counting.
Just a few nights after this Malone and I received another call to go to Cudahy.
The calls seemed to come out when the shift was changing in that city. The 4 PM to
midnight car would be on its way into the station where the midnight to 8 AM deputies
would be in briefing. This was when there was no coverage of any kind, except for a Bell
Gardens unit just over the bridge. And the only time they came was when they could hear
the sirens going and units screeching through the streets. Otherwise they had their hands
full with the Bell Gardens residents.
It was also during this shift change time that one of the two 11 PM to 7 AM units
would sort of shift over to that area checking out Walnut Park, a small county area near
South Gate. If something did go down in Cudahy, a quick run down Santa Ana Street and
you were there.
So, we get a robbery call at a major market that is located on the southeast corner
of Atlantic Blvd. and Florence Avenue. The quickest route this time is down Florence
Avenue, so Florence Avenue it is, code two and a half, meaning red light but the siren
only for red stop signals. Sort of unorthodox and against departmental policy but what
cop is going to stop and wait for a red light after getting a robbery in progress call? And
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believe me, we had sergeants who would preach about stopping for them! They had to
do cover their butts.
I can’t remember the name of the market but it was something like Alpha Beta or
Von’s or whatever. But I figured it to be a good call and no false alarm. I radioed the
dispatcher to notify the Bell Gardens sheriff’s units and also Bell PD that bordered
Cudahy. This way they could be on the alert for a possible escaping suspect(s).
Malone and I pulled up in the parking lot expecting things to still be popping.
They weren’t. I ascertained that the robber just left on foot southbound on Atlantic
Avenue with the store’s armed security man in hot pursuit. I got a quick description of
the robber. The only unusual thing about him was his dress. He had on a green flowered
shirt and white pants. I got this from three or four different witnesses plus the cashier
who had been robbed. The rest of him was what I referred to as the usual, medium height,
dark hair, medium build, between 20 and fifty. That above covers every male in the area.
This way we could arrest half the people in Cudahy on suspicion of robbery and
maybe come up with the right man.
I put out a preliminary broadcast after asking Malone to do so. He just sat in the
car with the mike in his hand waiting for the dispatcher to finish giving out usual report
calls. I had to grab the mike and do it myself.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him as he sat in the car
.
“I’m waiting for her to finish,” Malone replied.
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“Man, we’ve got a robbery here and the suspect is in the area. Why didn’t you
demand for an emergency clearance and start? You’re wasting precious time,” I
bellowed.
An emergency clearance would have been the proper method because of the near
vicinity of the suspect. That way a few other units plus the detectives would bust over for
a quick search. I was pissed because he knew the right procedure but was not exerting
himself enough putting it into effect.
This also meant that I would have to do this whole thing by myself. A major
market robbery has a priority with the downtown detective bureau because many times
the same person will hit a few of these places and develop a method of operation. This
means the markets in the area can be staked out so the suspect can be apprehended or
shot, or both.
I told Malone to start getting witness statements while I watched him, and then,
the security guard, in plain clothes walked up. His clothes weren’t so plain. HE was
wearing a green flowered shirt and white pants. This meant that I had to cancel my first
broadcast on the clothing description and put out another one with a description the
security man gave me.
It seems this guard wasn’t quick enough on foot and the suspect got away.
“Completely vanished” were his words. More than likely he had a car near by with
someone ready to drive him away.
Pretty soon I’m getting calls from the desk sergeant who wants to know why I
didn’t call him with the robbery information that I had just put out over the air.
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“Because I’m too fucking busy to call, that’s why.” I told him.
While I’m talking to the cashier again, Malone walks over.
“Hey, Shaf, a woman outside saw a man carrying a white bag of some sort jump
into a car with a woman driving. They drove a block or so then he got out and got into
another car and drove away. She thought this was unusual because she also saw us
pulling into the parking lot with our red lights on so she copied down the license
number.”
The white bag could have been the cashier’s bag that was taken during the
robbery. This could be our suspect. “How long have you known this?” I asked him.
“About five minutes,” he said.
“Five minutes! Goddamn, why didn’t you say something? Where’s the woman?”
“I told her to go home but I got her name and address.”
“Go home, oh shit, oh shit,” I repeated.
I flagged down a unit that was going back to the station and told them to stick
around. The detective unit also pulled up so now they were actually in charge. I relayed
the information and they got a check on the registered owner of the car that the woman
saw the man drive away in. He was a local resident from South Gate. My town.
I remember that I rounded up about five other cars plus the detective unit and we
headed over to South Gate for the bust. We had to wait for one of our sergeants at Abbott
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Road and Atlantic Avenue because he wanted to make sure his deputies acted in the
prescribed manner in another town.
We waited next to a Winchell’s Donut shop that was an ideal spot. Five police
cars here at night wasn’t so unusual because cops were drawn to coffee stands like flies..
A South Gate PD unit drove in and asked what we were doing in town. Since no one
wanted to share the information on a possible suspect because South Gate might want to
take over since we were in their town, we told them we were a special detail coming from
Lakewood just stopping for coffee. They bought the lie and went about their business.
I was the only one in the group that knew South Gate and the area where our
possible suspect lived so I got to lead the way. I think the sergeant just arrived as we
started to pull out down the back alley parallel to Abbot Road. The address we wanted
was just four or five blocks west of Atlantic Avenue and we didn’t want to alert anyone
we were around, so we drove in darkness. (You would be surprised how an unlit police
unit can sneak up on people on the streets without them having the slightest knowledge of
its presence at times.)
We found the address and then surrounded the house. Deputies laying in the
gutter, aiming their shotguns at the house, behind parked cars and in the back yard. A
detective knocked on the door and when the man answered, we all went in like a herd of
elephants.
Once inside, the troops methodically ransacked his house looking for the loot and
gun. A Bank of America sack was found, and during the questioning it was ascertained
that he dropped off a deposit at the bank nearby in Bell and got picked up by his girl
friend (whom his wife didn’t know about). Anyway, he turned out NOT to be our
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suspect. (The real suspect was captured two weeks later after another market robbery. He
turned himself in because he killed someone and he didn’t want to be convicted of the
death penalty so he made a deal. If he turned himself in he would get only life if
convicted. He was.)
Frustrated, Malone and I got back into the car to go back to the store because we
struck out. We got back there and I made the final touches on things and got ready to go.
As I was leaving the security man asked me when the print man was going to be out to
take fingerprints.
“Finger-prints. What finger-prints?” I asked.
“The prints the suspect left when he vaulted this chrome railing. I’m sure he left a
good print or at least a palm impression on it,” said the guard.
He pointed out the chrome railing that ran between the check stands. There was
something there because I could see the fine oily impressions going around the rail.
“Why didn’t you say something about this before when I made my calls
downtown?” I asked in a pissed off way.
“I did, I told your partner.”
“Malone,” I yelled. He came over. “Why didn’t you tell me about the possible
prints this guy told you about?”
“I didn’t think they were important at that time,” was his answer.
“Don’t you think they are important now? When were you going to tell me about
them? When we got to the station?” I bellowed.
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With this we left to do our duty to the county and to patrol the streets of Firestone
and Florence areas. However, we had to go back to the station because Malone had left
his revolver in a gun lockbox when we were booking a drunk and forget to retrieve it!
Now you have an idea what I was given the responsibility to train? And he
already had over two years on the department this was the ‘expert witness’ who would
send me to prison.
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Chapter 19
Malone Says Good-bye
October 3, 1969
Some other October 3 happenings: October 3, 1941 Chubby Checker is born,
October 3, 1956 Nat King Cole gets his own TV show, October 3, 1960 Andy Griffith
Show debuts, October 3, 1993 18 Rangers die when they fail to capture Warlord Adid.
It was Friday, October 3, 1969. Malone has been at Firestone near 90 days. We
were 11 Adam early mornings. Vehicle mileage was 14565. Sgt. Bullis was our fearless
leader for tonight (like me, he was 6’7” but 260 and flabby, not like me who was 240 and
trim).
Malone had returned the 6” revolver I gave him hoping to improve his image so I
knew something was coming. He didn’t say why. He didn’t have to. We drove around
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town not saying much. To liven things up we went over to Cudahy for a meet with
Charlie Stowell and his transfer-in, Bob Feliciano, previously at Lynwood PD.
Charlie was in the possession of a Navy flare that was supposed to have one of
those flares that came down attached to a parachute. He took it off of a local puke hurt in
a gang-fight. We drove over to the Los Angeles riverbed where he was going to manually
fire it, and as it fell, Feliciano and I would shoot at it with our shotguns. That was going
to be very exciting.
Charlie discharged the flare and as it was going up we were firing. Only thing was
it didn’t stop going up and I didn’t see any parachute. Instead it went over the river, and
to the adjacent Long Beach Freeway, and then fell out of sight somewhere on the other
side of the freeway. We ran to our cars to find out where the magnesium flare dropped.
We got on the freeway and could find nothing. And since there weren’t any
structural fires or grass fires either, we headed back to our area. While driving around
near Alameda Avenue and 92nd Street, Malone started talking.
“Shaf, I’m going back to Wayside (Honor Ranch near Newhall). My wife has
arthritis real bad and she was in bed and couldn’t get up when my child fell and got hurt
in the living room. For her I’m going to transfer back so I can be close to them.”
“That bad, huh?” I replied.
“Yeah, I need to be with them as much as possible and I can’t do that working
here.”
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“What are you going to do when you’re out with the one-legged girl, call in for
checks?” I asked. I was cold at times.
“No, I’m going to give her up.” He replied.
“Bill (he liked to be called Bill instead of Curt and this was the only time I called
him Bill), I know that you are going back to Wayside. Sgt Owens told me yesterday. As
usual you went about this in the wrong way. You have a chain of command to follow and
if you wanted to go back you should have asked Russ (Owens) first. I’m sure he would
have approved it.”
“See,” I continued, “The sergeant you know at Wayside that you asked to get you
back called. He wanted to know why you wanted to go back since you seemed to be all
fired up to come here less than three months ago, or so. And on top of that he knows Russ
real good. Russ told him you were a fuck-up and deserved to be fired. I’m serious too.”
I continued with more. “You know, forgetting your .38 in the gun locker 3 times
didn’t help, that’s one reason why Sgt. Wenke hates your guts but Bill, I wish you would
stay here but change training officers. You can’t work with me because you want to act
like I do and you don’t know how. There is just one Shaffer here and there is only one
Malone. Some guys need more time and I’m sure that if you change shifts, training
officers and whatever, that you can make it and become a real attribute to the station. I
know that I get mad at you for some things but you don’t think at times. You think this is
fun and games, and it can be only if you know what you are doing first. That’s why you
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were put on a restricted training status. I’ve always told you to do as I say, not as I do,
and you don’t listen.”
“But Shaf, you’re a legend in your own time and I want to be a part of that
legend.”
I thought about that because he used to always say that. I was known just about all
over, or so it seemed. Go to Palos Verdes PD and they knew the big blonde with the
carbine who helped them off-duty in the stakeout of a high way patrolman killer. I
volunteered with Deputy Richard Seamon when we worked the jail wards.. Ask at Santa
Monica PD, Huntington Park, South Gate, Lynwood, LAPD 77th, University, Newton
and San Pedro stations. Try Inglewood PD, Hawthorne PD, Beverly Hills too. There were
so many situations that I was involved in where I was known by name and sight after I
left that no one would forget it. (But now it means nothing.)
“I’m no fucking legend, just a cop doing a job that is an insurmountable one at
that. And one who loves what he does.” I told him.
With that it note we ended the shift. I watched him clean out his locker since it
was but a few down from mine. I didn’t want to see him go but then again I knew he
couldn’t stay. He was hated, by some lieutenants and sergeants, disliked by many
deputies, and seemed to me the stereotype of ‘Mr. Looser’. Nobody loved him so he was
going to go eat some worms..
“Curtis William Malone,” I told him, “I’ll be seeing you.”
“Ok Shaf. Nice working with you.” With that he left.
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I saw him only once after that. Or really, one time as a brother deputy. We had a
case pending in Norwalk Superior Court and we had lunch in the dining room after the
trial was over. We discussed the case briefly and wondered if the suspect would be
convicted by the jury. Our suspect tried to rob a prostitute of the two dollars he gave her
for a piece of ass and we witnessed him assaulting her. It was a slam dunk case.
We talked a bit. He seemed to be in good spirits and invited me to his house for a
few drinks but I declined. This was in late October.
Something very drastic happened in this short time between our October meeting
and November 1969. This is the information that I received August 30, 2004:
About the first week in November 1969 Curtis Malone drives from his home in
the Los Angeles Valley to the homicide headquarters and asked to talk to a homicide
detective about a shooting he was involved in. The duty detectives find out that Sgt.
Whiteley and Guenther were on the original shooting assignment and put in a call for
them to come and see Malone.
However, before they arrived it seems that Willie Wilson and Algy Landry
wanted to chat with Malone, and on that basis they yelled ‘murder’. Sgt. Whiteley said
his voiced his objection for hours but was removed from the case. Even my station
captain, Dean Wert, apparently tried to intercede with the ‘murder’ charge but to no avail.
I have never really known what or why or how that changed things in his mind
against me. But I knew he had his doubts about sharing his whisky with me because the
next time I saw him was in November, during my preliminary hearing. (He was sitting
with many other nervous deputies in the spectator seats while I sat handcuffed next to the
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marshal. I wondered why he wouldn’t look me straight in the eyes but I found out why
when he was called at the chief prosecution witness against me. I couldn’t believe it.)
What follows is an email I received from Sgt. Whiteley in 2004 when I was
inquiring why he and Gunther got pulled off the investigation.
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Chapter 20
New Deputy-in-Training Steve Voors
Steve Voors:
A few days before I was to be assigned to train Deputy Steve Voors, on Saturday,
October 4, 1969 I worked with a black deputy named Ted McCrary. Ted was by far one
of the better working deputies, white or black. One of my “Elite”. He didn’t believe in the
‘brother’ shit with the local bums but was as fair as any deputy I worked with.
Mac, as he was called, and I laughed it up all night long. We fucked with the
assholes and rousted the gunsels from the hamburger stands and generally went looking
for some things to get into. As we were cruising down Beach Street near 81st Street we
noticed a couple parked in an old Cadillac in a factory parking lot. This looked a bit
unusual because it wasn’t exactly a lover’s lane and the factory was long closed.
We parked behind the car and got out to talk to them. The girl was behind the
wheel and the dude next to her. As we started our usual ‘what’s happening?’ method of
questioning, I kept noticing the girl squirming around. From what I had learned working
this area those signs meant she might be sitting on something hot. I don’t mean her pussy
either. Either dope or maybe even a gun, or possibly she was holding or was wanted.
Needless to say, she didn’t appear relaxed, but she didn’t show the usual black-and-white
nervous syndrome either.
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Mac asked them to get out of the car and when the dude got out I saw a police
style night stick on the floorboard. This is and automatic felony especially when it has a
leather thong through it and a lead weight on the other end (Penal Code 12020). A
firearm was only a misdemeanor but a nightstick a felony. Go figure! So we theoretically
busted him although we didn’t tell him that yet. I went around to the other side of the car
and looked under the driver’s side. Near the doorjamb was a seconal capsule, a red-another felony.
Technically I arrested both of them. The pill was under her side and the nightstick
under his side. The car was his and he admitted to owning the nightstick. She adamantly
denied any knowledge of the red but it was enough to bust her.
We hooked them up and took them in after storing his Cadillac. I had the strangest
feeling that McCrary felt I planted that seconal capsule because he wasn’t jazzed and
funny after the arrest. He wasn’t laughing or joking and he got in a serious mood, which
wasn’t like him. But whatever he felt about a possible plant was soon dismissed. When
the matron checked the girl in the female booking cage, she found thirty reds in her bra.
McCrary was happy once again. And I can say this as the truth, I absolutely NEVER
planted dope on anyone unlike many other deputies at Firestone and elsewhere.
The following night I met my new trainee. His name was Steve Voors. He was
tall and sort of thin, around twenty-two and sharp. During this shift and subsequent ones,
it was obvious to me that Steve was going to surpass in about three weeks what Malone
learned in three months. This was the kind of deputy he was. Sharp, observant, good with
words and he could handle people.
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Deputy Voors and I worked with each other until my arrest. Since my field
notebooks were confiscated with the exception of the one I have been referring to here, I
can’t relate too many experiences we shared. I just know that I felt much more relaxed
with Voors than I ever did with Malone. Steve seemed to catch on much faster and
adapted to patrol work easily.
The only incident that I can think of that Steve and I handled that called for
discretion was when we were cruising down 59th Street near Central Avenue. I was
driving with the headlights off and I noticed something strange when I passed a parked
car. There were two people in the car sitting in the passenger’s area. At first there was
one head showing, then two heads. I stopped and decided to investigate. As I opened the
car door, I was taking my revolver out of my holster---a rule of mine. (I even talked to
people with it pointed at them but under my left arm when I worked night. Never knew
when a set-up was taking place.)
Someone slid across the front seat of the parked car and opened the door. “Help me,
I’m being raped,” was the call.
Out popped a black chick whom stood about 4’ tall and in high heels. “He’s trying
to rape me, but stopped when you drove by.”
I looked at her and things just didn’t seem kosher. She was completely dressed,
make-up in place and no signs of a struggle. Maybe we arrived too soon. I ran over to the
car and pulled open the passenger door.
“Get out mister and come out with your hands in the sky or I’ll blow your brains
out,” I yelled.
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I reached down and grabbed one arm and yanked him out on the grass. He was
trying to hold onto his pants with one hand while trying to keep the other one up as I
ordered.
“What’s going on, man?” I asked. “You try to rape that bitch?”
“Rape, god no. Oh no, rape. Please, no. I didn’t try and rape her. I got a family at
home with kids. Noo, oh, no,” he bawled. He then started to cry. A big penis sticking out
of his pants and he’s bawling like a child.
“All right, get your self dressed and tell me what’s going on here,” I told him.
“Mr. Policeman, I picked that girl up at 69th and Central Avenue (there is a hotel
called the Goodyear Hotel where the local black and white prostitutes do their business at
this corner. (Steve Beeler talks about it in The Firestone Syndrome). I was out looking for
some action but that’s natural, you know.”
The tears kept coming out as he explained. I think he knew he was very close to
going to jail. The man was in his forties, had a nice car, a job, and as he said, a family. A
regular dude trying to make it.
“I saw this girl and stopped. We drove here for some action but she said she
didn’t want to screw so she was going to give me a blowjob instead. I told her Ok but I
only had three dollars so I gave them to her (1969 prices). “We were just getting started
as you came up and she jumped out of the car and started yelling when she saw you stop
and get out.”
This guy was still crying and I’m sure his tears were real tears of impending
disaster. What I had was a prostitute’s claims to being raped regardless of whether or not
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she was a prostitute. And as usual, the guy is going to say things were mutually agreed in
advance for the act taking place. Prostitutes can be raped.
“Listen man, stop crying. How do I know you are telling me the truth. I might
find money in her purse but that doesn’t mean nothing. You got to have something more
than that because these are heavy charges,” I explained to him.
He blew his nose and wiped his face. “One of the dollar bills I gave her has some
writing on it. I got it at the liquor store on Florence Avenue before I came here. I think
the guy at the store will tell you that too.”
I told him to sit on the curb where Deputy Voors could watch him and I walked
over to the girl. I took a closer look at her with a flashlight. She looked like the typical
black whore. Smeary make-up, heavy eye-lashes, and lots of cheap perfume.
“The man says you were going to suck his dick for three dollars and that you
yelled ‘rape’ when you saw us. Did you expect to make the money without coming across
with some head?” I asked.
“No, really sir. I live with my parents and this guy picked me up on Central
Avenue near Vernon Avenue. I needed a ride home but he brought me here instead and
tried to rape me. That’s the truth,” she exclaimed loudly.
“How much money you got in your purse?” I asked.
“About three dollars.”
“Let me see it.” I demanded.
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“Why?” (That was the wrong thing to say to me.)
I grabbed her clutch purse out of her bosom area and threw it on the hood of the
radio car. I picked it up and opened it. Inside were three $1.00 bills and one of them had
writing on it. The writing looked like numerals put there for money inventory purposes.
Something that some stores did when they tallied up the days receipts.
I looked at her and then gave her a ‘love pat’ her across the face knocking her wig
off. “You fucking bitch. You think I’m a fool or something?”
“No, why’d you do that. I didn’t do nothing,” she cried.
“You tried to con me, that’s why. Either you talk and talk fast or you’re in big
trouble baby. I’ll take you in for sucking dicks and that’s a felony; then I’ll have you sent
to the hospital as a sexual deviate and if you got clap or VD without being a registered
prostitute that’ll be another ten years.” (What a bunch of bull-shit to some extent.)
“I’m sorry, I really am. I was going to hustle the dude for the bread. I’m not well
(meaning she has VD or else a heroin habit) and he wasn’t paying enough for a head-job
but I’m broke. My old man (her pimp) says to come across with some dough tonight or
else I’m in trouble.”
“Well, you’re in trouble because you better get way out of this area because I’ll be
here till eight in the morning and if I see you here your ass is mine, now beat it.”
On that bit of advice she left, hot-footing it towards Central Avenue as fast as her
small legs would carry her. I walked over to the ‘john’ and gave him his three dollars
back.
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“You better frame the one with the writing on it because it saved your ass from
going to jail. I usually bust everyone suspected of a felony and let the detectives figure
out who’s telling the truth or not. Tonight you are lucky, and keep your fucking at home.”
“Oh officer, oh man, thank you, thank you. You’ll never see me ever again. I’m
sorry for everything. Good-bye.”
In a flash he was off and so were we. I felt pretty good about the whole thing. I
felt like I did someone a favor for once. From here I took Steve to the Goodyear Hotel to
point Dolly out to him. Dolly was a white prostitute who used ‘to fuck and suck’ ten guys
in ten minutes. A real hustler.
Dolly didn’t like the harness bulls (patrolmen) because too many of them hassled
her. When she saw a black-and-white coming up the street she would duck inside the
hotel doors. I never stopped to fuck with the prostitutes because I couldn’t see the sense
in it. Trying to stop prostitution was like trying to stop the deputies from having their
gambling parties after payday or else trying to stop the vice officers from showing
confiscated stag films to their buddies at home.
We drove to Florence Avenue and Central Avenue to check on the all-night gas
station attendents’. While there some drunk black dude in a bathing suit walks out into
the intersection, pulls down his swim suit and starts to piss. Need less to say we busted
him for indecent exposure. (He got fifteen days for disturbing the peace.)
From here on out I can remember very little about working with Deputy Voors. I
know that I trained him in the same fashion that I tried to train Malone. Nothing changed
in my instructions on theoretical situations, procedures anything else. The only thing I did
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was for Deputy Voors was to give him some .357 ammo for his revolver. I think he
carried a .357 on a .41 frame, and I couldn’t see him using regular .38 ammo, which by
now I considered junk.
I worked with Steve from October 5, 1969 until the day of my arrest, November
12, 1969. The next time I saw him was at my trial.
As a note before I move on, Charlie Stowell was now my roommate. He and I
had been dating some Mexican girls who were cousins. We met them when we were
working an overtime shift one night and stopped at a Carl’s Junior Hamburger stand.
They were in a car with one’s mother.
After ordering food Charlie walked up to the mother and told her he would like to
have permission to date her daughter, and his partner (me) would like to date the other
beautiful and young Mexican girl.
The mother readily agreed, as did the young girls and we talked with them for a
short time before getting a call. Charlie got their address and phone numbers before we
left.
My date told me later on that she turned to her cousin and said, “I like him. I’m
going to fuck his brains out”.
She did, but even though she had an eight-month old child she was ONLY 17
years old!
A few days later our good friend Gary Komers came to my house for a visit and
an invitation to go for a drink. Charlie was out but I went with Gary. Gary was not
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himself. He said he liked being a Deputy DA investigator and asked how my application
was coming along, but I think he knew. It wasn’t.
We hit a few bars in Downey along Imperial Ave. and then went back to my
house.
We pulled up in front of my home on Richlee Ave. in South Gate. He turned off
the engine to his Porsche.
He looked at me and said, “I worry about you. I wish you never gone to
Firestone. Watch yourself”.
I looked at Gary. He knew what I did cause I told Charlie after Charlie told me
his story of his shooting and Charlie told Gary.
Charlie and his ‘trainee’ Dean Francis got a call about a burglary in progress at a
small grocery store I think. Charlie found the point of entry and it was through a front
window that had a very heavy iron or wire mesh barricade over it.
He lifted the heavy window covering and tried to go inside but as he entered he
got stuck. He saw some burglars running around inside in the darkened building and
capped a round at one of them. I always thought it was because he got scared cause he
was stuck and at their mercy if they wanted to assault him.
In any event, Charlie’s round hit a very young suspect in the back of the head
exiting through his forehead. The kid died at the scene. I saw the coroner’s photos.
Charlie told me since Polidore’s shooting he may be up shit creek without a
paddle so he told Trainee Francis and anyone else who was there, after they gained entry
to the store, to find a weapon. Someone found a rifle, but it was a BB rifle.
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So, Charlie’s story was he fired at the suspect, who turned out to be 14 or 15,
maybe 16 years old, because the suspect was aiming what appeared to be a rifle at him,
so in fear of his life he fired.
I went with Charlie to his coroner’s inquest and it was easily found to be a
‘justifiable homicide’.
I only attended because there were threats against Charlie’s life and ‘wanted,
dead, posters were put up in the Watts area by local Black Panthers. As his friend if any
shit was going to go down I wanted to be there to help him.
I want to make it very clear that in fact the story he told me about looking for a
weapon could be a fabrication to make his bullshit story sound better. You have to
understand that you never knew if Charlie was telling the truth about ANY story he was
telling, especially to strangers. Once he was a CIA agent! He just liked impressing
people. Remember, if he couldn’t impress em, bullshit em.
But, even until 2005 the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department has a
‘pending’ open investigation of some sort with Charles Stowell, as indicated by the
following letter from Sheriff Baca. Of course, maybe I have misread its contents.
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(The only type of criminal investigation that could have been going on in the 90’s
against anyone would have to have been 187 PC, murder, which has no statute of
limitations.
(And even though a DEA investigator paid a visit to my house in the 1990’s,
under Freedom of Information they deny there are any records of such an interview. See
their letter below☺
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Sorry, I am getting ahead of myself.
Gary knew both of our experiences. But I knew for certain the only person who
may cause ey any problems might be Hal Manskar. He was the only one in the room
with me and I didn’t think he saw me throw the .22 on the floor near Molette.
“It’s not for me. It may be for Charlie. I’m covered”, I told him.
He looked back at me and didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. I wish then that
I had listened more seriously to him and hired an attorney just in case, or at least been
more suspect later on.
“Ok, later brother. But, there has been a grand jury investigation started on some
cop who shot some suspect somewhere,” he said and drove off.
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Chapter 21
The Sheriff’s Gestapo Comes Knocking
About a month or so later, around 8 am November 12, 1969 numerous deputies
from the Administrative Services Bureau division, our ‘head-hunters’ began their day
with orders from the sheriff himself to start rounding up quite a number of Firestone
deputies for an interrogation downtown.
I wouldn’t usually refer to a deputy in my department as a Gestapo Pig, but all
these guys were missing were the black jack-boots and the armbands. And I was at their
lying mercy.
It was about 1 PM on Wednesday, November 12, 1969, and I was slouching lazily
on the sofa in my den of my house located in east South Gate, in an area that was a cop’s
neighbor hood as about ten cops lived near me.
Sitting next to me was Carole Smith, a beautiful curvy blonde who worked for
American Airlines in Los Angeles. I had been going around with Carole for about a
month or so, and had just finished working on the linkage to her 4-speed Mustang.
Charlie Stowell was also in the den, dozing in a rocking chair from an overdose of Coors
beer with spittle coming out of his mouth.
There was a very ‘loud’ knock on the front door and Chuck abruptly came alert.
Neither one of us was expecting anyone unless it was either his ex-wife coming over for
child support money as she had done in the past or Tom Merchant coming down for a
beer, but why knock so fucking hard?
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Chuck wiped some drool from his chin and got up to answer the door.
“I’m not home,” I told him winking at Carole.
I heard the door open and then heard voices in the living room. I heard Charlie
say in a loud voice, “He’s asleep, I’ll get him for you.”
I didn’t know quite what to think. Why would Charlie be telling someone I am
asleep unless he didn’t want them to come in.
Charlie came out of the hallway that leads to my master bedroom, and not the one
that goes to the living room, which I felt as being a bit odd. It appeared to me that he was
pretending to wake me.
He told me there were a couple of sergeants from ASB (administrative services
bureau--the head hunters) to see me. I was always told these deputies usually aren’t cut
out for any other kind of police work so they do what’s easiest--try to get cops instead of
criminals. The big thing with these deputies is they think their ‘shit don’t stink’.
Chuck said they just pushed their way in without being invited. I walked into the
living room but no one was there, and then two sloppily dressed guys came out from one
of my front bedrooms.
“What the hell you guys doing in there?” I said in a somewhat easy tone and not
an insolent one. I liked my job and didn’t want to upset these internal affairs pricks. At
first I thought they were from downtown checking up on deputies who had been seen
carrying their own carbines during the 1969, Watts Festival. There was rumor a search
was going on, and there were also rumors that I had some fully automatic M-2 rifles’ in
my house, which was NOT true.
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One introduced himself as Sgt. Poole, and his partner, a dirty squat looking
Mexican Acting Sgt. Guiterrez. Poole I had seen at night school, but I had never seen
Guiterrez before, who had on a suit that looked like it three sizes too big for him.
I also figured that neither of them was a sergeant. The title sergeant is given to
those guys working the headhunter detail because I believe there is some county
regulation governing interdepartmental investigations. The title gives them rank and socalled interrogating superiority, or interviewing as they call it.
I also smelled something fishy and it wasn’t me. I had on on-duty incident
pending for ‘choosing off’ some citizens of Willowbrook over the phone when I was
working the desk one night. Some dude started calling me a ‘mother-fucker’, a ‘racist
pig’ and a ‘sick dog dick sucker’. He was also kind enough to leave me his address and
his name and I got Ned Day and Robert Lane to accompany me to his house where I
demanded he back up his big mouth, which he didn’t. Even his brother with the bulging
biceps didn’t want a go at it. I wrote a Lewd Phone Call report, violation 653m Sec A
P.C., and he wrote the sheriff about my lewd conduct.
(Shortly after this incident, a shotgun was taken from one of our radio cars. Then,
an anonymous phone call was received by the desk sergeant. “You can have the shotgun
back if Shaffer gets some time off for being a prick,” the caller says.
(The call was transferred to the captain, whom I was told made a deal, with
authorization, to sell me down the river. This I heard from the desk sergeant, Pat
DeVaney. Pat was another one who advised me to carry a throw-away in case of touchy
incidents also.)
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I also had a pending incident when Bill Sieber and I along with Ed Roszyk and his
partner got the worst end at a large Mexican party at 54th and Holmes Avenue in the
Florence district. It seems that the Mexican I arrested got his ass kicked by some other
deputies while he was in the back seat of my car!
Although I thumped this guy when arresting him when I was shown some pictures
of him revealing his bruises I couldn’t believe it! Someone beat him with a police baton.
I didn’t do it but I opted to cover for the deputies who did. The guy I arrested had an aunt
who was a sergeant on the department, and the deputies who thumped him I think were
Ned Day and Larry Rupp. At least that’s what I was told. I could believe Ned Day would
do such a thing but not Larry Rupp. Of course Seiber did punch on him on the way back
to the station but he said he hit him in the ribs and he had a large, long black bruises on
his back, like it was made with a baton and I usually didn’t use a baton.
Although he pleaded guilty to disturbing the peace the department wasn’t
satisfied. I was being hounded by a female deputy from ASB, who just didn’t believe that
I left my baton in the car.
“Who wants to be thumped with their own baton at a Mexican party?” I kept
telling her.
And the truth, I didn’t thump him--with a baton. Someone else did.
I shook hands with Poole and Guiterrez only because they offered and it is
a formality of some sort.
“Come on into the den. You guys want a beer?” I told them and started walking.
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“Shaffer,” Poole said, “We’ve got orders from the under- sheriff to take you
downtown, so get dressed and let’s go.” Just like that.
“We don’t know what it’s all about and those clothes won’t do,” said Poole.
(That was their lie #1. At approximately 9 am this morning deputies from
administrative bureau met Firestone Caption Dean Wert and asked him, probably
demanded of him, to open my personal station locker. Inside they found Tom Looney’s
.357 magnum I had been using and a .25 semi-automatic pistol tucked in my handcuff
case, my backup gun)
‘Bullshit’, I thought. They always know what’s going on. They never go
anywhere cold.
“What’s wrong with the clothes I have on?” I had on sandals, bell-bottom Levi’s,
a T-shirt, and a Libra emblem and chain around my neck. I knew my appearance
disgusted them and their so-called views on the dress code. They had on ugly three button
black suits and narrow ties.
“Well,” I said, in front of Chuck and Carole who looked surprised because of the
order, “what if I don’t want to go downtown? I planned on mopping my kitchen floor,
vacuuming and shampooing my den rug and then take Chuck to the paint shop to pick up
his MG. I’ve got plans for all day and you two guys come in and say, ‘Let’s go’ and I’m
supposed to drop everything and run downtown.” And that was all true.
I was fed up with this bullshit procedure of going downtown on these things.
Some silly blonde female deputy called me downtown one afternoon and I got sort of
drunk before I went. She wanted me to have a picture taken so she could show it to the
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Mexican I arrested. I had my picture taken, with a mod shirt on and a silk scarf around
my neck. She was floored at my dress. I was fucked up.
“Listen,’ Poole said. “We’ve got orders to take you downtown, so either you
come the easy way or we take you the hard way.”
“The easy way or the hard way” I thought. You have to remember this was years
before the Peace Officers Bill of Rights was introduced giving cops some protection from
this kind of shit.
I kept a trophy case in the den that had my ‘aikido’ rank belts on it. Black belt
was next. Now I thought about this very deeply. I felt like throwing my badge on the
floor saying, “I quit,” now what are you going to do. You’ve got no reason for being in
my house because I’m no longer a deputy, so get the fuck out. But I didn’t. I still had
respect for the job.
I said to Poole in a low voice, “you’ll do what?
I would have loved for either one of them to have stepped towards me, because in
my home no one gives me orders like that. I started to turn sideways, spread my feet in
an attacking stance, ready to front kick the one that moved first. I think he noticed my
posture.
Poole then changed his tough-guy attitude and tried to smile and told me he was
just following orders and was asking me to accompany them downtown to clear a few
things up but he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. They were just the transportation.
I felt irked because Poole was pushing the job-connected investigation to the hilt.
I did grab my badge and I still wanted to say, ‘Tell the under-sheriff to stick this up his
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ass.’ I think that my primary reason for not doing this was because I was seriously
thinking of quitting and I didn’t want to quit while being investigated for police brutality.
I had applied for that investigator for the district attorney’s office and was waiting for my
oral examination. And I also contacted LAPD for a lateral transfer. Anyway, these guys
cream in their pants when a deputy quits while under fire.
“Ok, I’ll change.”
I walked into my bedroom and opened the wall closet and pick out a doublebreasted pin-stripe suit with a large tie to match. When I reached the Gutirrez followed
me in said, “dress conservatively.”
“Hey, what is this? You going to make sure I dress properly, and what are you
doing in my bedroom anyway?” I demanded.
“I got my orders not to let you out of my sight.”
“I don’t give a shit what your orders are. You’re in my house, not the undersheriff’s.”
“Sorry, but I have my orders.” (This is a recording.)
‘Be cool, be cool’, I thought.
I stripped down and then dressed, not knowing that it was for the benefit of the
TV cameras and not for the under-sheriff, whom I never did meet. After I was dressed I
decided to take a piss before the ride downtown. I walked into the bathroom and started
to close the door since it was the proper thing to do since Carole was nearby. Not for her
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benefit, but for theirs. Anyway, urine slashing around in the toilet bowl might not meet
their approval, maybe they squat?
When the door was half way closed, it was suddenly reopened.
“Just wait a god-damn minute. You’re not one of those queen deputies, are you? I
want to take a piss in privacy, if you don’t mind.” I blew it now.
With that Gutierriz was joined by asshole #1 who began, “Shaffer, we have orders
not to let you from our sight.” (This is a recording.)
“In my house... .“ I began.
“We’re sorry, but we have a job to do, that’s all. So do you.” That same innane
crap again.
“Ok, watch if you want to gay boy.” I said as I pissed.
After urinating I picked up my shoes and socks and went into the den.
“Carole, today is shot to hell. I have to go downtown as you know by now.”
“That’s ok, Bob,” she said. “I’ll find something else to do today.”
“Say,” said Chuck, “this doesn’t sound right. Does Bob need an attorney? Can I
call him one?”
“No,” said Poole, “and you butt out and keep your mouth shut about what’s going
on.”
Obviously they didn’t want Charlie to start calling around to anyone at the station
to ask anyone else if ASB had been their asking about me..
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I thought about this for a moment. ‘What do I need an attorney for?’ I knew that,
or thought that, nothing criminal was coming down because I had done nothing criminal.
Charlie knew about my pending police brutality beefs and he would call Bob Lane and
Ned Day and tell them what was happening to me so they could be ready, I was sure.
I did manage to get close enough to Charlie to talk to him in a low voice. “If
anything fishy comes up, I’ll call and say ‘The meat is in the freezer, take some out and
give it to the dog.’ Although it was a departmental investigation, these bastards could be
thinking about firing me because I had chose this guy off to fight, and that is a violation
of the penal code in itself (415 PC), and enough to can me.
I started strapping on my own .38 Smith & Wesson 2” instead of the departments
4”, which was a mistake. When something like this happens its best to go down with the
department’s goodies i.e. gun, badge, hat-piece, etc. As I was doing this I saw Poole
talking to Chuck.
“Who’s the girl?” he asked Charlie.
“That’s my girl friend,” he told Poole
“Well, you tell her to keep her mouth shut if she knows what’s good for her.”
With all this talk and keeping me under constant watch I realized this was getting
pretty heavy and I was getting more suspicious but more dumber all the time. This is the
way I would have treated a ‘suspect’ and just didn’t understand a web was being tightly
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drawn around me the fly. If I would have resisted in their demands I thought they would
have fired me on the spot and I wasn’t ready to be fired. I just kept thinking this was
nothing but a departmental investigation. After all, they did let me strap my piece on. I
had no way out. It was1:15 PM.
The three of us walked out the front door and across the front lawn. It seems that
Guiterrez parked his VW van down a few houses showing he didn’t forget his old radio
car procedures (its always proper to park the car down a few houses so the suspects inside
of a place aren’t tipped off to the arrival). I just figured he didn’t know the right address.
This shows how I was thinking. I wasn’t expecting anyone and since I’m not a
narcotics dealer they could have pulled in the driveway. They are following procedures
for the apprehension of a suspect, but so far they are the only ones close to me thinking
that way.
“I’ll meet you downtown,” I told them as I pulled the car keys from my pocket.
My Vette was parked in the driveway.
“No, you’ll go with us,” Poole said.
“Wait, my car is here and anyway I have to have a car to get in and to work with.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll bring you back. Anyway parking spaces are limited.” Poole
told me smiling.
“I still don’t see why I can’t drive my own car. Don’t you trust me?”
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“Listen, we’ve got our orders. You can only park on the street where it’s metered
and that’s too much of a hassle. And after 4 pm its tow away time. Now just forget about
driving your own car and come with us,” Poole ordered.
This was getting shitty. I didn’t know what to do now but to just go along with
them. If anyone was ever under arrest without being told so, I was, but I just didn’t know
how to respond to them to their demands without figuring it was time for a fight..
“All right, if you say so.”
“I say so.”
We walked down to the VW bus. It was a couple of years old, in poor condition,
dirty and looked like a flock of mud-caked kids had spent a year in it, or else Guiterrez
ran bracerros across the border. The windows were so greasy and smeared it was almost a
safety hazard.
Guiterrez opened the side door and motioned me in. After I got seated he closed
the door, took out another key, and locked it. I instinctively tried to open it. Locked shut.
“What’s that all about?”
“Safety precaution.” Gutieerz said. Don’t want you accidentally falling out.”
‘Bull-shit’ I thought. This guy is a joke. I used to think that guys like him didn’t
exist in the department, but they do. They are making good pay and are supposed to be an
example in the community. This dude is cheap. His clothes look awful, his car is a wreck,
he buys a VW because its good on mileage and I bet he overcharges the county on the
expenses. He also reminded me of a hen-pecked husband and a less than mediocre cop
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who doesn’t do a thing on his own. His only hope is for an early retirement with no
waves so he can get his retirement badge.
They got in front with Guiterrez driving. He turned on the ignition and tried to
start the VW. Over and over the engine turned but nothing happened. I think it took him a
few minutes before it would start and when it did you should have heard the noises. I
wondered if we were going to make it or not.
“Listen, if it means anything to you, I’ll drive my own car. That’s a demand, not a
request. This thing is a death-trap.” I said a bit pissed off.
“Listen,” Poole said. “If you like being a deputy-sheriff, you have no other choice
than to go downtown with us in this car. Don’t try to get out, and besides, you’re locked
in.”
“Kicking that door out wouldn’t be nothing. I’ve done better.” I replied.
“You’re just going to sit back and behave or else I’ll have to report your conduct
when we arrive.” Poole responded.
‘Fuck my conduct,’ I thought. But, better behave myself. All this hassle, for
arresting a fucking Mexican punk.
This was typical treatment during a departmental investigation. These guys want
you to get pissed off and quit on the spot. I’ve heard of them putting a deputy in a chair
in a corner facing the wall for 8 hours to get him to quit.
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Guiterrez ground the gears to get it in first. Away we went chugging and
sputtering. When he got out on the main street to go to the freeway, we were topped out
at 30 miles per hour in fourth gear.
“You guys sure you didn’t push this thing to my house?” I joked.
“Funny.” Gutirrez came back.
“Man, if I took my car, I could come back home about five times before you got
halfway there. What time you leave to come out, about 9 AM?” I questioned.
No answer. They started talking to themselves. I thought about how I would drive
the Vette to the Hall of Justice. Punching that 375 hp engine out on the freeway, listening
to the solid lifters and the Holley three barrel open up full bore, while the tape deck was
screaming out ‘Aquarius’.
Guiterrez drove to Firestone Blvd. and got on the Long Beach Freeway
northbound. As he was getting on the outer lane a car almost hit us broadside because he
couldn’t juice it anymore than forty after going downhill on the on-ramp!
Downtown we went. Long Beach Freeway to the Santa Ana, then to the San
Bernardino and to the turn-off for the Hall of Justice. We parked in an employee lot a
block away and walked from the Hall of Justice. Up a flight of stairs to personnel, and
then to the civil defense office assigned to the sheriff’s department.
The office was a small one already occupied by two secretaries who were busy
typing away. Then I noticed the change. Poole and Guiterrez were happy. Their
expressions changed and they appeared very relaxed, even smiling. Now I was on their
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turf. They were as happy with me being here as I would have been putting cuffs on a
suspect, which was almost the same thing about now.
Then something else dawned on me. Now they have that certain psychological
advantage because I’m supposed to feel ill at ease. At my house, I had the psychological
advantage because I could have called their bullshit but I had no reason to.
(Poole offered me a cup of coffee. That just wasn’t normal after he talked to me the
way he did. He also offered me a cigar, a Swisher-Sweet 5 cent special. I took it,
pulled out one of my own House of Windsor’s Palmas, put his in my pocket, and
smoked my own.)
I took great pleasure smoking that cigar. I puffed hard so I could fill the room up
with smoke. The secretaries started groaning and grunting, but to no avail. I puffed on. If
it wasn’t for the air-conditioning, I’m sure one of them would have blew it. But Poole
did offer me one to smoke.
Under the circumstances I made myself as comfortable as possible. I looked
around me into the trashcan. In it was a bunch of unfinished letters describing how the
department was going to supply its armory with AR-l5’s or something like them.
Interesting if I was playing spy and wanted to snoop in the trash cans.
After what seemed to be about twenty minutes, Guiterrez walked out and then
back in. We were moving down the hall to another office. Even here I was escorted
everywhere I went.
As it turned out we took over one of the inspectors offices, which was connected
with another inspectors office next-door. In our office were two large wooden desks, so I
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assumed the office was shared by two officials. But one thing always stuck with me. For
being the largest sheriff’s department in the country, it also had the worst office furniture.
I think a manager of a whorehouse in Watts could do better.
We were in no longer then five minutes, and we were joined by a third ASB
official. This was Sgt. Green, a large black man I met not too recently. He was the
investigating officer on the ‘choosing off’ caper in Watts.
“So that’s it,” I thought, “I bet Ned Day or Bob Lane broke down and finked on
me, the bastard.”
Poole then got up to leave and Green took his chair behind one of the desks.
Green looked at me and said, “Shaffer, you are to sit in the chair (he pointed to a chair
behind a desk at the rear of the office). You’re not to leave it, walk around or anything
without asking. If you see someone you recognize, do not make any salutations or high
signs. You’re not to speak at all.”
“Not speak? Am I being held incommunicado?” I asked.
“You heard what I said.” Green replied.
“But that didn’t answer my question.” I asked again.
“Listen, no lip, sit down.” I did. I didn’t know what else to do. That was around
2:30 PM.
Green and Guiterrez then engaged in a conversation about football and I tried to
keep occupied by counting the stale gum on the bottom of the desk.
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About an hour later I felt I had to walk around. “I have to take a piss.” I told Sgt.
Green.
“Ok, but wait.” Green called someone on the phone.
“Shaffer wants to go to the head Ok?.. .the private washroom???? OK.”
It never dawned on me at that time that they were very, very serious about not
only keeping me incommunicado but also out of sight from anyone else. That should
have brought something to my attention but I only thought I was brought downtown to
this office for some small violation of departmental rules, not a departmental
investigation for murder.
Guiterrez said he would take me. Another escort! As I was walking out I glanced
into the adjoining office and I saw sitting behind a desk, in uniform was deputy Robert
Oliver from Firestone.
Robert Oliver and I went to South Gate High School at the same time but he was
a year ahead of me. He was usually assigned to the detective bureau I think, and he
looked strange in uniform. I couldn’t figure out why they would want him to report in his
Class A uniform since he usually wore suits and ties? It was another thing that threw me
a curve as Deputy Oliver and I, to my knowledge, had never worked together nor did we
ever have a case that was linked.
I know that on occasion ‘personnel’ rounds up everyone suspected in a ‘beef’ for
a mass interrogation. And our investigations are to the benefit of the brass, not the rank383
and-file deputy. The manual says no attorneys present, or even the threat of one because
it is automatic dismissal. Either you talk, or its out. No rights, ifs or buts. And when you
talk its only what they want to hear. And there is continued threat of time-off, termination
or suspension for a longer period.
I walked down to the private head with Guiterrez, who stood in the doorway as I
took a piss. He must be queer too, or else he worked the vice detail too long. I walked
back slowly because my legs were stiff from sitting. I thought about Oliver again. He is a
detective, but I’ve never had a beef with him around. He’s around when a hot call comes
down, but we’ve never had anything together.
As I stopped to ponder over this, Green yelled, “Shaffer, I told you no stopping or
acknowledging anyone else you know. Sit back down.”
I think that my age also had a lot to do with me taking their bullshit. I was maybe
25 then and they were in their 30’s or even 40’s, some older. These was very seasoned
and hardened deputies with ten or more years seniority on me. It’s like trying to tell your
father ‘no’. You just didn’t do it and I was listening to them like they were my superiors
whom I was trained to obey.
I sat down and propped my feet on the inspectors desk, much to Green’s dislike.
He only wished he could do the same. I sat like this dozing until around 6 PM, which
was a long haul on my butt cheeks as we were now going on 5 plus hours of just sitting
and day dreaming.
Over and over I kept asking what was going on. Over and over I was told, “We
don’t know.”
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I happened to see a Manual of Policy and Ethics. I decided to do some reading
about departmental investigations. I turned to Chapter VI, section 1605, sub-section c-5.
It said, ‘I couldn’t be represented by counsel.’
“I want to make a phone call.” I told Green.
“You can’t,” Green said.
“I’ve got to call Charlie and tell him to take some meat out of the freezer for my
dog. Chuck’s going to work soon and if he doesn’t feed the dog, it’ll go hungry till I get
home.” I explained.
“Wait a minute.” Green picked up the phone, dialed and then I heard him say,
“Shaffer wants to call home, something about meat for his dog... .uh-huh.. ..no I see.
OK.”
“Nope, can’t do it.” He said after he hung up.
“I demand to make a phone call.” I snapped
“Sorry, you can’t,” he snapped back.
“Listen, I have a right to use the phone!” I demanded,
“You lost your rights when you put on that badge,” was his comment.
“Not according to the manual, or haven’t you read section 1603, subsection A
about my rights.”
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“That manual also states no attorneys for departmental investigations. If you do
you are subject to dismissal. Anyway, you don’t get to use the phone,” was his final
answer.
“Well then, I’m hungry. How about letting me go downstairs to the vending
machine to get some cottage cheese? It’s way past dinner time.” I quizzed.
“Listen God-damn it, you aren’t going anywhere, not sit down and shut up.” He
came back.
“I got to take another piss.”
At that Guiterrez grumbled and off we went to the private john where he once
more stood in the doorway as I urinated. ‘God-damn queer,’ I thought.
We got back to the inspector’s office and I sat down once again. Little by little I
was starting to walk around. I think Poole went home by now but I’m not sure. Anyway,
as I was walking back and forth, around 7 PM the phone rang.
Sgt. Green answered it. “Yes uh-huh OK,” and then hung up. I wish I knew whom
he was talking to, or even at what stage this investigation was in somewhere else in the
building. I knew that someone else besides the three of us were here, but who they were
intrigued me.
After Green hung up he looked at me and said, “Shaffer, I have to ‘take’ your
gun.”
“My gun, what the hell for? Now I demand to know what’s going on here.”
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“I’m just following orders so give me your gun.” He sternly replied.
“Everybody’s just following orders but no one knows who’s or at least no one
will tell me who’s. Am I under arrest or something?” I loudly demanded…… Can I make
a phone call?” I asked again.
“No, you’re not under arrest, you’re not even under suspicion of being arrested
for anything that I know of or about. And, no phone calls. Give me your gun.” He almost
barked back.
“On whose orders?” I wanted to know.
“None of your business. Now give it to me. Don’t be so paranoid. Why would
anyone of us want to arrest you? Have you committed a crime to be arrested for?” He
tried to joke about that question but it wasn’t coming out right.
I walked over to Green’s desk and stood over him. I didn’t want to give him my
revolver because things weren’t looking right. In my mind I really felt like shooting the
bastard because he was such a prick, Guiterrez too. I figured that I was going to be fired
for punching that fucking Mexican a few times too many and this was the end for me.
Two beefs and I’m out.
Slowly, I reached to my side, unsnapped the holster and withdrew the revolver,
laying it on top of his desk. He quickly picked it up and said, “the holster too.”
“Jesus Christ, you want my pants next? I snapped back.
“Don’t be funny, just take it off.”
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I unbuckled my belt and slid the holster off and put it also on his desk. He picked
it up, put the gun inside of it and then placed them both in a desk drawer and quickly
locked it.
“Ok, sit back down,” he said with a long sigh.
I sat back down and squirmed in the chair until 10 PM. By then my ass was so
sore and my brain uptight enough that I was getting to where I had enough of this shit.
This was way too long. I have been ‘detained’ against my will, disarmed, not fed for
about 10 hours now and I’m really wondering about how serious this is since I’m
supposed to be at Firestone for duty in one hour.
“Listen,” I said, “it’s 10 PM and I’ve got meat in my refrigerator that will spoil if
its not used. Please let me call my house and tell Chuck to give it to my dog. And please
let me call the station to tell them that I won’t be in on time.”
“We’ve called your station to inform them you will be tied up down here for a
while. No dice on calling home though,” Green replied.
I am totally confused and tired by now and I didn’t know what to think, as usual.
It looked like I would have to spend the night with these bastards until I finally quit. That
was a favorite trick of theirs. Let the deputy stew until he’s so fed up he’ll throw in the
badge, quit and walk out and then find a ride home.
Eleven o’clock rolled around, midnight, 1 AM, and at about 1:30 AM, twelve and
a half hours after I was picked up, a sergeant I used to work for at the county hospital jail
wards walked in.
“Shaffer, they want to see you upstairs.”
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(And one of the judges remarked later on she saw nothing unusual about this
confinement.)
“Upstairs, what’s going on, Meredith (Miller).” I asked him.
(Meredith Miller, Joe Monarres and I, with our wives, used to get drunk on
margaritas and eat Mexican food at Joe’s house in West Covina. I figured he would at
least tell me something.)
Meredith wouldn’t look at me but replied, “I don’t know Bob, I don’t know,”
with a sigh. Maybe it was true. Maybe HE didn’t know a thing. Things were so fucked up
that no one knew “what was going on” but yet they knew what was taking place. I
thought that I was as far upstairs that I was going. These were the personnel offices of the
Administrative Services Bureau. What could be upstairs?
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Chapter 22
Welcome to Homicide
We took a back stairway, which I thought was unusual, to the 3rd floor, and
stopped in front of a door. The door was marked in black letters “Homicide”.
‘Oh shit,’ I thought.
My heart started to pound like a drum, my mouth went dry, I couldn’t swallow,
my knees were starting to shake, and I wanted to vomit. This could only mean one thing.
I’ve been had. Somehow they found out about the ‘gun’. All the little fears I had of being
fired over thumping a Mexican or choosing some idiot off seem to be in some far corner
of my mind. I was in for much more deeper trouble than I ever considered possible. The
pucker factor was up to a 10. All the while everyone told me they didn’t know, that I
wasn’t under arrest, that I couldn’t make any phone calls, there was no real problem.
The door was opened and we walked in. I was starting to go into a daze. I felt like
a small child who was caught stealing money from his mother’s purse, because I wanted
to tell all of them what really happened. But, I didn’t know where to start and it seemed
that it was much to late now, much, much too late.
I was shown to a chair that was in the aisle of the homicide office. There were
quite a few desks lined up against the windows, so the chair was placed in a strategic
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position. Now that I think of it, it prevented me from jumping out and it also let everyone
keep an eye on me.
A gray haired man introduced himself as so-and-so. I didn’t really hear his name
but he wanted to shake my hand but I didn’t feel a thing.
“I would like to call an attorney”, I said.
“Oh, there’s no need for that”, was his low toned reply.
He casually introduced me to a few sergeants and a few deputies, but I wasn’t
paying attention. He then walked away as did some of the others. I found myself sitting in
front of Sgt. Paul Whiteley.
Sgt. Whitley was the homicide sergeant who interviewed me after I shot Molette.
I now knew what was going on, and so did he.
“Ok, so what’s it all about serge.” I asked him bluntly.
“I don’t know Bob, I wish I could tell you.” He said.
I looked him square in the face. “This is all bullshit and you know it. You can if
you want to. And I wish you would. Because right about now I think I’m the loneliest
person in this office.”
Sgt. Whiteley just sat there. He had the looks of a movie actor with his
appearance and all. But not one word came from his lips. A door opened down the hall
and out walked Hal Manskar. That sealed it. It was about the shooting of Mollette! I saw
him for a brief moment and then he left out a rear exit. (This was the most common trick
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in the book but I was too blind to see it. I figured later that the captain told Hal I had
given homicide certain information and that Hal should do so also. It was ascertained
later on that Hal had given them his version of the shooting many times without wavering
from his report. Then all of a sudden he changed his story and admitted to lying about
hearing the ‘clicks’, perjuring and writing a false police report.)
Now I knew why Bob Oliver was here. It hit me like a lightening bolt. I bet that
everyone who was at the shooting was down here in a small room somewhere, that’s also
why it took homicide so long in getting to me. They were interrogating everyone else
first.
Although the coroner’s jury had cleared me of any wrong doing from what I
reported, I figured that someone said something far worse than what happened. My throat
was getting drier and drier. After Hal left Sgt. Whiteley asked me to accompany him to
the interrogation room, #2 in fact. We walked into the room. Inside was a small square
table with four chairs. Three of them were already occupied but the one next to the heater
wasn’t. That one was mine. On the table there was a small tape recorder.
I took off my jacket and sat down. Across from me was a black sergeant named
Algy Landry. (I’m told later on by Gil McMullen that Landry was a washed up narcotics
sergeant and one of the ‘token niggers’ (Gil’s words not mine) in the homicide bureau. In
other words, he was on his way out unless he got me.)
To my right is William Wilson, ex-Firestone deputy who many referred to as ‘the
old back-stabber’. His reputation was talked about in the briefing room many times. He
had a reputation for being two-faced and somewhat badge-heavy while at Firestone. To
my left was Lt. White. The only thing that I knew about him was when he was a sergeant
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when he cracked the ‘Insulin Murders’ case and convicted nurse William Dale Archerd
of murder. (Archerd was ultimately sentenced to die in the gas chamber.) There was a
nice TV movie made on the case starring Howard Duff as the county assistant DA in the
case. After that Sergeant White was promoted to lieutenant.
Sgt. Whitley then left the room. That left the four of us looking at one another. Lt.
White was the first to speak. His jaw was set like a bulldog’s.
“Before we begin, Robert Shaffer, I would like to advise you we suspect you of
the cold-blooded murder of one Roderick Thomas Mollett on August 18, 1969, and
throwing down a gun and claiming self-defense.”
The room was starting to spin. I couldn’t see straight, think straight, or speak
straight. I felt like I was sitting in an electric chair already. I couldn’t believe what I had
just heard. I knew I was sitting in a homicide interrogation room, but I couldn’t
comprehend the word ‘murder’. I was being accused of murder yet I was still in
possession of my badge #276. I was a suspect, but still an on-duty deputy-sheriff. ‘What
kind of madness is this’? I thought.
What kind of position am I in? If I were a suspect I would have thought that I
would have been relieved of duty as well as my revolver. How can I be a murder suspect
while still being a deputy? I could think of nothing else. What sort of cruel joke is this?
“I want to call an attorney”, I croaked out.
“No, we’re not finished here” Lt. White said.
Then I believe that Sgt. Landry brought out my 2” .38 that Sgt. Green took from
me, the .357 from my personnel station locker, and also my .25 automatic (I knew I
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should have taken that thing home!! I had promised another deputy that I was going to
trade him that .25 for a .32 Colt.)
Besides spreading the weapons out on the table, someone produced some
ammunition that I had kept in the ammo pouches on my belt, and the ones that were in
my .38 and .357 magnum. As these items were being displayed, I could see that their eyes
were starring right through me like I was the only person in the world who, 1) carried a
.357, 2) possessed ammunition that had crosses made in the lead, 3) carried a .25
automatic of foreign origin, and 4) also owned a .38 2”. I was a cop! Did they expect me
to carry a water gun?
The tape recorder was turned on, but Wilson kept fooling with it like there was
something wrong with it. After I was advised of my rights, Lt. White, knowing that a cop
is easily emotionally moved by remarks involving guns and things, made remarks like
this:
“Before we start, it is known that you want to kill because you carry a .357
magnum, that you use a carbine with a scope, carry dum-dum ammo, have carved
notches on the handle of your gun and bragged about the people you have shot,
etc, etc...”
This was a brilliant remark. He knew that I would defend these allegation
vehemently, because it was a natural reaction for any cop to do so who had
worked the field a few years in a high crime area.
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I told him that I carried a magnum for the best protection possible and that all
guns are made to kill, according to the range-master at our own shooting range and for no
other purpose, that lots of cops, including sergeants and lieutenants, carry magnums and
also dum-dum bullets, many times referred to as Super-Vel , a departmental approved
bullet, and lots of Firestone deputies carried carbines. But that is exactly what they
figured I would say. I was a rookie being interrogated by seasoned homicide deputies.
To this I received absolutely no reply. The tape was running and our conversation was
being recorded. Or at least I thought it was. Wilson kept fiddling with the machine and
was making comments such as “damn thing, wait a second,” giving me the impression
that it wasn’t working quite properly or that there were certain things they did not want to
have recorded but to just get my goat so I would start spouting off and get ‘in the mood’
to pop off with remarks that may be damaging. Those remarks would probably be
recorded but the others would not because the machine wasn’t working right. Or so they
would later say.
“May I have a copy of the report?” I asked.
(It is common when on the witness stand to ask for a copy of the report you wrote to make sure you don’t start adding to things
to give a defense attorney a chance to find loop holes or fault in your testimony. I tried the same thing here.)
“Wilson, do you have a copy that Shaffer can look at?” Asks Lt. White.
“No, I don’t have a clean copy,” he said.
I don’t know what he meant by a ‘clean copy’ unless he had marked his up with
comments and things that were demeaning to me.
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“How about you Landry?” the lieutenant asked.
“No, I don’t have one either.” Landry replied.
“How convenient. How do you expect me to tell you what happened unless I
have a copy of the report. This happened months ago and I may have forgotten a few
things.”
Actually they wanted me to go from memory because what mistakes I would
make would be compiled against me to make me look bad during an interrogation. No
one, but no one can remember an incident that happened months ago and not forget
something. And if you’re a cop, no cop can remember exactly how he wrote a report
months ago either. These bastards were going to make my molehill mistakes into
mountains.
“Try the best you can, Shaffer,” Landry said. “We know that you might forget
something but we don’t have a report for you to look at.”
“I don’t like it, but I’ll try. Am I under arrest?” I asked.
“No, we’re just trying to clear a few small things up, that’s all”, someone replied.
I am still thinking that I am still a deputy trying to ‘help’ them clear a few things
up so I started to run down the events that took place. Being told you were accused of
murder under these circumstances was odd because I knew I could finally explain the
truth, which I’m sure they will all believe. They worked patrol, right?
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The first reaction that I had, and probably every person in my capacity is to
verbally disprove their theory. I thought I could easily do that. I couldn’t believe that
what was happening was actually happening.
I got to the point in the narrative where Hal and I were just about to enter the back
room where I shot Molette. Something in the back of my head kept yelling, “You’ve been
advised of your rights, you are a murder suspect, shut your mouth and DEMAND to call
an attorney.”
But something else said, “Only criminals need an attorney, you’re a cop man, not
a criminal. You haven’t murdered anyone so talk to them. Get this thing straightened out
here and now.”
The former won out. I had been detained over 12 hours now, and any judge would
say that this was actually ‘an arrest’, and I guess while I was having this chat with myself
they were wondering why I wasn’t talking. I looked at Lt. White.
“Before I go on, am I being ‘really’ accused of a crime?” The shock was wearing
off.
Poor Lt. White almost choked on himself. He started sputtering and spitting and
then stammered, “of course.” “For cold—blooded murder, I told you that.”
“In that case I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” I replied.
“You don’t want to talk without an attorney present, right?” he questioned.
“Yes sir,” was my answer.
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“Gentlemen, this interrogation is ended at 3:30 AM.” The lieutenant said and
turned off the recorder.
It was 3:30 am and I couldn’t believe how tired and sleepy I was getting.
The three of them picked up the guns and things and left but in walked Sgt.
Whitley.
“Is this the good guy—bad guy routine?” I questioned.
“No Bob.” Sgt. Whiteley sat down like he was carrying heavy shoulders.
Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. I just let my head hung in disgust
and shame.
“What should I do, Whiteley? Man this is weird, are they serious (you can tell that
I still wasn’t up to what was unfolding before my eyes). How long have you known about
this? Can I call an attorney?”
“Bob, if something happened out there that you didn’t report, don’t talk, call an
attorney. I’ve known about this for two days now and I’m really sorry. You’ll be able to
call an attorney in a few minutes but not right now.”
“Hell, a lot of stuff happened that wasn’t reported. You didn’t report I used
Looney’s magnum or Wenke’s bullets, did you? You put in your report the magnum
looked like a standard .38. I remember that conversation. What did you report?” I
demanded to know.
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“Everybody said or did something they should or shouldn’t have and they’re
either afraid to come forward now and here I am ‘holding the bag’ so to speak with all the
blame coming my way. Hell, Hal Manskar was in the room with me. What did he say?
Did he say I murdered the burglar? Do you really think I murdered that burglar? Where
in the hell could these accusations come from? There were only three of us inside the
fucking store. I am one fucked dude way, way up shit creek without a friend or a paddle
and that boat I’m in just sprung a very big fucking leak and I don’t know how to swim.
And you know as well as I do if you’re treating everyone else like you’ve treated me they
will clam up in their own best interest. I’m fucked. Do you understand that? Hell,
you’ve got to know in your heart I did not murder that guy,” I ranted to him.
During the course of my ranting we went outside for water and coffee away from
the ears of those still in the homicide office.
“Look,” Sgt. Whitley said, “I know you used a ‘throw-away’. Now don’t talk
back til I’m finished speaking. Hell, I was in patrol, I know what happened! You shot an
unarmed burglar accidentally and threw it down. It’s happened in the past to lots of
deputies who just never got caught. It will probably happen in the future to those that
will think they will never get caught and may not, but there’s too much accusations and ‘I
can’t remembers” from your buddies that have lead us here. No one is backing your
story anymore or you for that instance. You’re the Lone Ranger Pal. And you need to
start talking fast. This murder thing can go away but you need to tell us everything you
know about any dirty deputy at Firestone, and we know you know what happened at
Stowell’s shooting and we want that too. Anyway you look at you’re fucked.”
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He went on, “Too many deputies have said they saw you with a pearl handled .22
just like the one you claimed the burglar had. And it has been said that you passed it
around to erase the possibility of finding any fingerprints on it,” He continued.
It was also during this time I asked Sgt. Whiteley three different times if I could
make a telephone call to an attorney. The only one I could think of was Ken Zomick,
Charlie’s divorce attorney. On three different occasions he told me, “In a few minutes.”
It seemed to me that about an hour later my three interrogators arrived once more.
They sat back down in their original places. It was Landry who started things off this
time, but one thing was changed. There was no tape recorder going.
“Bob, we need your help and cooperation to clear this thing up.” Landry said in a
good mood.
They sure did too. Because, without my mouth they could go nowhere. I think
that Sheriff Pitchess was rehearsing his speech about this time at the TV studio, and he
couldn’t go on the air until things were shut tight and I was under arrest for murder.
“Here’s your help,” I told him.
I took out my badge and threw it down on the table. That shook them, since if I
quit, they could no longer hold me as a deputy under departmental investigation, but
would either have to release me or arrest me.
This is why I have emphasized how strange things were going. I still had my
badge, but was suspect of murder. But I wasn’t relieved of duty because they didn’t have
enough to arrest me on but only hold me departmentally they claimed. You see, although
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murder is a felony, suspicion of murder is also against the Manuel of Policy and Ethics
regarding breaking a state law. So I was being detained not really as a felon (in their
ridiculous way of thinking) but as one who was being reprimanded for violating
departmental regulations, if they could prove that a regulation had been violated.
‘No, no,” said Landry. “We’re your friends. We’re not here to screw you, we
want to help you.” Landry picked up my badge and put it back into my shirt pocket.
“Look, let me be honest and frank with you Shaffer, we know something is
wrong, that something happened in there besides what you reported.” He went on.
‘This bugged me too. I was always wondering who-said what-to-whom-aboutwhat. Who could’ve started all of this nonsense?’ I thought
“If you know something is wrong, what happens to me after wards?” I asked
Landry..
“Here’s what I am at liberty to say. The worst that can happen to you is that you’ll
get fired. If it is decided that firing you is too severe, then maybe only a three to six
months suspension, which is the maximum.” Landry distinctively said.
“Stick it up your ass.” I told him.
“You know what,” Wilson said, “you’re a mother fucking punk.”
“Fuck you too.” I said to Wilson.
“I ought to kick your ass.” He came back.
“I’m right here in front of you. Please make your move, if you’re big enough to
try, go head on,” I told him.
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“Calm down,” the lieutenant demands.
“Calm down, my ass. You guys accuse me of 187. How do I murder a 459 suspect
with another deputy standing right behind me? Crazy fuckers.”
“God damn it Shaffer”, the lieutenant bellows out, “we want to help you. Talk to
us. You’re going to get time off anyway, so look at it logically. Why not let us help each
other out?”
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Chapter 23
We’ve Got You, You Son-of-a-Bitch!
Then I thought about that. They actually gave me the impression that they had to
go through the other bullshit for some administrative reason. Now I stupidly felt they
really weren’t trying to hang me out to dry but really trying to help me. I followed my
report almost as it happened. I did tell them that I did accidentally shoot Molette,
emphasizing the total truth about what I wrote earlier and because I was scared about
shooting an unarmed man, I threw down the .22 to cover my ass. That was all they
needed to hear. I realized I just fucked myself.
All of a sudden two deputies from ASB come rushing in. They had some papers
they wanted me to sign. By this time I don’t know whether I’m coming or going and my
head is swimming around in a circle. I can vaguely remember one of them mumbling
something about what it was but to this day I don’t know. They took my badge and ID
card, and someone says, “You’re under arrest for First Degree Murder.”
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“No, no, no. I didn’t murder him. You just heard me tell you what happened. Did
I confess to murdering him? You say I did but goddamn it, I didn’t. Didn’t you listen to
what I just said!” I yelled. “Throwing down a gun is not murder! It’s filing a false police
report!
“Too bad,” Wilson said, “empty your pockets.”
(First Degree murder in California meant they were accusing me of using ‘malice
aforethought’ in the taking of a human life. How could I have used ‘malice aforethought’
when I received a call to go to the jewelry store in the first place? I had the legal right to
be there and the legal right to apprehend anyone not having permission to be in the
premises. I only saw the suspect for a split second.)
I did so while Wilson was smiling and filling out the booking slip on me. He
looked like he was ready to cum he was so happy. It was near 5 AM, and apparently
Sheriff Pitchess was waiting for this admission so he could give his TV broadcast
regarding the arrest of Satan With A Badge.
“Oh God, what do I have to live for now? You guys are making a mistake, can’t
you see that. Why would I want to murder the guy, why? What motive do I have?” I
cried.
I want to point out some law as I knew it then and maybe what I was taught in the
academy is wrong?
A ‘confession’ is when a suspect admits that a crime was knowingly committed.
An ‘admission’ is a concession about a particular thing you are knowledgeable about. Not
that you committed an illegal act.
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I did not ‘confess’ to murder. I admitted to throwing down a gun AFTER
shooting a felon under stressful, confusing and accidental circumstances. I believe all my
actions up to the shooting was completely justifiable and I would have been exonerated
for those actions. It was totally inane of me to do what I did but I did it.
But, where the .22 came from was the only ‘key item’ they needed me to tell
them. If I had kept my mouth shut and re-demanded my right to an attorney and not fell
for their routine of wanting to help me, which was Big Lie #2, who knows what the
outcome may have been? I might have found myself walking home from downtown Los
Angeles, but as an ex-deputy.
No one wanted to listen now. All ears were shut to my cries. The only thing that I
am allowed to do is make a telephone call--finally. I forget whom it was who took me to
the main desk area and sat me down. I was still shocked and crying. I dialed my home
and while I was waiting for someone to answer I could see another light come on the
button board on the phone. Then there was no light but I heard a click that told me
someone else was listening in--these fuckers will never quit.
“Hello,” Chuck said.
“Chuck,” I choked out, “I’m under arrest for murder.
“What!” he said in disbelief.
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Then I started crying harder, or rather sobbing. “Chuck, they said I murdered
Molette. I’ve been arrested for 1st degree murder. Don’t let anyone in the house without a
search warrant. Try and call Ken Zomick for me, please. I can’t believe it. I’m under
arrest for murder. Marilynn leaves me, and now this. It’s all over for me. My life is
over.”
“I’ll call Zomick right away. Are you ok?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Be careful what you do. I need you more now as a deputy than
ever. I’m going to need your help real bad.” I cried to him.
“You got it. Are they taking you to central jail?” Charlie asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. I got to go. Bye.”
I stood up and then hung up the phone. Only the light didn’t go off right away
confirming my suspicion that someone else was listening in. Landry walks up, “Put your
hands behind your back.”
“Behind my back? Can’t you cuff me in the front? God damn man I’m not going
anywhere.”
“Behind your back.” He demanded while smiling.
Landry didn’t like me, I could tell that. The way he lead me around it was
obvious. Landry, Wilson and I took a few flights of stairs down to the parking lot. It was
very cold outside and Landry starts shoving me around.
“You’re an asshole. You have made it bad for every cop.” He chided.
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“I didn’t murder him, why won’t you listen?” I asked him.
Wilson looked at me and said, “ Look you Firestone prick, we know you didn’t
murder him but Pete (Sheriff Pitchess) wants a murder charge and maybe this will
straighten out your Firestone asshole friends not to embarrass the sheriff.”
And Landry says, “And we’ve never ever had a rat-snitch deputy like your old
trainee to just come in and vomit up things like he did. You trained him good!”
Wilson gets in the detective car to drive. Landry opens a rear door and I get in the
back with him next to me. Wilson then rams the front seat backwards into my knees
and Landry pushes me forward. He reaches back and tightens up my handcuffs where
they bite hard into my wrists. (For the next week I have the obvious marks reminding
me of those tight cuffs.)
“You’d better think about maybe cooperating with us on anything else we need. It’d
be in your best interest”, Landry said.
“You want somebody else from Firestone you fucking go get them yourself you
miserable fuck.” I yelled back. He then backhanded me across the right side of my
face.
“Only in handcuffs would you do that”, I yelled.
Away we drive to the county jail. I can’t remember much of the trip although I’ve
been there many times. I just sit back while the tears flow down my cheeks and my face
hurting from Landry’s backhand. Wilson made a comment how the big, bad Firestone
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deputy was starting to cry like a baby. Whatever I am accused of doing will be all over
the papers this morning and I forgot to tell Chuck to call my parents.
Upon arrival at the booking section at Central jail I find things cleared and quiet.
They were expecting my arrival. I remember a lieutenant who was there. This guy was a
deputy when I went through the academy, now he’s a lieutenant.
“What happened out there?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me that, but never shoot anyone with a magnum.” I told him.
I remember going to the booking window to talk to the clerk. There were a few
girls that I knew working in the booking area as civilians and they were shocked to see
me on the wrong side of the glass. I just answered the question as I was asked. I was
stripped and given jail clothes. Every deputy who came in to see me, conveyed their best
to me hoping that this thing would turn out all right. I was given a set of blues (blue shirt
and pants) and then lead to the fingerprint and photograph room. Here I was
photographed and printed. #320776 was my booking number. I couldn’t say too much but
then I remembered that I better call Charlie again--it was 6 AM.
“Can I make a call?” I asked.
By now I had been up almost 22 hours.
“Let me check,” the print deputy said.
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He called some else who gave him permission to give me permission. He then
gave me a dime and I went into the holding tank where the phones were. I dialed home
once more.
“Hello,” Charlie answered.
“Charlie, it’s me. I’m at Central jail. Call my dad and tell him what’s happening.
Get me Zomick as soon as possible. Tell Carole too.”
“Ok, Don (Don Cope. My brother-in-law) is here. Oh, ASB was here.”
“Don’t give them a thing without a search warrant.” I told him.
“I gave them your photo album.” He said.
“I told those bastards they couldn’t have it.”
“It was (Meredith) Miller. He said that you told them to have me cooperate with
them and give it to them, so I did. They just left.” He finished.
“They sure timed things right.”
“Listen, do you need anything?” Charlie asked.
“Not right now. Just get a hold of the boys. I’ll need some reports and things, I’m
sure I got to go again, the deputy is waving me on.”
“All right, bye.” Charlie said and hung up.
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While I was being booked Sheriff Pitchess was at the “Today’s Show” studio
doing his thing. That son-of-a-bitch was going to arrest me no matter what. Sold down
the river.
(After the call the print deputy took my shoes from me so he could take the front
plates off the soles. They were now considered contraband. Then three or four
deputies came from somewhere and I was escorted upstairs to the 7000 ward that was
the hospital ward. My blues were taken from me and I was given brown pajamas. I
got to keep my shoes but the shoestrings were removed. The only thing I had in the
room was a mattress, blankets and toilet paper. I was on suicide watch.)
It seems to me that someone thought I was suicidal. That must have been why I
was brought here. I know that a cop can’t be booked in with the regular prisoners for
safety’s sake but these were extreme measures someone was taking. There wasn’t a
single item in the room that could be used as a self-inflicting weapon, but I knew one
thing for sure and that was I enjoyed living.
Any comments I made about life being over sure didn’t mean I was going to cut
my throat and give them the satisfaction I killed myself out of guilt.
I was locked in, and the deputy who locked me in took a seat outside my
doorway. Every fifteen minutes he would pop up and see how I was doing and then write
it down in a notebook.
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This was the front page of The Huntington Park Daily Signal.
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The Times has me looking like a convict already. In one paper I am 24 years old and
another I am 25 years old. Great reporting. I like the comment about the three month
investigation. What fucking three month investigation?
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Herald Examiner article. Also screwed up. This article was harder to download than
some of the others.
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I like this one. It may be a continuation of one of the others. I like where it states the
‘homicide investigators found a .22 caliber revolver at the scene’. Who the fuck they talk
to? What homicide investigators were at the scene? Here I am, possibly the most
notorious deputy-sheriff in Los Angeles County history, and maybe the United States,
and the Los Angeles area papers can’t even get their stories straight!
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That first day was frustrating and unforgettable. I had no idea what was happening
on the outside, what my family was doing, what the other deputies were doing, what
Charlie was doing about getting me an attorney? All I did was cry and pace around the
square room and gaze out the windows that faced the train yard. The sky was starting to
lighten up and as I sat down on the bed to go over for the 1000th time how something like
this could have happened the cell door was opened. It was breakfast time, and with that
meant the morning newspaper.
The deputies who were in charge of the food cart were more than friendly and
very generous to me. They filled my plate with eggs, rolls and whatever they could put on
it. On the floor they set two cups of milk and two cups of orange juice. I looked at this
good food and felt bad because I wasn’t the least bit hungry. Instead of making them feel
bad by not eating it, I flushed it down the toilet and acted as if I never had a better meal in
my life. But the truth of the matter is that only those who have been through such a
traumatic experience will know what I went through. A person just arrested on a ‘death
penalty’ crime wants nothing--nothing but for it to be all over.
One of the deputies came in with the day’s papers. Things were hot and heavy all
over but no one except a few inmates and the nurses knew who was in room 7020. And
none of the newspapers did me any justice. The Herald Examiner, the Los Angeles Times
and the Huntington Park Daily Signal did a nice job in their one sided manner of
reporting. ‘Satan’ with a badge arrested was the crux of it.
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The ridiculous and most questionable part of all the articles was “sheriff’s
homicide investigators said an extensive investigation following the incident uncovered
new evidence that resulted in reopening the case.” I was still wondering who-said-what
crap and tried for the life of me to rack my brains wondering who it was and what the
‘extensive investigation’ turned up.
For the most part whatever information I will be writing about now is taken from
my father’s notes. He kept a daily notebook from November 12, 1969 on, and I will use
these to refresh my memory.
November 13, Thursday:
On the outside, the sheriff’s department turned whatever evidence they had to the
district attorneys office. This was to have occurred at 1 PM, after the department issued
their press and TV news releases. It seems they were seriously going for the death
penalty!
My father and brother-in-law, Donald Cope, came to visit me but I have no
mental recollection of the visit. I only remember that Carole said later on she came to the
jail and tried to see me but someone refused her entry on the grounds that I was being
held incommunicado. She was the only person directly involved in this case that did.
Not a single deputy whom I would have put my life on the line for showed up.
I was allowed to have my visits in the small hospital visiting room and that was a
relief. No one else was around except the deputy in charge, and they were nice enough to
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give me extra time. I don’t know how long my dad and Don stayed but I’m sure that they
got a hold of Ken Zomick for me, because he was in court on Friday.
That night I got an idea of how I was supposed to sleep-- with a light on all night
long. The department wasn’t taking any chances with me. The deputies took turns sitting
outside my doorway and writing in their notebooks concerning my bedchecks. I know
what they put down almost all night long, “Prisoner walking around,” because I paced
until around 4 AM.
November 14, 1969, Friday:
The breakfast cart came and I was hungry now. I hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner the
previous night, still flushing my food down the toilet because of a lack of appetite. When
I was being served I was informed that I was to shower and shave that morning while my
room was being mopped out.
After eating, I was escorted to the shower room in my baggy pajamas. The shower
consisted of a very small 3 foot by 3 foot cubicle with a shower spout that had the force
of a fireman’s hose. On one side of the shower was a glass partition, where the deputy
could keep eye contact with the prisoner, and also control the force and heat of the water.
It still came out so fast that it was almost impossible to stand under it without
experiencing some discomfort.
I showered, dried off and changed into some clean pajamas. I was then escorted to
a bathroom where I could shave--while under observation--with an old Gillette blue blade
and old fashioned shaving soap. I wasn’t allowed any blades in my room. After suffering
through the shave, I was put back into my room.
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I figured out that today was the day I had to be arraigned or cut loose. Little did I
know that the county took the case to the grand jury weeks before only to be turned down
for lack of evidence. This was the advice Gary Komers gave me a while back about
‘being careful’. (Years later he later I believe he admitted that he was referring to Chuck
Stowell and myself, but the grand jury refused on both. However, they did advise the
district attorneys office that they could go on with whatever criminal actions they felt
were necessary.)
At around 9 AM I was roused out of bed and given my suit and told to dress out
for court. I was going--they weren’t going to release me. My stupid expectations were
illogically unfounded. I dressed out (now I knew the ultimate reason for having to wear a
suit downtown) and was escorted to the court holding tank in the first floor next to the
booking area. I was taken over to the old Hall of Justice and up an elevator. I don’t
remember what floor we stopped at but I do know that the deputy and I had to walk down
a flight of stairs to the courtroom. In fact, we took a roundabout way to the stairway. One
of the deputies running the prisoner elevator was John Lawton, whose father worked
homicide at one time. I knew John from Firestone. I was in handcuffs and Lawton looked
uncomfortable just being in my presence.
“God-damn Bob, I can’t believe it. I just hope that you beat this thing. You know,
the homicide bureau has formed pro and con sides as to whether or not you’re guilty.
Things are really hot there.”
(Like I was supposed to give a shit about them choosing sides whether I should
have been arrested. Those against it didn’t do anything to help me out.)
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“Yeah, I hope I beat it too. Look at me, being lead to court as a murder suspect,
and the county wants to send me to the gas chamber.”
The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Standing on the outside was Robert
Clapp, a deputy I graduated with from the sheriff’s academy. He was a sergeant now. He
deserved to be one. He was a very smart man.
“Hello Bob. I’m sorry to be on this detail. I don’t believe a word of the
accusations but just follow me for now,” he said.
“Ok,” was all that came out.
We walked down one of the hallways to a stairway that lead down to the holding
tank for the municipal court arraignment area. I always wondered why I wasn’t arraigned
in Huntington Park Municipal court instead of downtown. That was the court that should
have heard the arraignment proceedings because that was the area where the so-called
crime occurred. But the department has more drag downtown so this is where I was
going.
(Although there will be many people who will say that it didn’t make any
difference where I was arraigned, but I would like to point out that Deputy Sheriff Sgt.
Bullock, arrested for murdering his wife and then shooting her boyfriend was not
arraigned downtown, but rather in Compton, the court that would usually hear the
municipal court proceedings.
(In Huntington Park, one judge commented that “....Deputy Shaffer is to be
commended for his honesty in testifying,” in a narcotics arrest I made. The suspect was
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released from custody on my testimony, but my fellow deputies told me to lie so the
suspect, whom they didn’t like, could be sent back to prison.)
“You aren’t to talk to anyone or to make any outbursts entering or leaving the
courtroom,” Bob said.
(That was a mistake on my part. What was he going to do, gag me?)
“All right,” I told him.
We walked downstairs, and who was waiting for me but every news camera in
town. The lights were glowing and the cameras reeling. I felt like yelling that I was
innocent but that wasn’t proper conduct. What a fool I was for not making a scene.
Questions were yelled at me by the newsmen, but I just stupidly walked by
ignoring them. We entered a small sally port that lead to the courtroom. My cuffs were
taken off on the promise that I would not try to escape. Escape, me? Where the fuck
would I escape to? Run out of the building and catch a cab to Mexico? Then the door
was opened and I was escorted to the prisoner arraignment area, which would serve as the
jury section in other times.
I looked about me. The courtroom was packed with deputies, friends and family. I
could see Gary, Chuck, Steve Streaker, Marilynn my estranged wife, my parents, Don,
Wayne, Judy, Francis, and many others.
Don Cope, my brother-in-law, walked over to where I was sitting. “How are you
doing?”
“I think I’m ok. Anything new?” I asked him.
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“No, don’t worry though, we’ll have you out as soon as possible.”
‘Yeah, sure’ I thought.
Then a deputy marshal walked up and told Don that there could be no talking
between ‘the prisoner’ (me) and anyone else.
(Deputy-marshal’s were the ‘bailiff’s’ in municipal court. Deputy sheriff’s were
the bailiff’s in superior court.)
Ken Zomick introduced himself to me.
“Hello, I’m Ken Zomick, Chuck’s attorney. I can only represent you in these
proceedings because I am not a criminal lawyer per se. I do divorces.”
“That’s ok. Just try and get a bail set so I can get out of that jail, please.”
“I’ll surely try, but they want you real bad,” he replied.
“Tell me something I don’t know. What is their hard-on?” I asked him.
Then Municipal Court Judge Chavez took the bench. My case was called and I
stood as I was instructed to do. I could see people giving me the ‘V sign with their
fingers.
I was trying to figure out if that meant ‘V’ for victory of ‘V’ for you’re ‘vucked’.
There was the usual legal procedure about the charges and my true name. Then
the discussion about my bail. Ken Zomick told Judge Chavez that he felt that since the
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crime occurred while I was on-duty that I should be admitted to a reasonable bail. With
this motion a man called Deputy D.A. Special Prosecutor (mother-fucker Charlie
Chicken) Ralph Mayer made an argument.
Ralph Mayer, my nemesis for life, glared at me with hatred in his eyes. Mayer
asked Sgt. Landry what he thought, and Sgt. Landry told Judge Chavez that they felt that
the evidence would sustain a ‘Murder One’ conviction. Therefore no bail was set. It was
as easy as that. I got reamed from the start.
This was a simple process to let me know that homicide and the DA’s office was
in control of my life from here on. Period. End of report.
I was given a preliminary date set for November 23, 1969. I was led back through
the small sally port and back to the stairway, a man from the department was trying to
take my picture (probably for Pitchess’s photo album) but I hid my face one time and
gave him the finger the next. More than likely I would be ‘demonized’ to the next class
of academy cadets.
I don’t recall the route back to central jail but before I knew it I was back in 7020,
in my baggy pajamas. I think that around 3 PM my mother and Marilynn came to see me.
I told them to get me an attorney who could handle the case because Ken Zomick was out
of his league.
We talked about things in general, but that thing that hit me the worst was to see
the tears coming from my mother’s eyes. I had never seen my mother cry, hardly ever
before, and it was a shock. She was hurt as only a mother is hurt, it didn’t take much to
tell that. I always vowed that one day these bastards would pay for this.
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After the visit I was taken back to my cell. Dinner was about ready and I wanted
to lie down. I had a headache from all the stress and I wanted to think about the next two
weeks that I would be confined to this cell. I was getting to know helplessness of waiting
for the judicial system to “hurry up and wait”. The judge rattles off a date and the suspect
returns to the woodwork of the jail system until the magic date comes up, and then he is
dug out once again and taken to court.
For me life turned out just waiting for the day to pass. Up at 6 AM if I like it or
not for breakfast and never able to get back to sleep until lights out time. And even then it
was rough because the bed was 4” too short and either my feet or my head was cramped
up into the frame, the bed was bolted to the floor.
The deputies would feed me breakfast and if I had a dime I would buy a paper or
some stamps. I remembered that I had a letter that I was going to have to send to Carole
pretty soon. It seems that this small detail was going to interrupt our social and divorcesoon life.
On November 15, 1969, some of my relatives went attorney hunting. My father,
Francis Enoch Shaffer, Don Cope, Marilynn, father- in-law Heinz Geiger and mother-inlaw Anna Geiger, my brother Wayne, his wife Emily and my sister Judee had a 10 AM
appointment to see Mr. Al Ramsey at his 222 Pacific Street, Long Beach office.
Mr. Ramsey represented Jack Kirschke during his murder trial, and Ramsey was
associated with Ken Zomick in a way. He was supposed to be a terrific trial lawyer but he
was expensive. After my relatives saw him he came to see me at the county jail. His
price: $5000 retainer and $500 a day in court, only through the preliminary because he
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wanted to go to England on vacation. And I believe that his minimum cost for this would
be $10,000 and in 1969 that was a lot of money.
From Mr. Ramsey’s office the mob went to see Mr. Burton Marks 5670 Wilshire
Blvd, Beverly Hills at 1 PM. Mr. Marks was recommended by an LAPD captain that I
knew, and Mr. Marks had a reputation for doing ‘behind the scenes’ work.
Mr. Marks came to see me at the county jail at 8 PM this evening. He was
accompanied by my estranged wife Marilynn. She was his acting as his ‘secretary’, that
way she could get in. He was a short fat pudgy man with flushed red cheeks. We talked
for a few minutes about the case and I will never forget his words, “The best they have is
manslaughter,” and “Don’t worry about the fees, maybe it won’t cost you anything.”
Mr. Marks seemed to be very, very interested in taking my case. His retainer was
$3500 including the first five days in court and $350 a day after that. Each motion was a
certain amount and each writ filed during the process was $3500. A lot of bucks then.
Before I decided to make up my mind I saw Ramsey again. I asked him about
Burton Marks. “Marks is a good constitutional lawyer but he’s not what I would call a
trial lawyer who can really sway a jury. You might need someone who has those talents.”
(That was the best legal advice I never listened to.)
All in all, I hired Burton Marks. Although Ramsey wasn’t impressed with him,
another attorney came to see me on the advise of a deputy I worked with, Bruce Wolfe.
Wolfe figured that I had already hired another attorney but since he was in the area he
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figured that I could use someone to talk to for a while. Jail conditions were deplorable for
me. Being an isolation case means you talk to yourself sooner or later.
Wolfe told me that ‘Steve Beeler’ (author of The Firestone Syndrome) asked him
to come and see me. I went through the academy with Steve and also worked with him at
Firestone station. Steve was the only deputy who even thought about my welfare enough
to do something about it in this capacity. I had totally forgotten about this act of kindness
from Steve.
Well, Mr. Wolfe seemed to be impressed with Burton Marks because Marks
knows how to appeal cases that have been lost in court. I felt this was an important aspect
in hiring an attorney because some attorneys will recommend their client to an appeal
attorney if they loose the case thus breaking up the continuity. I didn’t want that if I
could help it.
There was another attorney that my father asked to come and see me. He had just
won a murder case (really a lightweight manslaughter) and my dad figured he might be of
some assistance. When I told him I Thought I was going to Hire Marks, Sherman and
London as councilor’s he didn’t stay around long.
November 16, 1969, Sunday:
My sister Frances and brother Wayne came to see me at 2:30 PM. Wayne was
working with his fellow Huntington Park Jaycees in helping me financially and my sister
was busy writing letters to state political 1eaders
November 17, 1969, Monday:
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Al Ramsey came to see me again. Don starts a P.O. Box in case any donations are
sent in. It’s called the RS Fund.
My father was busy deciding if someone should hold a press conference to
dispute the findings of the local newspapers from their ‘informed sources’. He was also
going to get in touch with the public defenders office to find out if they would retain a top
notch lawyer to defend me instead of a street attorney. To this I will say, the public
defenders office never responded to a single letter sent to them. I wrote them maybe ten
times but to no avail. The ‘word’, I felt, was that I was too hot for them to handle.
Charlie also called the Peace Officers Protective Association to ascertain if they
would represent me for these legal proceedings. There was always a cruel rumor going
around that if any deputy, who was a member got into trouble during an on-duty incident
that member would be represented free-of-charge by the association counsel. According
to Charlie, they were informed from someone of high rank in the department not to step
into the case. I wrote to them also but received no response.
November 18, 1969, Tuesday:
My sister Judee paid me a visit. I related to her how this whole thing was
“political assassination” on the part of Sheriff Pitchess. I had heard that various antipolice groups had been pressuring the sheriff to crack down on those aggressive deputies
working the black areas. My name was on the top of the list. But I think I was also
grabbing at straws and excuses.
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I confirmed my decision with my parents to hire Burton Marks as my attorney.
Marks said he hoped to have me out on bail by Thanksgiving.
November 19, 1969, Wednesday:
My mother came to see me but was refused admittance because someone finally
decided that I was having too many visitors. Now I could only have two a week.
The Black Manifesto pops up in my dad’s notes once again. ‘Robert’s arrest was
to brighten up the image of Peter Pitchesss and his department in the south-central
district.” My dad wrote this poem:
‘King Peter Pitchess Herod, Pontius Evelle Younger Pilate, Judas is the men that
are badgering- harassment by department had made deputies weak, by fear of losing their
job and possible prosecution also. Who has the right to say when to pull a trigger, desk
sitting top personnel, or those who ride the dusk to dawn patrols?’
*** * ** *** ** *** *** ** * ****** **** *** *
(It is very easy for me to type day-by-day sequences about my arrest and initial
incarceration. But what the reader should not do is to consider this whole affair an
abstraction. I realize that not everyone in this world will be arrested for murder at some
time or another, but the experience of it is something that I have never felt ever before. I
type day-to-day experiences in a few lines but the thing is I (along with hundreds of
others) had to sit doing absolutely nothing but think about our situation. This in itself is
almost self-defeating.)
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A few lines may describe a visit, but it doesn’t re-describe the routine nor the
lunch, dinner and subsequent lights-out routine. Deputies come and go, so do the nurses,
but the prisoners are isolated within their own isolation, without clocks, many without
windows, without books, magazines or writing material. And we were expected to act in
a humane fashion.
Chapter 24
Gilbert McMullen
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It was around this time that I would wave to a fellow inmate across the hallway. I
never really saw much of this guy’s face or features. One of the deputies asked if I
wanted to trade a book or paper with ‘Mac’. I had a few but Mac had a whole lot more.
Before we started to trade papers, I found out a lot more about Mac. Gilbert E.
McMullen. Ex-sheriff sergeant. Motorcycle and gang detail. Arrested the Manson family
at Spawn Ranch for stolen guns and stolen vehicles, prior to the DA’s office knowing
who killed Sharon Tate, Folger, and party. This man had Charles Manson in custody! No
prosecution says DA, lack of evidence. Eat your heart out fool.
Ex-sergeant McMullin was in for killing his ex-wife in a restaurant called
Harvey’s in San Fernando Valley. I read about it in the paper but like all the rest of the
cops I talked to about the case, “Nothing but manslaughter,” was their opinion. I never
figured that I would meet him in the county jail.
We used to trade notes in the magazines and papers that were shuttled across the
hallway. I remember when Gil asked me if I had a window to look out of. I did. I had a
whole wall of windows that faced the train depot. There was one small window missing
and I used to put my face next to it and breathe the moist air on cloudy days, and reach
my arm out to feel the warm sunshine on the sunny days. I used to watch a white pigeon
that landed on the roof top looking for scraps of food that were thrown out by other
inmates.
Gil was in another small room like mine. But he had no outside window, no clock,
no one to talk to and the lights were never turned off in his room. I suspect he was
another ‘suicide potential’, like myself, that some asshole investigator thought he would
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tag on a guy to make things rougher than they should have been. Although Gil knew
almost every administrative (brass) deputy in the jail because of his nineteen years of
service, he had absolutely no visits from his so-called department friends.
The only visit I had while inside my cell was from a male black nurse. My door
was to be opened only by a deputy or someone accompanied by a deputy. One night the
door opens and this male nurse came in--alone. I didn’t like the way things looked so I
stood up against the wall. He walked past me to the windows.
“You know, you’re going to get everything that you deserve. And I hope they
really give it to you. It’s about time that guys like you are put away.”
“Do you know me?” I asked him.
“No”
“Do you know how long I was a deputy?”
“No.
“Have you ever been in a patrol car in Watts at night wearing a uniform?”
“No”
“Were you in the room when I shot that burglar?” I asked.
“No”. was the answer.
“Then how in the hell do you have the nerve to come in here and say something
like that? I could have you canned in a hot second by just starting to yell and saying that
you came in here unescorted and tried to assault me with your scissors. You know there’s
a red tag on my door and you know that it means ‘open with deputy only’. You sound as
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bigoted as some cops I know. You know absolutely fucking nothing about what’s going
on except what you read in the papers and you’re ready to pass judgment on me here and
now. Well I got news for you mister, you better get your ass out of here and never come
in here again because I don’t have to take your shit. You just committed yourself like I
did, and whether or not your actions were wrong or my actions were wrong no man alive
can judge. Only you or me can.”
He looked at me for a moment longer then walked out. I saw him many times
after that but he never set foot in my cell again
November 23, 1969, Sunday:
My father and mother came to see me. Nothing new...
November 24, 1969, Monday:
I had a visit from Mike Thornton, assistant pastor from Peace Lutheran church in
South Gate. Later on Marilynn came in to see me. I was in good spirits.
November 26, 1969, Wednesday:
I was awaiting this day impatiently. I was going to my preliminary hearing,
hoping to be cut loose from this horrible nightmare. I was going to get a partial day in
court. I say partial because the defense does not put on a case at this hearing, only the
prosecution.
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Chapter 25
My Preliminary Hearing
I can remember going to Division 40 to find out that the case was going to be
heard by Judge Nancy B. Goodman in Division 43. I wondered about having a woman
for a judge. I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea but it was either a woman or an appointed
‘acting’ magistrate, and I didn’t want ‘acting magistrates’ under any circumstances.
It was 9:45 AM and I was lead into the courtroom. It was literally packed full of
familiar faces and some not so familiar. There was Carl Spreen, Hal Manskar, Curtis
Malone, Bud Wenke, and a host of others including the now famous police story writer
Joseph Wambaugh. I was escorted in by a nice young deputy who had recently graduated
from the sheriff’s academy. Although there were marshals around someone felt a deputy
escort wouldn’t hurt.
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Judge Nancy Goodman took the stand. She wore glasses, looked assertive, like
the type of woman who demanded respect.
Burton Marks, my attorney, was not there and I felt slighted. In his place was his
partner Robert London, (who should have handled things to the bitter end.)
He was going to defend me at this hearing because Marks was busy in the federal
courts defending an attorney accused of wrong-doing during the famous “Friars Club”
card cheating activities in Hollywood. Robert London looked much more impressive than
Burton Marks did, judging by his appearance and voice. But I was still bugged somewhat
because he wasn’t whom I was initially paying for because Mr. Marks did not tell me he
would not be in court.
We exchanged formalities and he introduced me to an ex-LAPD cop who was
now my ‘investigator’ Mr. Grady.
Then I made what was probably one of the worst strategy mistakes I could have
made. I was threatened about my family hearing my ‘admission’ about planting the .22
because they all believed what I said about the shooting was the truth. I was embarrassed
and ashamed to have them hear anything different.
I asked Mr. London to request a closed hearing. Had it been left open I believe in
my heart I would have been found ‘not guilty’ at my trial. I did not let any of the
deputies who supported me know who was telling the lies that had me arrested for
murder.
They agreed. Mr. London thought it would cut down on the newspaper
sensationalism and help with a bail request.
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Judge Goodman looked up.
“People vs Robert E. Shaffer. Mr. Shaffer, is that your true name, sir?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Counsel, do you and your client waive further reading of the complaint and
statement of constitutional rights?”
“So waived your honor,” Mr. London replied.
“Thank you, you may be seated, gentlemen. Proceed.”
I looked over at ‘Charlie Chicken’ Ralph Mayer, who was seated to my right with
Landry and Wilson, the super-foes. Mayer, in his usual 5’5” way of asserting himself,
stood up, opened his cocked mouth,
“Your honor, at this time, if it please the Court, I have 13 exhibits and I would
like them marked for identification at this time, if I may.”
“All right.”
Then London stood up, “Your honor, prior to proceeding, I would move the Court
to exclude all witnesses. I would also move the court to exclude all non-witnesses, to
clear the courtroom. I would also like to exclude any press at this time, if I may.”
“Is this under 868 for a closed session?” she asked.
“Yes, your honor.”
Judge Goodman then asked for a list of names for the first witnesses and
subsequent witnesses so they could be excluded. The first three witnesses were D.
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Lawrence, Benny Molette (father) and my ex-partner Curtis Malone. I had nodded
recognition to Malone a couple of times but never received any response from him. I
figured he was just acting in his typical nervous fashion.
Sgt. Landry and my private detective remained, claiming some sort of privilege to
exclusion. Anyway, we needed our investigator to take notes.
Then Judge Goodman ordered the courtroom cleared. . Not only were the things
that were going to be said about me kept in this courtroom, so were the lies of the
prosecutions witnesses.
The only other person who was allowed to remain was a Miss Noland from the
Public Defenders office. She was to observe the proceedings for some reason. (I tried to
contact her years later trying to ascertain why she was really there. I received no response
from her.)
Then a small balding man stood up. I never saw him before.
“Your honor, I’m an attorney. I represent the parents of the deceased. May I
remain in the courtroom?”
I should think the fuck not, I thought.
Needless to say we objected to this and he was also requested to leave. I didn’t
need an ambulance chaser around listening to the bullshit that was going to be brought
up.
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Mr. London then asked the judge to order all parties not to discuss these
proceedings with the press. Although the judge felt there was some first amendment
problems, she did so until she could check on case law at recess time.
Then Mr. Mayer got back down to his business of the exhibits. He wanted to
following items marked: 1) a coroner’s photograph, 2) a spent slug, 3) a .22 revolver
#10912, 4) my photo album, 5) a picture of the back room with a mannequin on the floor
(outside view), 6) an inside view, 7) a downward view, 8) an upward view, 9) one
cylindrically shaped piece of metal, 10) two large caliber slugs, 11) 7 rounds of .22
ammo, 12) a 6.35 mm semi-automatic pistol, and 13) a .357 magnum revolver #40833
and 18 rounds of .357 ammunition (which I think was actually .38 ammunition).
After these exhibits were marked, Mr. Mayer called his first witness, Dr. William
H. Lawrence Jr. a pathologist in the coroner’s office. Dr. Lawrence wasn’t quite the
stereo- type of TV serial pathologists. He acted and talked like a man who I thought
enjoyed being holed up in a coroner’s office and one who disliked testifying in court. He
didn’t speak too loud, and like I say, wasn’t too impressive.
Dr. Lawrence, under questioning, gave his credentials as a doctor and pathologist.
He had to check his papers to find out when he was licensed to practice in California,
which was since 1966.
Mr. Mayer approached Dr. Lawrence with the photograph of Molette to ascertain
if this was the same person that Dr. Lawrence did a post-mortem examination on. Dr.
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Lawrence stated that Molette died from a lacerated spine that was caused by a gunshot
wound.
“Can you describe the injury and the organ, sir?” Mayer asked.
“There was a through perforation of the stomach, a laceration of the spleen, a
laceration of the liver and escape of blood into the left chest area. There was also a
fracture of the eighth rib, and a fracture of the lumbar vertebra one and two.”
(The only impressive thing I thought was at least Sgt. Wenke’s bullet did
everything that he boasted it would do. It tore Molette’s intestines up.)
Mr. Mayer then had Dr. Lawrence identify the slug that Dr. Lawrence removed
from Molette’s body. Now, Mr. Asshole Deputy DA Mayer tries to make the burglar look
good.
“... is it customary to have a toxic analysis made?”
“That is correct,” the doctor said.
“And what were the results of that, sir?” Mayer asked.
“The results were the finding of 0.4 milligrams of barbiturates in the blood, postmortem.”
So, the burglar was a pill-head besides being a thief. He took 4 reds.
Mr. London started his cross-examination trying to find out an approximate time
the seconal was ingested. It seemed to him that the burglar could have taken quite a lot
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more and what was found in his blood was the remainder of a large amount. This
couldn’t be determined--at least by Dr. Lawrence.
(There was a rumor going around in the black community that I had caught
Molette in the back alley, injected him with drugs, dragged him into the store and then
shot him. I was told that the rumor started with Molette’s family. I don’t know.)
Mr. London tried to ascertain if ingestion of the seconal would have any
contributing factor towards the cause of death.
“The level reported, in my opinion, would not be sufficient to cause death. I
would not be of the opinion that the barbiturates level would have an effect one way or
the other on the outcome of the fatal injury.”
Mr. London then went on to ask the doctor when the burglar died of his injuries.
All the doctor could say was “an immediate examination would indicate a rapid demise
following the injury.” As Homer Simpson would say “Duh”.
“Can you tell me, then, what is your opinion as to the time of injury?” London
asked.
“Well, I could say it was prior to 8:40, the 18th of July, when there is a history of
being admitted to the hospital,” was his reply.
“You mean the 18th of August.”
“It is written here, July.” The doctor said. (Good, wrong dead body so let me go
on a technicality.)
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(This is but the start of the type of shit that goes on in my trial. Times, dates,
names, everything is fucked up and no one changes things because it doesn’t make any
difference.)
Mr. London then tried to get the doctor to give an opinion as to when death would
occur after receiving such an injury. Without making a definite statement, the doctor
stated that survival could be no less then two hours nor no more than ‘six’.
“But, again, I wouldn’t be able to make a definite statement.” The doctor said.
I wondered what if any definite he could say?
I always thought that if Molette was hurt so bad why wasn’t he kept at St. Francis
Hospital in Lynwood where he could get immediate treatment there instead of being
hauled off in an ambulance for a 30 minute drive to L.A. County general hospital? This
was a waste of valuable time when he could have been possibly saved. Molette was quite
active during this ride because the deputies who rode with him told me he called
everybody a mother fucker, tried to get up while bleeding all over his bed.
With this last question, Dr. Lawrence was excused.
Next, ‘Super Chicken’ Ralph Mayer called Mr. Benny Molette, father of the
deceased. He was a small, wiry man.
It is about this point in the trial that I am learning one thing about all this bullshit:
That truth is the obligation to lie according to fixed convention.
Mr. Molette was obviously prompted earlier from a homicide detective to say just
how good a son Roderick was. That they had a good relationship, talked openly, that the
439
father knew of his son’s whereabouts and that although his son had been arrested for
felonies in the past they were all ‘mistakes’.
Mayer started asking Mr. Molette if his son ever owned a gun.
“What is the purpose of this line of inquiry, Mr. Mayer?” replied the judge of Mr.
Mayer, staunch supporter of the American way.
“This is a question as to whether or not a certain gun found next to Roderick
Molette belonged to Roderick Molette. I would like to ask this witness questions to
ascertain whether or not Roderick owned this type of gun. I think then it becomes
material to determine the relationship between father and son, to see whether or not he
would know whether or not his son did possess a gun.”
Mr. Molette said Roderick had owned a .22 but was arrested when he tried to go
to Douglas Aircraft where Roderick worked a while back. Roderick was arrested when
he showed his .22 to the guard for some unknown reason.
(I heard from one of my sources Roderick Molette went to Douglas Aircraft to
shoot someone. It may have been an unfounded rumor.)
Mr. Molette was given the .22 by the judge who heard his son’s case and
then said that Roderick Molette never owned another weapon, to his knowledge.
“No, that was the only one,” Mr. Molette testified.
He went on to say that he saw his son last at 3:30 am when Roderick got up to take a
leak. He did not know Roderick had left the house until some homicide detectives
came to visit him after the shooting.
440
Mr. London questioned Mr. Molette about his testimony and the two of them
started to argue about things Mr. Molette just testified about, denying he just said them
“I told you the judge, when they taken him to court,--- the judge told him to give
me the gun and dismissed the case for him, against him. That’s all, for him not to fool
with it no more.”
Mr. London did what he was being paid to do: make Roderick Molette look bad
and make it look like his father had no idea whatsoever what his son was up to.
All this information is coming from my preliminary hearing transcripts. But then
a surprise pops up.
The next thing my transcript says is Mr. HIGGINS:
(I don’t know who the fuck Mr. Higgins is but the court recorder, our Mrs. Elaine
Flack might know. There wasn’t any Mr. Higgins at my trial but his name keeps popping
up. This is another example of how things get messed up and never changed back into
their right place…. ah, the system.)
Mr. Molette is doing what he was instructed to do: make his son look like a
normal everyday son.
441
Chapter 26
Welcome Back Curtis William Malone
Star Prosecution Witness
.
“May I call my next witness?” said Mr. Mayer.
“You may,” said the judge.
“Mr. Malone,” said Mr. Mayer.
(When I heard his name being called as a prosecution witness I really could have shit
my pants, as the saying goes. Now I realized why he never acknowledged me.)
Truth: The obligation to lie according to Fixed Convention.
442
I asked Mr. London if Malone was the reason I was arrested.
“We’ll soon find out,” Bob responded.
Curtis W. Malone was sworn in by the court clerk. He took his seat in the witness
stand. I tried to get his attention but he wouldn’t look at me. When he started to loom in
my direction he lifted up the speaker’s microphone where it would block eye contact
between he and I. ‘What was wrong with him?’ I thought.
Mr. Mayer stood up and took the floor.
“Please state your business or occupation, sir.”
“Deputy of the County of Los Angeles presently assigned to Corrections Division,
Wayside Honor Rancho, maximum security.”
“How long have you been a deputy-sheriff?”
“Twenty-five months.” Malone told him.
(Hell, he had less than two years on before he came to Firestone. I was now
realizing why he was so slow in adapting.)
“Directing your attention to August the 18th, 1969, were you working as a deputy
sheriff on that date?” ‘He was doing something that date but I’m not sure exactly what’ I
thought.
443
“Yes, I was a deputy sheriff for Firestone station.”
“What was your particular assignment?”
“Patro1man,” Malone said in a very low almost unheardable tone.
While Mr. Mayer was asking Malone about the car he was working, I leaned over
and whispered to Mr. London. “He looks terrified, in fact look how white he is, and he
takes so long to answer the questions.”
“I noticed that. Maybe he’s being pressured.” London whispered.
“Yes, I was working car 11-adam.” Malone whispered again.
About this time a peculiar thing happened. Malone reached into his inside coat
pocket, took something out and placed it in his mouth. Mr. London and I looked at each
other.
“Any particular watch that you were working?” Mayer droned on.
“11 PM to 7 AM.”
“Now, directing your attention back to that date, did you have any particular
partner that you were working with?”
“Yes, I was working with deputy Robert Shaffer, who is my training officer.”
‘I was your training officer, you idiot.’ I thought.
“Tell us what a training officer is?” Mayer asked.
444
‘What a training officer is?’ I thought. ‘Mayer must be trying to make the point
that Malone was a robot, only obeying orders, or better yet, my commands. This way
Malone can say he was always acting under my orders and was not responsible for his
actions. I guess I was like….Hitler?’
“Bob,” I whispered, “this sounds like a cover-up.”
“Shhh, the judge is looking.” He whispered back.
“A training officer is assigned to a new man at a station, who is responsible for
training said officers in the operations and procedures of the said station and of police
work in general. And it is considered a supervisor.” Malone responded a bit louder.
‘What’s all this ‘said’ shit?’ I thought.
“On August 18th, would it be fair to state that you considered Robert Shaffer to
be your supervisor at that time?”
‘What is Malone doing?’ I wondered if he got into trouble for something?
“I considered Robert Shaffer my training officer and I was told when I came to
the station--that I my training officer as an acting sergeant and whatever he told me I
would do and I would take my orders and instructions directly from him,” was his reply.
445
What a bunch of bullshit! I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down for Mr.
London, ‘Malone was told I was his acting sergeant only after being reprimanded by Sgt.
Wenke numerous times for being a fuck-up. NOT THE FIRST NIGHT!’
DA Mayer continued. “Now, remaining on August 18, 1969, who was your
supervisor in line after Robert Shaffer? Did you a field supervisor?”
“I believe Sergeant Hansell was the field sergeant that night. Sergeant (Harry)
Parsons was the desk sergeant,” Malone hardly choked out.
“Now, in the line of supervision, who came after Sergeant Hansell, again, on
August 18, 1969?”
‘What other god-damn night are we talking about?’ popped in my head.
“Lieutenant (Bud) Hansen.” Malone replied.
“That’s Lt. Hanson and Sgt. Hansell?” Mayer quizzed.
(We called them Hansel and Gretel)
“Hansell, right.” Malone returned.
This may be boring court room testimony but it is necessary to show the real
difference between what actually happened and what Malone perceived happened.
“Sometime in the early morning hours of August 18, 1969, did you receive a call
to respond to 8464½ S. Central Avenue in the County of Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” Malone continued, “we responded to a burglary in progress call.”
446
Mayer then asked him, “Where were you when you received that call, sir?”
(This answer should be funny--’Sleeping in the park’)
“We were at Roosevelt Park. (‘He got that part right1) I was writing a report and
doing my log.”
(I grabbed the scratch paper and noted to Mr. London, ‘What report, we didn’t
have any, and we were sleeping besides.’)
“In terms of distance, how far is that from the address at which the burglary in
progress call was indicated?” Mayer asked.
(One and one eighth mile, says I..)
“Well, I would guess a mile and a half or a mile.” (Not bad Malone, not bad.)
He must have rehearsed that part.
Mayer then asked,“Who was driving the patrol vehicle?”
(Who else, Malone? He’d kill us both if I let him.)
“Deputy Shaffer.”
“Was this a black and white vehicle?” (No, it was pink and yellow.)
“Yes, it was.”
“Were you in uniform?” (No, he was in his underwear.) “Yes, I was.”
“Was Deputy Shaffer in uniform?” (No, pajamas.)
“Yes, he was.” Malone said.
447
(I thought he was doing pretty good so far. He knew we were in a park, in a black
and white and in uniform. That’s his career best.)
“Did you proceed to the location?” Mayer asked.
Malone looked up and slowly said, “Yes, we did.”
I thought,‘And I wish to God that I never heard that radio call.’
Malone was instructed to start a narrative at this time but super-sharp Robert
London objected. So, Mr. Mayer had to take it piece by piece again.
Mayer then asked Malone, “Exactly what time did you arrive at the location?”
“I believe the call came out at 4:53 AM (Malone did his homework this time),
which would put us at the location at approximately 5 AM.”
‘Oh shit,’ I thought. ‘This dumbo is the same as before. How in the hell could it
have taken us seven minutes to drive a little over a mile when the streets were clear and
dry, and I floored that 383 Plymouth full out. Where are his brains? But this was how he
worked also.’
“Where was the patrol vehicle with relation to the 8464½ address?”
Malone started answering, “As we pulled up to the location Deputy Shaffer
instructed me to alight from the patrol vehicle and cover the rear of the location where
there is an alley (there was a very long moment of silence at this time) and I alighted
from the vehicle and covered the rear entrance. (‘Rear entrance of what, the alley? He
had no idea where the store was located’) And Deputy Shaffer drove the patrol car in
front of the building.”
448
Mayer looked a bit confused so he asked Malone, “Stopped the patrol car in front
of the building or were you let out in the back?”
So Malone responded, “I was let out in the alley in back of the building and
Deputy Shaffer proceeded with the patrol car towards the front of the building.”
Mayer wanted more. “Now at the time you were left out of the patrol car, were
there any other sheriffs units within your sight?”
“Not within my sight. But I had knowledge that another unit was responding to
the call, as well,” was his reply.
“And what was this knowledge based on?” Mayer wanted to know.
“Unit 11-boy, I believe, was also in Roosevelt Park at the time the call came out
doing their paper work, and we both left the park at the same time to go to the
location. And I believe we went on frequency ‘one’ to determine which directions we
would come from. In other words we communicated between vehicles.” (Thank you
Malone for clearing things up.)
“To your knowledge, who was in the other vehicle?” Mayer asked him.
“Deputy Harold Manskar and Deputy Carl Spreen.” He said.
(The court reporter had Spreen as Carlsberg in his transcripts. I think she was
really thinking about having a beer for lunch.)
Mayer picked up some notes and asked Malone, “Did Deputy Shaffer give you
any instructions at the time he let you out in the alley area behind 8464½ South Central?”
449
“None other than cover the rear of the location.” He responded.
(I think I told him not to get himself killed and stop anyone he met in the alley.)
“What is the next thing that you saw or heard?” Mayer questioned.
“I went down the alley to what I determined would be the location of the burglary
in progress and I held my position there for approximately four, maybe five minutes,
waiting to see if a burglary suspect would try to escape from the rear of the building.”
Mr. London interrupted.
“Your Honor,” Mr. London said while standing up, “may I interrupt and move to
strike everything after he said “waiting to see” as being non-responsive to the question?”
“All right, it may stay in through ‘held my position for four or five minutes,” the
judge ruled.
Then Mr. Mayer is on again:
“Now, during that four or five minutes did you hear or see anything?”
Malone moved the microphone as it started slipping on its own weight and
replied, “Yes, I heard boards moving within the building, boards being disrupted; the
sound of wood moving.”
Mayer wanted more. “Now, approximately how much time had elapsed from
when Deputy Shaffer left you until the time you heard these boards moving?”
“Well, I would say about four minutes.”
450
“You heard nothing up to the time of hearing the boards moving?” Mayer asked.
“No, not until I heard the boards moving,” Malone responded slowly.
“What did you hear or see after you heard the boards moving?”
(It was about this time that Malone started having lapses in continuity. He would
sit as if he wasn’t going to answer the question and then answer it, very slowly. I haven’t
as yet had eye contact with him either. He would either look straight ahead many times
putting his hands in front of his face, or look at the floor.)
“Immediately after I heard the boards moving, my partner yelled, ‘Malone,
Malone.’”
“Now you recognized that as Deputy Shaffer’s voice?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What happened next?” Mayer said slowly.
“I did not respond to his call for fear I would give my location away to a possible
suspect alighting from the building.”
(‘Why, oh why didn’t that store have a rear door so maybe that fucker could have
gotten away?’)
“Approximately 15 or 20 seconds later I heard a shot and a question and in which
order I am not certain, but I heard the question asked, ‘How old are you asshole?’”
‘My God!’ I thought ‘Do you mean to tell me that I was busted all because this
sick fucker wasn’t paying attention to what was happening? And he told this to homicide
451
to make them think I may have asked Molette his birthday to find out if he was over 18
so I could shoot him as an adult? He didn’t know what came first, the question or the
shot!?! No wonder this DA is after my ass so bad, he thinks that I found this guy, had to
determine his age and when I found out he was an adult he thinks I murdered him. My
jaw got tight and I started to come up out of my chair.’
Mr. London could see me tensing up and starting to stand. “Sit back,” whispered
London. “I told you that there were going to be some bad things said against you.”
“This isn’t a bad thing, it’s the most rotten main reason why I was arrested.
Malone isn’t sure which came first, can’t you see what he’s saying?” I whispered to him.
“I know, sit back and don’t bring any attention on you from the judge.”
I wanted to tell him to ‘stick it’ with the judge. ‘Hell, my life is at stake here!’
Mr. Mayer wanted to make sure he got this point across to the judge.
“Now, let me back off a minute,” Mayer emphasized, “Approximately how much
time elapsed between the time you heard the boards moving and you hear Shaffer say
‘Malone, Malone.’”
“It was almost spontaneous.” Malone said.
“Now, 15 to 20 seconds after that you heard a shot and a question, and it is your
testimony you don’t know which occurred first?” Mayer quizzed.
“That is correct,” Mr. Malone said, with his head hanging down to his chest.
452
‘How can he say that? How? I wish I had a stopwatch and timed it. This short,
squat misfit has got things so fouled up. He makes it seem like Manskar, Spreen and I ran
through the store with track shoes on, waiting for the moment to blow the first thing away
that moved.’ I thought.
“Now the statement, ‘How old are you asshole,’ do you know--did you recognize
the voice of the person asking that question?” Mayer wanted to know.
“Yes, I did.”
“Who was that?” Mayer asked.
“Deputy Shaffer” Malone said.
“How many shots did you hear, one or more?”
Malone still hasn’t looked up and replied, “One shot.”
“What did you do next?” Mayer wanted to know.
‘He violated strict training orders. He left his assigned position because he was
curious and let his emotions overcome whatever logical processes he possessed.’, I
thought.
“I held my position for a couple of seconds, because at first I wasn’t certain as to
who was shot. And I thought perhaps my partner had been shot and the suspect might be
trying to get out of the building.
453
“But I left my post and went to the front of the building where I started to enter
the building,” he almost slurred out.
“Now, why did you leave your post and go to the front of the building?” Mayer
wanted to know.
“Because I wanted to know what happened.”
“At that time you went to the front of the building were you still under the
impression it was your partner that was shot?”
“I would object as assuming a fact not in evidence,” said Mr. London standing up.
Sustained,” replied Judge Goodman.
Mr. Mayer looked dumbly around and then said, “Your Honor, may I inquire as to
what the fact is, that I’m assuming, that is not in evidence?”
“That he was under any such impression; that is not his testimony,” replied the
judge.
“I believe,” Mr. Mayer responded, “his testimony was he held his position for a
couple of seconds because he thought his partner was shot.”
(I have to ask any cops out there that may read this, if your partner actually just
got shot and he was in a jewelry store with two other lawmen, don’t you think you would
have heard maybe more shots, like a gun battle, or shouts or calls or something to
indicate an officer needs help now. Shots fired!)
454
“I did not so understand it.” Judge Goodman said.
The judge asked the court reporter to read things back, “May I have the reporter
read that back?”
“The ruling will stand, Reframe your question” she ruled.
Mayer then asked Malone,“Now, going back to when you were standing, holding
your position in the alleyway behind 8464½ South Central, you testified that at first you
were uncertain as to who was shot and you thought that it might have been your partner
that was shot. Why did you think that?”
Malone responded, “Because my partner was in the building (that he must have
assumed) and I heard gunshot. Somebody, obviously, was shot at or shot and my partner
was in the near proximity of it.”
‘I don’t think that all this was obvious’ I thought. ‘We used to light M-80’s or
cherry bombs to scare out possible burglars too. I wonder how Malone could tell that it
wasn’t such a device other than a gun?’
“At that time did you think your partner was shot?”
Malone mumbled. “Yes, I thought at first--I thought perhaps he might have been
shot.”
“Did you change your mind about that at some later time?” Mayer prodded.
(Obviously he did.)
455
“Yes.”
“When?”
‘When he saw me alive later on you idiot.’ I almost chuckled with I had that
thought.
Malone continued, “As I left my position there, I started to think, if it was my
partner that was shot there was two other policemen there while one of which I would be
certain would be inside of the building with my partner and that there would have been
more shots fired than just one. There certainly would have been some return fire.”
(There were two problems with that testimony. 1st, there were no ‘policemen’
with us. This guy is a deputy-sheriff and we were deputies, not policemen. You may
think that is nitpicking but I doubt any LAPD officer would testify that there were two
other ‘deputies’ with their partner. I have never been a policeman. I used to be a deputysheriff.
(The 2nd problem is Malone started to ‘think’. That just wasn’t like him.)
“Did you run or walk from your alley position to the front of the building?” asked
Mayer.
“I walked and I trotted and I ran at various times,” was his answer.
456
(Let’s analyse this statement for just a moment. He thinks that I may be shot so
he just ‘trots’ walks and runs. The distance from where he was in the alley to the front of
the building was maybe 100 feet at most. If I thought my partner had just been shot and I
was going to leave my rear position I would haul ass to find out what’s going on,
wouldn’t you?)
(Maybe he was in such bad shape he had to walk after he ran and trotted to catch
his breath?)
“Was your gun in your hand or your holster?” Mayer wanted to know.
“I believe I holstered my weapon when I started to proceed down the alley.”
(That answer seems to have been a rehearsed one. And I doubt I would have
holstered my weapon.)
Mayer asked him a good one next. “Did you eventually get to the front of the
store?”
I thought, ‘No, he’s still running around the block looking for the address.’
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you run into any officers, or did you pass any officers, going from the back
of the premises to the front of the premises?” asked Mayer.
457
Head still looking down or away from me he said, “Yes. As I came to the front of
the location I saw Deputy Spreen coming through the hole in the glass door, the broken
glass door, and I asked him what happened and he didn’t acknowledge me. He was
running to, what I believed, to be his radio car (Spreen wasn’t running for the exercise)
and then I started to enter the building and Deputy Shaffer yelled to me, ‘Get my
camera,’ which was kept in the trunk of our patrol vehicle.”
(I will note that when you come into the jewelry store you CANNOT see the area
where the burglar was still laying. It is a zigzag route through a few more rear rooms just
to find the hideaway we were in. I did not leave this area until after the ambulance
arrived, I believe.)
“All right,” Mayer continued, “ Now, approximately how much time elapsed
between the time you heard the one shot and you confronted Deputy Spreen at the front
door of 8464½ South Central?”
“I would guess a minute to a minute and a half,” he muttered.
(I knew he was in bad shape! Not only does he have us arriving there five minutes
too late, but it takes him up to ninety seconds to run, trot and walk less than forty yards to
a building where he thinks I have been shot.)
“At that time Deputy Shaffer said that to you ‘get my camera’ where was he?” Mayer
quizzed.
“Deputy Shaffer was in the rear of the building. It is a long building and I could
see his figure in the rear of the building, to the rear of the building.”
458
(Like I said before, that is physically impossible.)
“Approximately what distance was that from where you were, to where you saw
his figure?”
“Seventy five feet,” was the reply.
(That would have put ME in the alley!)
“Did you get his camera?”
“Yes, I did.”
“From where?”
“From the trunk of our patrol vehicle.”
“What did you do with the camera?” Mayer wanted to know.
There was a long, long pause after this question. I would say sixty seconds.
Malone, still looking at the floor, answered, “I took the camera inside of the location
where I saw Deputy Manskar and I asked Deputy Manskar what had happened and then I
proceeded to the rear of the building where I encountered Deputy Shaffer. And I turned
the camera over to Deputy Shaffer.”
“At this time we’ll take the morning recess,” and Judge Goodman got up.
I was put in a holding tank and had a baloney sandwich til recess was over. The
short recess went by and I was in my place before the judge arrived. I had a stack of
questions for Mr. London to ask Malone, and I handed them to him.
459
“I can’t wait until I can question him. I can’t believe it,” Mr. London said.
“Mr. Malone, will you take the stand once again,” the clerk asked.
Curtis slowly walked up to the stand. He was ready to go once again. When I was
being brought back in the courtroom I could see him in the middle of the homicide crowd
and Lt. White had his arm on Malone’s shoulder. What a prick!
Mayer started off once again.
“Where, in the building, did you see Deputy Manskar?”
“In the main salesroom of the building.”
“Was that the first time you had seen Deputy Manskar during this event?”
“Yes.” Malone said.
(I wrote a note to London: He puts us all over the building just wandering around.
Who’s with the burglar?)
“At that location did you turn the camera over to Deputy Shaffer?”
“Deputy Shaffer was in the room immediately adjoining the main salesroom,
which would be what I call a storage room.”
(Just what I mentioned above. Manskar is in some outer room when he meets
Malone, and I’m in an adjoining room next to the salesroom. The only problem is a small
bathroom, another room serving as a bedroom, and another storeroom
364
460
and then, the pool room where the burglar was shot. Who’s watching the suspect?)
“What happened after you gave the camera to Shaffer?”
Malone answered, “I proceeded through a second storage room and into a room
adjoining that storage room, which would be a third storage room whereupon I entered
the room and encountered the suspect lying on the floor.”
“Where was Deputy Shaffer at that time?”
“Shaffer was in the first storage room where I had given him the camera.”
(Oh so Malone can see through walls now?)
Mayer asked him another time question. “Approximately how much time has now
elapsed, between when you heard the shot and you saw the suspect lying on the floor of
what you called the third storage room?”
“Three or four minutes.”
Next there was some discussion about whether or not Mr. Mayer could show
Malone some pictures that I had in my photo album, which the department deceivingly
took from my house. Mayer wanted to show the pictures to Malone, Mr. London objected
because he felt the album was illegally obtained. As usual, we lost this objection and
Malone got to look at the pictures.
Mayer showed Malone the picture I took of Molette laying on the floor,
apparently bleeding from the stomach. “A doctor might call it the eighth rib,” said the
didactic Mr. Mayer.
461
“Do you recognize what is depicted on these four photographs?”
“Yes.”
“What is that?” (Procedures are so boring at times.)
“That was the burglary suspect, Mr. Molette,” Malone told him.
“And is this the way he looked when you saw him in the early morning hours of
August 18th, 1969?”
Mr. London objected to this photograph-relationship and what Malone saw, but to
no avail.
“Yes, it depicts what I observed.”
“Did you see these pictures being taken?”
This question wasn’t answered because Judge Goodman saw six pictures on the
page being looked at and objected as to which ones Mr. Mayer was referring to. For some
reason everyone forgot about the answer.
“Deputy Malone, I’m referring to the four photographs in the lower portion. I am
not referring to the two upper photographs, the ones that are marked on the top as Cudahy
187 Pc.”
“Now referring to these photographs on the bottom, do these actually depict the
victim Roderick Molette in the early hours of August 18, 1969?”
“Yes, they do.”
462
Mayer started turning the pages, “I’m now turning the page. Well, I won’t do that
at this time, Your Honor. May that last statement be stricken?”
“It may.”
(I looked at the album years later after obtaining it from a deputy to whom I gave
it to in 1970, and I don’t know why Mr. Mayer turned the page or why he didn’t want to
see that page. Many pictures were taken from the album and never returned to me.)
“Now, when you observed Mr. Molette lying there, was there any gun near this
person?”
“No, I did not observe a gun.”
“When you first saw him, what position was he in?”
“He was laying down, trying to prop himself up or hold himself up with his left
elbow or left arm, facing the entrance of the door.”
“Did you say something to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I asked him what the hell he was trying to kill my partner for.”
“And he didn’t reply?”
“Yes.
“What did he say?” Mayer wanted to know.
“Objection, Hearsay,” said Mr. London.
463
(For a while a legal battle was going on. It seems that whether or not the
statements by the burglar were going to be admissible. At the time of the shooting the
burglar was just that--a burglar. He was being asked a question by a deputy-sheriff
regarding a crime he was accused of.)
Mr. Mayer said that these statements would be admissible under 1240 of the
Evidence Code. Not being familiar with that code I can only say that it was a catch-all
section for things not covered under dying declarations, to which the legislators called a
‘spontaneous exclamation”. And a spontaneous exclamation to me would mean exactly
that, not an answer to a question. But, as usual, I was overruled.
Mr. London tried to argue our point.
“The case to which counsel refers are cases which I am familiar with relative to
spontaneous exclamations. The fact of the situation here is considerably different. The
fact situation here is uniformed police officer standing over a burglary suspect, asking
him a question. The response to the question is the declaration, which counsel is trying to
get into evidence, and I feel that is not a spontaneous exclamation; but rather is a
response to a police officer’s query. There has been no testimony that the suspect was
advised of his rights, that the suspect knew anything about the circumstances of the query
put to him; but that he was faced with a police officer standing over him.
“And accordingly, he is responding to a question, not making a spontaneous
exclamation.”
464
Judge Goodman looked at Mr. London, and then me, “Well, I don’t think being
advised of his rights is an issue here, because that would go to whether or not we were
going to admit a statement as an admission against the declarant. It is not being offered
for that.”
“I understand that,” Mr. London replied. “I was just making a point, Your
Honor.”
The judge ruled, “I would say without hearing the statement, that it would appear
to come under 1240, and therefore the objection is overruled, subject to a motion to
strike, if there is otherwise some response.”
(I have decided that many judges only rule this way, or in a way to get certain
statements admitted so they can hear what was said for their personal benefit and not to
consider the rights of defendants.)
“What did the suspect state?” Mayer questioned.
“He said, ’I didn’t try to kill your partner. He shot me and threw the gun down.’”
(Now, I don’t deny that Molette denied ownership of the gun, but what Malone is
testifying to is that this conversation took place when he was supposed to be alone in the
room with the suspect. Don’t ask me where anyone else is because I don’t know. And
also, this dude was cussing every deputy in the room, and there’d not one motherfucker,
dog, punk, word expressed in this statement. It’s as though Molette finally got something
out of his English classes and came to his senses and talked proper English.)
465
(To most everyone else who would admit it, the sentence could be construed as,
“Man, I didn’t try to kill your mother-fucking partner. That dog shot me and threw the
fucking gun down.”)
“After he said that to you, what did you do next?”
“I exited the room, went to what I referred to as the first storage room, where my
partner was adjusting or preparing his camera, and I related the statement to him.”
(Upon hearing that answer I almost went ballistic. “What?” I said, but not low
enough because Judge Goodman heard me.)
“Shhh,” London said.
“What statement are you talking about now?” said Mr. Mayer.
“The statement that the deceased, Mr. Mollette said, that he had shot him--”
(I have served my sentence and I can say without a doubt and honestly that
Malone NEVER said that to me. This was utter homicide preparation bullshit! But how
can I disprove it?)
“Your Honor,” objected London, “I would like to interrupt and say this is hearsay.
The witness is now about to tell somebody else what somebody else told him.”
“Overruled.” Goodman stated.
“What did you say to Mr. Shaffer?” asked Mr. Mayer.
466
“I told Bob (oh, it’s Bob now) that the suspect had said he, Bob, had shot him and
threw a gun down.”
“Did Bob reply?”
“I move to strike and renew my motion,” exclaimed Mr. London.
“Denied.”
“Did Deputy Shaffer reply?”
Malone killed me with this answer, “No. He was busy with his camera and he just
kind of chuckled and made no statement.”
I leaned over to Mr. London, “Chuckled? What’s he trying to do to me? You
better find out if he’s doing this because he was going to get fired.”
Mayer was getting to the juicy lies now. “Now, that time did you notice anything
unusual about Deputy Shaffer’s person?”
“I would object, Your Honor,” said Mr. London. “I don’t know what anything
unusual means; and I believe it is also misleading.”
“Reframe your question.” She said to Mayer.
“At that time did you notice anything different about Deputy Shaffer, from when
you had seen him last when let you out of the patrol vehicle?” Mayer wanted to know.
(Now here comes the answer that almost threw me off my chair. For years and
years while I had time to think this thing over I will never know why Malone had made
467
these accusations. I was being buried alive by the testimony of a man whose verbal
accusations I could never dispute even on the witness stand. When a man lies against you
on the stand you can refute that when you testify. But, the only problem is you are the
one being accused, and what you will say is ‘expected’ to be a lie anyhow because you
are the suspect now. This is the most damaging evidence against me.)
“Yes. I saw a cellophane-type bag, or paper, protruding from his right rear
pocket.”
“No!”, I exclaimed not too quietly. “Bob, you’ve got to get him to stop these
lies. We will never be able to disprove them.”
“Shhhhh, I told you that bad things were going to be said against you. Don’t make
an issue in front of the judge.”
Nancy Goodman was already looking over at me.
Mayer asked him another, “Describe that cellophane bag, as best you can.”
“It appeared to be----”
“Your honor,” Mr. London said, “May the record disclose that at juncture the
district attorney just reached over on the counsel table and touched and moved a
cellophane wrapping which is in front of him?”
“Your honor, I did that for one purpose. I was planning to have the witness
demonstrate, and I wanted to see if this was a cellophane wrapper, whether it could be
used in a demonstration. I had no ulterior motives.”
468
(Now an interesting point to bring up here is that Malone said, “. . .cellophane
type bag, or paper “ and for some reason from here on out it’s cellophane, and never
described as paper.)
Judge Goodman looked over, “The record will have to stand with the comments
of counsel, because I was writing some notes and I didn’t see what occurred in that
respect.
(This was one of the many examples of how a judge is not paying attention at a
trial where a man’s life is at stake.)
“I did touch it, your honor.” Mayer admitted.
“Please go on and describe the cellophane bag.” Mayer continued.
(See, It’s never ‘cellophane or paper bag” anymore.)
“ It appeared to be a normal-type cellophane bag, but there was only, perhaps, two
inches protruding from the pocket, from his right rear pocket, so that I couldn’t give one
detailed description of it.”
(Malone was never in his life able to give a detailed description of anything
during the trial or any other time previous to this. He only lied enough, in my opinion, to
make me look bad, or suspect. And the only thing that I had protruding from my right
front pocket area was my Gonzales sap, a lead filled leatherhead masher. I never kept the
.22 in my right pocket. I wouldn’t be able to sit down!)
469
“Now these two inches that you saw protruding from the pocket, could you
ascertain whether or not there was anything inside that part of the plastic bag?” Mayer
wanted to know.
“No, I could not. There appeared to be nothing in the two inches protruding from
the pocket.”
“That’s the first time you had seen that protruding from his pocket that evening?”
“That’s correct.”
“Now, prior to August 18, 1969, had you ever seen Robert Shaffer with a plastic
bag of the description that you saw on this person on August 18, 1969?”
“Yes. I saw him on one or two occasions, --Deputy Shaffer put into a gun locker
at Firestone station a cellophane-type bag into the gun locker with an object in it,” he
replied.
“Could you tell what that object was at that time, that was in the cellophane
wrap?”
“No, I was never close enough to look at it. But it appeared, from a distance, to be
a gun.”
(Now doesn’t that sound like Malone, “No, I couldn’t see it but it looked like a
gun.” That’s a homicide rehearsal answer.
470
“Was it about the size of a gun?”
“Objection. That’s leading.” Said London.
“Sustained.”
“Approximately what size was it?” said Mr. Meyer.
“It was small enough that he could hold it in one hand.”
“When you saw this object inside the cellophane bag, how much of the cellophane
bad did the object occupy? In other words, what I’m asking you: When you saw this
object in the bag, did the bag appear to be full, half-full, empty or what?”
“The bag appeared to be full.” Malone answered.
(I always wondered that if the bag was full, and although he couldn’t see what
was in it but it appeared to be a gun, and I put it in the gun-locker, how did I hold it? I
wrote London a note: ‘Ask him how I put it in the locker, on a string? Because if I did put
it in the locker, I’m sure my hand was on it, and if my hand was on such a small item, my
hand should have covered it almost completely. And ask him just how long he saw this
object. It wouldn’t have taken me but a second or so to take this particular ‘cellophane
wrapped object’ from my pocket and stick it in a locker.’)
“Now, let’s go on back to August 18, 1969. After you made that observation of
the partial bag sticking from Deputy Sheriff’s pocket, what happened next?”
“I went to the front of the building. I believe...
471
“Excuse me, finish your answer, sir,” said the judge.
“I went to the front of the building and while I was at the front of the building I
left Deputy Shaffer and went to the front and was standing.. .I don’t recall what I was
doing. I was standing there. And then I saw a gun being passed around to the various
deputies.”
(This was another lie THAT could be proved incorrect, but the lies piled up so
high it didn’t matter if this lie was not true.)
“Bob, I leaned over, “we got him here. The gun was never passed around but now
he’ll have to identify who was supposed to have held it, and we’ll get them to testify that
they did hold it.”
“We’ll see what he says first.” Mr. London replied.
(So the story takes a different twist. For a while there was just four of us in the
building. Malone gets my camera, talks to the suspect alone, talks to me, hears me
‘chuckle’, sees cellophane or paper bag, goes to the front of the building and all of a
sudden everyone on-duty is there. I wonder if he hallucinates?)
“Can you describe this gun that you saw being passed around?”
“That was a revolver with white grips,” he said.
“Can you see People’s exhibit No. 3 from where you are?”
“Yes.”
472
“...does it appear to be the same type of revolver you saw being passed around?”
Malone hesitated for a moment and then said, “It would appear to be the same
type.”
“Counsel,” Judge Goodman states, “at this time, in accordance with Mr.
London’s request, we’ll take a break for the noon recess. Would you call in the witnesses
please, Mr. Bailiff.”
“There’s only one witness,” the bailiff said.
Then Mr. Landry got up. “All of the witnesses, your honor, are downstairs in the
homicide bureau other that this witness.”
‘How nice,’ I wondered why I didn’t see them in the hallway before. I
subsequently found out that they HAD to sit in the homicide office and were watched
over by a member from the bureau. They were being intimidated and I was told they
could NOT talk to each other about the case.).
“At this time we are going to take the noon recess. We’ll resume at 1:30 PM
sharp. All witnesses are ordered to return at that time.”
Judge Goodman also instructed Malone not to talk about the case with any other
witnesses, and kept the ‘gag rule’ on.
473
Before Malone left the courtroom, I saw him do something that I thought strange
again. He took an object out of his coat pocket, took off what appeared to be a small lid,
took an object out of the thing he took out of his pocket, and then put it into his mouth.
“Bob, did you see that?”
“I sure did. I wonder if he’s taking medication? If he is it might be a reversible
error.”
I was taken to a larger holding cell and when the deputy closed the door I yelled
at the top of my voice hoping someone could hear me, “You lying cock sucking little
prick. Why are you doing this to me?”
For the next two hours I had to sit and think about why Malone was doing this to
me. I was lead hand-cuffed through the corridor and down the hallway to a large holdingcell. There were three benches bolted to the floor, a toilet and washbasin.
A deputy came by and handed me a sack lunch that consisted of an orange and
two plain cheese sandwiches. The orange I ate; the rest I left in the bag and used for a
pillow along with a roll of toilet paper.
Since I was the only one in here it was very easy to dose. While the thought of
Malone was going through my head so was the thought of going to sleep because the next
thing I knew was that someone was trying to wake me up.
“Shaffer, get up, it’s time to go back into the court room.” It was one of the
deputies assigned to the lock-up.
474
I was handcuffed again and lead back to the courtroom. My relatives were in the
hallway giving me moral support and smiles. The homicide investigators and Mr. Mayer
were giving me dirty looks.
“He’s a fucking liar and you guys put him up this,” I yelled.
The deputy with me told me to shut-up or else. “Or else what?” I said. “You’ll
put me in jail?’
I was un-cuffed and allowed to sit by my investigating officer before things
started again.
“For days while locked up in the county jail I wondered who it was who started
this. I can’t believe that Malone had enough nerve or brains to cook up something like
this.” I told him.
“I can’t either, and I was a cop for many years before doing this stuff. I think he’s
mentally off. Did you notice how he never looks up, and he’s sweating up there.”
“He may be sweating to death up there but I’m the one sweating for a bail release,
and I’m the one in the county jail.”
We started again. Malone was sworn in, or rather advised that he was still under
oath and he took the witness stand.
“You testified that in this forward portion of the premises at 8464½ S. Central
Avenue you observed the revolver, people’s 3, or similar to people’s 3, being passed
around. Who was passing this revolver around?”
“Various sheriff’s personnel. I don’t recall per se which ones had it in their
hands.” He responded.
475
(He couldn’t say, ‘per se’ who was holding the .22 revolver, but he could see a
plastic bag coming out of my pocket. Maybe ‘per se’ was a new deputy?)
“At that time had that revolver been identified to you as having been at any
particular location?” Mayer wanted to know.
“No.”
“Did you think was anything unusual about this revolver being passed around?”
“Yes. I should take that previous statement back. I had heard that that was the
weapon that had misfired twice.”
“You had heard that that was the weapon that was found near the body of Mr.
Molette?”
“Yes.”
“Did it strike you as being unusual to see this weapon being passed around among
the deputy sheriffs?”
“Yes, very unusual.”
“What was unusual about that?”
“It was my understanding that at a murder scene or a dead body scene, that it was
our responsibility, first and foremost to preserve that crime scene.” (No murder or dead
body scene here!)
(Your first and foremost response you fuck-up was to keep out of the way.)
476
“Did you ask your training officer, Deputy Shaffer, anything about passing that
gun around?”
(Yeah, that I would like to hear.) But then Mr. London got up.
“Your honor,” he said, “may I interrupt at this point?” This is not an objection. I
would like to interrupt the proceedings and ask if I might take the witness on voir dire?”
“For what purpose?” asked Judge Goodman.
“I want to determine, Your Honor, whether or not the witness has been granted
immunity, whether or not the witness has been advised of his rights, whether or not the
witness has engaged the services of an attorney.
“The questions which I would have of this witness would relate to the witnesses
involvement in other matters which are directly connected with this; and if I could ask
him the questions on voir dire, I believe I would be able to establish that this witness has
made reports and/or statements which are contradictory to the statements which he has
given, and I believe will give today in testimony. I believe the witness is entitled to
understand that there is, perhaps, some reason for him to be represented by counsel; and
that would be the case, unless this witness has been given some promise of some
immunity, and if so, I would like to know whether or not that is the case.”
Mr. Mayer wondered what London was saying, but I think that he had a good idea
of what he meant. I knew, and he knew, that Malone had not reported things as he saw
them or heard them. In fact, almost everyone at the shooting knew that.
477
Mayer started in,“Your Honor, I appreciate counsel’s concern for this witness but
I don’t believe that’s within his province, as far as constitutional rights are concerned.
Mayer continued, “As far as the other matter that counsel wishes to make inquiry
of, I think these are properly the subjects of cross examination, certainly not of a voir dire
examination.”
The judge had her say now. “With reference to the latter matters that you
indicated, I think they are probably within the scope of cross examination, not voir dire.
“In so far as whether or not the witness has been granted immunity, there is
nothing at this point that appears to the court to require any such grant to protect the right,
if any; of the witnesses.
“If we arrive at a point, Mr. London, where you feel that the witness’s response
might be one that would tend to incriminate him of a crime, if you would so advise the
court at that point, I will advise the witness of his constitutional rights.”
Mr. London responded, “Your Honor, I believe we have reached that point. I
could develop it by vior dire. But I will advise your honor that the witness has testified in
connection with a gun, has testified relative to the location of that gun and the witness, it
is my information, has made reports which are contradictory to the testimony that he’s
already given. And to carry that further, Your Honor, I believe the witness should be
advised that the making of a false report could possibly incriminate him, and that alone
being a crime.
478
“I believe the witness should be advised of the crime of conspiracy (get it on
Bob!) as it relates to the charges against this defendant.
“I believe the witness will be entitled at that juncture to determine whether or not
he’s going to proceed with his testimony.”
Ralph Mayer jumped up at this. “Your Honor, as a representative of the district
attorney’s office, I’m familiar with this case and I know of no proceedings pending
against this deputy sheriff. I know of nothing that he has done that will subject him to any
criminal prosecution.
“For that response, I do not feel it is appropriate to advise him of his
constitutional rights.” Was his final say on the matter.
London looked over at Mayer. “I take that, Your Honor, as a grant of immunity?”
The judge looked at Malone and then London. “Well, I would not so construe it.
But, in relation to a conspiracy charge, there is absolutely nothing in the record,--in fact,
the record before us would make the possibility of a conspiracy charge, in my mind, as
being totally unsupportable.”
Mr. London said, “Well, this is the reason for the voir dire. But, if I may go to the
other potential crime, that would be the filing or submission of false records or reports.”
Mayer responded, “It is my information, Your Honor, there is nothing of this
record at this time which would indicate that the witness has filed reports or made
statements which are contradictory to the statements he’s now made.”
479
“If he has, we’ve passed that point,” Judge Goodman said.
Mr. Mayer was then allowed to continue.
“Now, Deputy Malone, you testified, I think the question pending is: when you
observed this revolver being passed around, did you say anything to your training officer,
Deputy Shaffer?”
“Yes, I asked him if the suspect’s fingerprints were on the gun.”
“And did he reply?”
“He said, ‘Hell no, that’s why I’m passing it around.’”
(Now I ask you, does that seem melodramatic? Here I have a gun that I claim is
Molette’s, yet I pass it around among various sheriff’s personnel, and they touch it, and
I’m supposed to give such a ludicrous answer. The only protest that I have at this point is
that he never asked me such a question, and the whole situation is totally asinine. Button,
button, who’s got the button? And also, what am I supposed to say to dispute all of this?
All I can do is get those that were there to testify to the facts that they did not touch it, nor
did I pass it around ‘among various sheriffs personnel.’ But the fact remains that Curtis
William Malone has made the allegation, and although it can be proven false, it was an
allegation that help instigate my arrest.)
Bob London jumped up at this point.
“I would move to strike that, Your Honor, as being Hearsay.”
“I believe that constitutes an admission and is an exception to the hearsay rule,
Your Honor,” said Mr. Mayer.
480
(An admission on whose part? Is Malone admitting that or is he just putting words
in my mouth?)
“May I have an offer of proof, Your Honor?” said London.
“Well,” said Judge Goodman, “I don’t think an offer of proof is required. The
motion is denied.”
“Now, Deputy Malone,” continued Mayer, “the morning prior, which would be
August 17, 1969, where you on patrol with Deputy Shaffer?”
“Yes, I was sir.”
“Some time that evening did you respond to a call at a location called Vering
Incorporated?” Mayer wanted to know.
“Yes, we did.”
“And where was that located?”
“Your Honor, I would object as being irrelevant,” objected Mr. London.
Judge Goodman looked over at Mr. Mayer. “Make an offer of proof.”
In other words, she is inviting DA Mayer to go ahead but to give his own
narration of what happened at Vering. This in not what happened, mind you, but
whatever a deputy D.A. feels like telling the judge just to get the testimony in, and then
let the judge decide what is the truth, only after such absurd shit is heard.
481
“Yes, Your Honor. The people intend to show that on the day proceeding there
was a similar incident to the incident happening at 8464½ S. Central Avenue; that is was
approximately the same period of time, the day before, approximately the same
circumstances, where the officers went into a building where there was a burglary;
approximately the same circumstances, where the burglar was trapped in a particular
room and at this time where an unarmed burglar was trapped, that Deputy Shaffer
instructed Deputy Malone to shoot this burglar, shouting to him, ‘shoot him,’ that when
Deputy Malone, in good conscience (yeah, sure) was unable to shoot this burglar, that
Deputy Shaffer became infuriated at Deputy Malone for not killing this burglar (who said
to kill him?), became so furious that he even kicked the burglar with his boot in the
stomach (right you are about the boot in the stomach) requiring hospitalization of the
unarmed burglar (apparently you didn’t read the report you asshole) that had been caught
in Vering Incorporated.
“We offer this evidence to show the state of mind of this particular defendant with
regards to the treating of burglars who have been caught in the act of burglary within
confined premises in a one-on-one type situation. (With eight deputies there I don’t
consider that one-on- one.)
He went on, “We feel that in 187 prosecution, murder, the state of mind of the
defendant is material and relevant. That’s our offer of proof, Your Honor.”
Bob London was standing up by this time. It seemed to be his turn to say
something.
“May I be heard, Your Honor? I agree with the deputy district attorney’s feeling
that state of mind is relevant, perhaps one of the more relevant factors to be determined in
482
the 187 prosecution; and for that reason I believe the testimony, subject to the offer of
proof, is totally irrelevant, because state of mind at some other time, at some other place,
particularly 24 hours removed or more from the incident, would have absolutely no
relation what so ever to the state of mind of the defendant at the time of the incident.”
Then Ralph Mayer has his twobits worth again.
“Your Honor, I would first of all suggest that the Court listen to the testimony and
thereafter make the determination as to its relevancy. (Oh, you sure would. If it was bad
testimony against me but irrelevant, it may affect whether or not I’m admitted for bail.)
“I would also quote to the court two cases allowing previous acts to be admissible
on the issue of state of mind... It would be People vs Salcido s.-a-l-c-i-d-o, a 1966 case. I
just have the advance California appellate citation, 246 Advance Cal App 512, and
People vs York, also a 1966 case, 242 Cal App 2d 867, holding that any evidence having
a direct tendency in view of surrounding circumstances to prove motive and thus to solve
a doubt as to the degree of the offense or nature of the act is admissible; People vs
Kermott, a 1939 case, 33 Ca. App 2d 236, this allowed evidence of prior ill and dispute
between defendant and the victim, to prove malice.”
Judge Goodman seemed to like this tirade of court citations. She smiled and said,
“Fine. I’ll permit it subject to a motion to strike, and during the recess I’ll read the first
three cases.”
“One more,” said Mayer. “People vs DeMoss. This allowed evidence of prior
quarrels.”
483
“May I be heard for one moment,” said London.
“Yes sir,” said Judge Goodman.
“I’m familiar with the cases cited by counsel, and if I’m not mistaken, the cases
cited by counsel refer to relationship between the victim and the alleged burglar of the
victim (that doesn’t make any sense to me but that’s what the court reporter has here. I
think it should be the victim and the alleged suspect?), and they go to establish the
malicious tendency based upon motivations which themselves relate to the relationship
between the victim and the person who caused the homicide.
“I believe in this case we have a situation where it was clearly a police officer,
and the state of the record is that he was now conducting his duties in such ways as are
lawful and mandated to him to conduct. Whatever else he may have done in other
circumstances would have no relation to his state of mind in a situation such as this,
where the evidence has disclosed only that the defendant, carrying out his lawful duties,
entered a darkened room and there was a gunshot.
“I believe that his state of mind as such is irrelevant to these proceedings and must be
limited to this instance.”
“May I answer that please, Your Honor,” insisted Mr. Mayer. “It is our contention
that in this particular instance we have never indicated there was any prior history
between the defendant and this particular victim. Insofar as this particular victim is and
individual, a human being, a man by the name of Molette, it is our contention that the
victim, as far as Deputy Shaffer was concerned, was simply a burglar, a burglar to be
484
found in a premises and to be killed. For that reason, a burglar at Vering Inc. or a burglar
at Naomi’s (actually Nony’s) gift shop would be a similar victim. This is our contention,
Your Honor.”
“As previously indicated, I’ll permit it at this time, subject to a motion to strike,”
Goodman ruled.
(So, Mr. Mayer gets to continue his examination of Deputy Malone’s feeble brain
and outrageous fabrications.)
“Approximately what time did you arrive at the premises of Vering
Incorporated?” Mayer asked.
“I think it was approximately 11 o’clock or 11:15” Malone answered.
Mayer prodded for more. “This would be in the evening?”
“In the PM, is right.”
“Would that then, be August 17th or 16th?”
“It would be 11:15 PM, August 16th,” Malone responded.
“And on the night of the incident, just so we have this straight, at 8464½ 5.
Central Avenue, that was the shift from 11 PM on August 17th, until 7 AM, August 18th,
is that correct?”
Malone replied, “That’s right.”
“So, this was the shift before?” Mayer continued.
485
“Right, the night before that.”
Mayer pressed on. “All right. Now, what sort of a call were you answering when
you arrived at Vering Incorporated?”
“Burglary in progress.”
“And do you recall what the location of Vering Incorporated was?” Mayer asked.
“I’m not sure.” (That par for the course for Malone.)
Mayer wanted geographics. “Was that within your patrol area?”
“Yes.”
“And would you tell us what happened when you arrived at Vering
Incorporated?”
Malone slowly started his narrative. “When we arrived another unit had already
captured one burglary suspect and we were advised there was possibly a second or
possibly a third burglary suspect in the building. We proceeded to search the building for
the second or third suspect.”
“When you say ‘we proceeded to search, to whom are you referring?” Mayer
questioned.
“Numerous deputies. I think there was Deputy Null, Deputy Verdugo--I don’t
know (a standard answer again). I don’t recall. Deputy Shaffer. I don’t recall who else
was there.”
486
(How can he not recall any of the other 6 to 8 deputies who were there, and one a
distant relative of Ex-Sheriff Biscaluiz? All he had to do was READ the report!)
“Did you proceed to look for another burglary suspect in the premises?”
“Yes, we proceeded to look for another burglar, and after a few minutes search of
the building, I found a second burglar,” Malone volunteered.
“Where did you find him?”
Malone replied, “He was behind some cardboard, against the wall.”
Mayer wanted another narrative, “Tell us what happened.”
‘Oh, shit’, I thought. ‘here we go on another schizophrenia story.’
I yelled to my partner--I yelled, in general, “I’ve got him,” and when I yelled,
‘I’ve got him,’ I heard Deputy Shaffer’s voice somewhere in the building yell, ‘shoot
him, shoot him’”.
“I move to strike that response, your honor,” said London. “I object. It is
hearsay.”
“Overruled,” said Judge Goodman. (She wanted to hear more because she started
to lean forward so she could hear Malone’s faltering voice, making sure she didn’t miss a
thing.)
“Did you proceed to shoot him?” Mayer wanted to know.
“No, I did not.”
487
“Why not?”
“I had no reason to shoot him.”
“Did Deputy Shaffer come over to where you had cornered this burglar?”
Malone started to say, “Deputy Shaffer. ...“
“Objection. That’s leading,” said London.
Goodman looked a Mayer and said, “Reframe your question.”
“What happened next?” Mayer questioned.
“Well, we were trying to get the suspect out of the place in which he was hiding.”
Mayer seemed to be confused at this statement so he asked Malone, “When you
say, ‘we were trying,’ who was that?”
“I was and I was getting him out and one or two other deputies came, some time
around that vicinity, and Deputy Shaffer, you know, he just continued to yell, ‘shoot him,
shoot him.’”
“Objection, your honor. Move to strike as being non- responsive,” yelled Mr.
London.
Mr. Mayer looked at the judge and said, “I think the question was: what happened
next, your honor.”
“Denied,” Goodman ruled (against me).
488
Malone continued, “And then, when we reached the suspect, he kicked him in the
stomach. (And here comes one of Malone’s ‘ I feel sorry for Shaffer’ now answers.) But
it should be pointed out that I think Deputy Shaffer did this because the burglar suspect
was quite a large individual and he was not the most docile individual; and I think Deputy
Shaffer might have honestly thought he was going to try to do some bodily harm to me or
someone else.”
(That part was probably the most truthful thing he said in this whole ordeal.)
(This is beautiful because I have what we referred to as a “Force-memo,” where
all deputies who ‘thumped a suspect’ for various reasons have to say what they did and
with what they did it with (sap, baton, gun, etc.). In the memo, signed by Malone, is his
statement that he had to use his sap on the burglar during the arrest. Of course, the real
reason was because everyone there (almost) took turns punching on this suspect, the one
named Kennedy.)
“Well, did Deputy Shaffer say anything to you about not having shot this
individual?” Mayer questioned.
This question brought out an objection by Bob London, and then London, Mayer
and Judge Goodman went back and forth as to the admissibility of the so-called
statement. As usual, we lost.
Malone, taking a deep breath and still looking at the floor in front of the witness
stand answered, “He said, ‘God damn it, I told you, when you catch a burglar in a
building what I want. He’s bought and paid for and I will tell you this much; if I tell you
489
to shoot somebody and you don’t shoot them, you better believe your hips are going back
at Wayside or Mira Loma or where ever you came from. And at that point I told Deputy
Shaffer that he was my training officer and I’m going to do whatever he tells me to do,
but there’s no man on the department-----“
“I would object and move to strike, starting with, “and at that point,”” said
London.
“Sustained,” Goodman ruled.
(I don’t know what Malone was going to say but I have a good idea. Why, if he
ever had the balls to say such a thing I would put him in for a promotion because he
finally found some spirit and nerve, but as the worm he was, I doubt if he ever thought of
saying anything like that except on the witness stand, where I couldn’t touch him.)
Then Mayer went into my so-called instructions that I was supposed to have given
Malone, as Malone relates them. There was the usual objection as being irrelevant, but
we lost again.
“And who brought up the conversation?” asked Mayer, referring to the
‘instructions.
“I don’t recall,” Malone said. (This is the standard answer when you know but
don’t want to admit it or you are lying.)
It was about this time that most of us had to strain to hear Malone’s answer. He
wasn’t talking very loud even with the microphone in front of him.
490
“Pardon me, Your Honor, I’m sorry. I’m having difficulty hearing the witness,”
said London. “I wonder if he could move a little closer to the microphone?”
Malone moved closer to the mike and the answer was read back so London would
be aware of any responses.
Mayer started again. “What was the topic of the conversation?”
“What one should do when one finds a burglar in a room and you are one-on-one
with the burglar.”
“And what did Deputy Shaffer tell you to do under these circumstances?”
Another objection by London as being irrelevant and hearsay, again we lost. It
was supposed to show my “continuing state of mind” when catching a burglar, anytime,
anyplace.
“He said to me, ‘If you catch a burglar, one-on-one, he’s bought and paid for.’ He
said, “After you’ve been out here as long as I have, you go into these burglary calls and
you are scared, like we are all scared, of going on a burglary call where you think there
could be a suspect inside the building and he can see you and you can’t see him.’
“He said, ‘If you ever catch a guy, one-on-one, in a building--something to that
effect. I can’t recall his exact words (he never knows exact words, but just an awful lot of
them), but it was something to the effect of, ‘You take them out and don’t worry about it.
I can cover it. And even if you should shoot, you know, a citizen, mistakenly, don’t
worry. I can cover it for you.’”
491
(Well, that’s quite a lot for someone like Malone to remember. I will say this
though, and that is every cop talks it over with his partner about ‘accidentally’ shooting
some citizen under less than desirable circumstances. And I’m sure that I told Malone
that the pen is mightier than the sword, and a good report can, in most cases, make up for
any mistakes a cop should commit. Mistakes only. And there are more mistakes made
than are reported. The only thing that protects most cops under these ‘mistakenly’
situations is a cool sergeant, partners, and the percentage that the person who is
mistakenly shot or whatever isn’t rich, white and influential. No one wants to be a looser,
even a cop.)
Next, Malone was shown some pictures of the poolroom where Molette was shot.
He identified them as depicting the room he was in. After that, the testimony gets sticky
again.
From Mayer: “Now, Deputy Malone, directing your attention to shortly after this
shooting incident... , did Deputy Shaffer give you any sort of a little item?”
With that question I became real alert. So much shit has been said against me by
Malone’s Pandora’s box of a mouth and I didn’t have the slightest idea of what was
coming up next. A little item? At first I thought Mayer was referring to some dangerous
drugs or that maybe I was the OZ and gave him a brain?
“What’s he talking about, Bob?” My attorney asked me.
492
“I haven’t the slightest idea but we’ll find out soon,” I told him.
“Objection.” London said, “That’s leading.”
It seems we got one then but Judge Goodman was nice enough to give the deputy
DA another chance. “Well, reframe your question.”
“Shortly after this shooting took place, did Deputy Shaffer give you anything?”
“Yes.” Malone said.
“Do you recall when that was?”
“I believe it to be the day after the shooting. It might have been the day of the
shooting. I’m not sure (again).”
Then London objected because Malone’s answer was non responsive meaning
that he was talking too much instead of just answering ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ After the judge
reframed the question, the answer still eventually came out the same as before, only in
two answers instead of one.
It should also be noted here that I did not see Malone after he finished his report
that morning. And why would I wait 24 hours?
.
So Mayer gets to finish.
“And did you see from where Deputy Shaffer obtained this particular item?”
493
“No.” he said. (That’s remarkable, for eagle-eye hasn’t missed much so far.)
“Where were you and he when he gave you this particular item?” Mayer wanted
to know.
“Well, I believe we were in the corridor hall of the station.”
Mayer continued, “Did he give you some instructions as to what to do with this
particular item?”
(Maybe I gave him the finger and told him to stick it up his ass?)
“Yeah, he said to throw it out.”
`
(Now comes another loosing go-round with the judge.)
“Objection. I move to strike after, ‘he said’, as being non-responsive.
Mayer looked over. “I don’t understand his objection.”
So, the judge said, “Well, after the word ‘yes’ it may go out.”
(Shit! We won one!)
“Thank you, your honor,” said London.
(He should have said, ‘thank you your majesty’)
“The question was, did he give you some instructions and the answer ‘yes’ covers
the response,” Judge Goodman told Mayer.
Then Mayer started once again. “What instructions did he give you?”
494
“Objection, hearsay,” London objected.
“This is being offered,” Mayer said, “again, as an admission and a consciousness
of guilt on the part of the defendant. It is not being offered for the truth of any particular
statement that he said.”
(It is so nice that I’m showing consciousness of guilt through Malone’s brain and
mouth!)
Judge Goodman was getting curious. “It would be helpful if I had some ideas of
what it was.”
(To me, this meant that if it was something incriminating it was going to be
admitted, if not, who knows?)
“Would you like an offer of proof, your honor?” said Mayer.
“Well, are you going to show what it was?” said Goodman.
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s show what it was and then find out what it was that he said.”
Goodman instructed.
(So I’m fucked once again.)
“Well, I don’t have the item,” was Mayer’s reply. (Isn’t this a bitch! Mayer is
trying to have Malone describe what I gave him but no one knows what it is supposed to
be or even have one, whatever it is.)
495
“Well, imply what it was,” she instructed.
“At that time he didn’t know what the item was. May I develop it?” Mayer asked.
“All right,” the judge said.
So Mayer doesn’t know how to legitimately get his evidence into court, until the
judge sanctioned probably some unorthodox method. You’d think she was working for
DA Mayer.
“I don’t think instructions are hearsay,” she continued.
“I beg your pardon,” said London shocked.
“I don’t believe any instructions that he might have given would be a hearsay
statement, in the sense it is a statement offered to prove the truth of what was said.”
Goodman replied.
According to this, I could have given Malone instructions on how to assassinate
the governor, or maybe the president. In fact, in this position Malone could have said that
I gave him all sorts of weird instructions on anything, and they could be admitted as an
‘offer of proof.’
London stood up, “Then I would object, additionally, your honor, that it is
irrelevant. And I further object that at this juncture I would move to strike everything
which started with this testimony up to this point, and object to the last question as being
irrelevant.”
496
Then Mayer had his say. “Again, as to the relevancy of the item, I will either
make an offer of proof, if the court so wishes, or I would ask the court simply to take the
matter under submission, pending my development of the evidence.”
That means that Mayer can’t really develop his evidence legitimately but hopes
that the judge will go along for a while, and maybe agree with him later on.
“I’ll receive it subject to a motion to strike. Without finding out, ultimately, what
it was, I don’t know whether it is relevant or not.”
So, Mayer finishes. “What instructions were given you with respect to this
particular item?”
“Throw it out and don’t throw it in the trash can at the station.”
“Anything else?”
“No, just, ‘throw it out and don’t throw it out around the station.’”
“Was the item handed to you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you recognize what it was?” “No, I didn’t.” Malone stated.
“And what did you do with it?”
“I threw it out.”
“Did you ask Deputy Shaffer what it was?”
“Yes, I did,” Malone replied.
497
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Just throw…
’
“Objection. Hearsay.” London said.
“Over ruled.” (again)
“Just throw the god-damn thing out.”
“Did you throw it out?” Mayer wanted to know.
“Yes, I did.”
“Where?”
“In a trash can in a service station.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Objection, your honor.” Mr. London said, “That’s irrelevant.”
“I’ll withdraw the question.” Mayer responded. “Your Honor, may I approach the
witness?”
“You may.”
While Mayer is digging around in an envelope for some sort of object, obviously
that he wants presented as evidence, I wondered why Malone was going to such extremes
in his testimony. I can’t believe that he would fabricate such a story because if I wanted
498
anything thrown away, why couldn’t I do it myself? All those weird things about my
incoherent instructions to a moron who I think possesses the brain of a chimpanzee, but a
mouth as dangerous as a snake’s.
“I’m taking an item out of an envelope marked 9 for identification. Do you
recognize that item,” Mayer asked Malone.
Malone said he recognized it as the same type object that he threw away. It was
similar, he testified. I still hadn’t seen what the mysterious object was as of yet.
“That’s all I would have of Deputy Malone,” said Mayer ending his questioning.
499
Chapter 27
Cross Examination of Malone
Then Bob London, my attorney, stood up and began.
“Your Honor, at this time I would move to strike the testimony of this witness
commencing with the question related to some time shortly after the incident, et cetera, as
has been developed, clearly, it is incompetent, irrelevant, immaterial. I don’t know what
it is and I don’t see that it has anything to do with this case and it is irrelevant to this
case.”
Mayer had something to say about that. “Your Honor, would the court like an
offer of proof at this time; or would the court be willing to wait until I bring in the
remainder of my witnesses? I can state to the court that I will tie in the evidence and
make it relevant and material.”
500
Judge Goodman seemed big-hearted. “I’ll hold the matter at abeyance. I’ll say
that I can conceive of this item being tied in.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Mayer said.
But Goodman continued, “In the absence of such a tie in, however, it would go
out.”
Meaning: Since Mayer can’t solidify his approach, the judge, in trying to keep us
bad criminals from going free, is keeping a rein on us. If she makes a gross mistake at
this stage the DA’s office will have to appeal it, possibly prolonging procedures.
“You may inquire, Mr. London.”
London stated, “At this time I would also make a motion to strike, your honor, all
testimony of this witness relating to July 31 or August 1 incident; I don’t believe that the
offer of proof has been developed. The matter is immaterial, incompetent, and irrelevant.
The statements contained in that matter are hearsay on hearsay. Most of the testimony is
relating to something which the defendant told his witness and some time a long time
prior to the incident about which we are here today.”
Judge Goodman replied to this. “As I previously indicated, I would like to take
the afternoon recess to read the evidence code sections involved in the cases cited by
counsel. I hate to take the recess quite this early, however, would it be convenient, Mr.
London, to commence your cross examination---obviously you’d like a ruling on that
before you complete your cross examination.”
501
“Of course, that would be fine, your honor. I will not cross examine relative to
those subjects, however.”
Goodman then told Mr. London, “Perhaps you could commence it without getting
into that area and then we’ll take our noon recess and I’ll give you a ruling and then
you’ll know what you want to do so far as further cross examination.”
“Fine. Thank you, your honor.”
“You may inquire” she instructed.
London looked directly at Malone, who glanced over at him and then away again.
Malone was showing signs of starting to sweat quite heavily now, and he still had yet to
look in my direction.
“Deputy Malone, are you presently under any medication?” Malone looked at
London wondering how to really answer that question, or at least his facial expression
betrayed him.
Slowly he said, “Yes. I am.”
“What medication are you under now?”
“Nerve pills.”
“Do you know what they are?”
“I’ve got them in my pocket.”
502
“Would you remove them from your pocket, please? Could you tell me what they
are please?” London wanted to know.
Malone took them out and placed them on the witness stand railing but didn’t read
the label or even say anything. He just sat muted. Finally Judge Goodman picked them
up, looked at the label and said, “Well, I’ll tell you what the prescription label bears: it is
Valium, 5 milligram, recommended three or four times a day for tension. It is a
tranquilizer.”
And now a bit of humor from Mayer, “Is that an expert opinion, your honor?”
“I’m not sure I qualify,” she said. Ha, ha....
“Did you take any of those Valiums today, deputy?” asked London.
“Yes, I did.”
“How many.”
“Two.”
“What effect does taking those valiums have on you?”
“Calms me down.”
“Does it slow you down, also?”
“Slow me down physically or mentally?” Malone asked back.
“Either.”
503
“Neither”
“Neither?” Mr. London questioned.
(Deputy Malone may be the only person alive who had to take a valium to calm
his nerves but yet it did not affect him mentally or physically. Then again, maybe he’s
telling the truth….naw)
.
Next, London asked Malone about the pictures that were shown to him previously
by D.D.A. Mayer. London wanted to know if the room was dark when he entered it.
There was an objection by Mayer as to which room, and how many times Malone entered
it. So, Malone said he entered the poolroom only one time.
“But you entered the room only once, is that correct?”
Malone answered, “Yes, I only recall entering the room, per se, one time.”
(What’s this ‘per se’ shit? Per se is defined as ‘by, one or in itself, or oneself or
themselves. You figure it out.)
“Was the room light when you entered the room?”
Malone replied, “No, I believe it to be dark.”
“Were there any lights on, at all, in that room?”
“No, I don’t recall any lights being on.”
504
Bob London continued, “Were there any light on in the premises at all, at the time
you entered the premises?”
“ Don’t recall sir.”
(He sure recalled seeing that plastic or paper bag in my pocket, and the gun being
passed around but he doesn’t remember if any room was lighted?))
“Was it dark in those premises?”
“No, not particularly dark, sir. It was about daybreak, you know, and there was a
large front window which would illuminate the building.”
“Would that large window illuminate the interior of storage room 3?” London
wanted to know.
“No, it wou1dn’t, it would be more dark than light, sir.”
Malone then went on to say how he checked the rear of the location, looking
under cars, in back yards, and in an adjoining alley. That he had his gun drawn, and that
he would have shot a burglar that would have pointed a gun at him.
“What if a burglar came out of that building and you couldn’t have seen what he
had?”
“I would tell him to freeze.”
“What if he didn’t freeze?”
“Then I would...”
505
“Objection, your honor,” yelled Mayer. “This is asking this to speculate as to
something he would do at some time.”
“Sustained.”
London started again, “You heard one shot, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. That is correct?”
“And I believe you testified that when you heard this shot you didn’t know who was
shot; is that what you said?”
“Yes sir. That was my immediate impression, I was uncertain.”
London quizzed him more, “Did you know that someone was shot?”
In an antagonistic tone Malone replied, “I knew a gunshot went off.”
“But you didn’t know the bullet which was fired from that gun hit any person, did
you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“From your vantage point in the alley, could you see inside the premises?”
“No, I couldn’t sir.”
“Could you see inside the premises at any time, until you entered through the
front door?”
506
“No sir, I could not.”
“When you entered through the front door, would you describe what you saw for
me?”
“Yes sir, When I initially came to the front door, sir, or when I---”
“No” London said, “The first time you entered the front door; that is the first time
you could see what was going on inside of that building and what did you see?”
“The first thing I saw, when I got to the front of the building was Deputy Spreen
exiting the building.”
“Off the record for the moment,” Judge Goodman said. There was some sort of
discussion held but I don’t remember what it was about at this time.
“You may proceed.”
“When you first entered the building did you see Deputy Shaffer?”
“I saw Deputy Shaffer standing toward, as I was entering the building,---I saw
Deputy Shaffer standing toward the rear of the building yelling to me to get the camera.”
“And you have described these premises as being a store room place where sales
are make plus three storage rooms; is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
507
“Now, in which of those four rooms was Deputy Shaffer, when you saw him?”
“I believe Deputy Shaffer to be standing near the door way of the first storage
room and the salesroom.”
“And then you left and went to the automobile; is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Malone answered.
“How long was it between the time you left and went to the automobile and the
time you returned?”
“A matter of a minute or a minute and a half. Just enough time to open the trunk
of the car.”
“Did you prepare a crime report in connection with the incident that took place on
August 18?”
“No” Malone responded, ”I did not write a crime report, per se I wrote a supp
report.”
“Supplemental report?” London quizzed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who prepared the crime report on this incident?”
“Deputy Shaffer.”
“Did you see this crime report?”
“No, I haven’t seen it.” (That’s a bunch of bullshit.)
508
“Did you see it at the time he prepared it?” London was floored.
“No.” (More bullshit.)
“Did you ever ask to see it?”
“No. Everything was so chaotic between lieutenants coming in and homicide
coming in and wanting to see Bob and this guy (? whom could he be talking about? For
someone who is such an important witness he knows no deputies by their names) coming
in and telling him to write us up and telling me to get the suspect’s rap sheet from R&I
and RCD (records) and so forth; that I wasn’t involved in that Bob-- (pause)---Bob was
trying to get the report out, so he could...”
(I don’t remember any lieutenants coming in, and no one from homicide came to
see me, I had to go and see them. And Stowell, not Malone got the information on
Molette from R&I and RCD.)
“Did you see him writing the report?” London wanted to know.
“I saw him in the writing room writing it.”
“What room was he in when he was writing it?”
“One of the rooms there. I forget which one.” (That’s a pretty clear answer, isn’t
it? Answers like this one are what we used to refer to as a policeman’s conviction special.
All a cop has to do it tell his incriminating side of the story and conveniently forget
everything else. It works.)
509
“One of the four rooms at the premises?” London questioned.
Malone was quick with his reply, “No, no, no, at the Firestone station.”
“In other words, he didn’t write the report at the time you were on those
premises?”
“That is right. No, it was written back at the Fire stone station.”
“Was it chaotic at the Firestone station?”
“Yes, it was.”
(I don’t know what was so chaotic about this shooting. In the almost two years I
was there, there were many shootings. Not all of them ended in death, but Malone is
trying to make people think that the whole place comes apart at the seams, which isn’t
true.)
“Isn’t it common practice for you to see reports which were made by a partner of
yours?”
“Yes, it is.”
“How long after the preparation by Deputy Shaffer of this report did you prepare
a supplemental report?”
“I was writing my--it was during the time I was going between the two rooms. I
was on the phone with LAPD and on the phone with our records department and I was
writing--Bob was in one room trying to write the report and people were coming in
510
bothering him, and so it would be about the same time that he was writing his report. And
I had never written a supp report before. And so Bob told me how to write the supp.”
(If he was in one room writing his supp report, how does he know if I’m being
bothered by people? The doors are closed and the walls are made of concrete. And if he
didn’t know how to write a supp report I’ll kiss his ass. He had been a deputy over two
years now, not two months. They do write reports in the jail system too.)
“I believe that you told us that you talked to the burglary suspect when you
entered the storeroom No. 3, is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And you told us that he said something to you; is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you write down on your supplemental report what the suspect said to you?”
“No, I did not,” Malone said, as a matter of fact.
“Did you write down on the supplemental report whether or not the suspect talked
to you?”
“No, I did not.”
“Isn’t it common practice for you to write down on reports what you say and what
is said to you by a suspect?”
“It is more common practice for me to follow the orders of my training officer.
My training officer would coach me in the writing of it.”
511
“You mean he was there with you while you were writing it?”
“Yeah, he told me what to put in it and how to write it.” (I know I’ve emphasized
this point before--he’s full of shit. It is my understanding that Malone was in one room
and I was in another, according to his previous testimony.)
“Did you agree with him as to what he told you to put in that?” London wanted to
know.
“I didn’t have an opinion one way or another. He had his reasons for telling how
to handle it.”
“Did you sign that report?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Would you say that the report which you submitted was different from the
testimony which you are giving us today?”
(Malone has a good answer for that question. Not really an answer but his own
cover-up for his ineptness and lying.)
“Everything that was in my supplemental report was true.” He answered.
“Was it complete?”
“My supplemental report was read by my training officer, who approved it.”
(I can’t really remember if I read this report or not, to be truthful. I don’t even
know if Malone was in the station when I left.)
512
“Was it complete?”
Malone said, “It was as complete as he wanted it.”
“Was it as complete as you wanted it?”
“It was as complete as I wanted it, so far as I was not (pause).. .I had no physical
evidence of what happened, and any time you bust a criminal, I don’t care what it is for,
you bust a guy for being drunk, he’s always going to tell you that you took money from
him there were other people that the suspect had told the same thing he told me. And I
was under the impression that a guy will say this, you know, he’ll just make up anything
to hang a cop. And I didn’t put much credence--I really didn’t put much credence in what
the suspect said,” he replied.
“You didn’t believe it right?”
At this time Mayer objected as the question being immaterial or irrelevant, and
that it was indefinite and vague as to time. Judge Goodman ruled in our favor on this.
“I.. .I think it is relevant. Put a time on it.”
“When the suspect made the statement to you did you believe him?”
“No.”
“When you prepared your report, did you believe him?”
“No”
513
“Did you tell anyone else, other than Deputy Shaffer, what you thought that
suspect had said to you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Who did you tell?”
“Sergeant Hansell.” (Check Sgt. Hansell’s testimony for this.)
“When was that?”
“At the crime scene.”
“Did you ever change your supplemental report?”
“No, I never changed my supplemental report.”
An unclear question was asked about Malone’s testimony. Finally London asked
him, “Have you discussed your testimony which you would give here today with any
superior in the Sheriff’s department?”
“Yeah, with people from homicide and so forth. Sure.” Malone was getting cocky,
“With whom did you discuss that testimony that you were to give here today?”
“Sgt. Landry, Lt. Whitley (he means either Lt. White or Sgt. Whitley), personnel
investigators which I don’t recall their names.”
“Were any of these discussions after you transferred to Wayside?”
514
“Yes, they were a few weeks ago.”
(So I finally come to the realization why Malone is testifying this way against me.
It’s indirectly because of me that he transferred to Wayside, and this is his way of getting
back at me. I think he’s being a bit too extreme. I did hear years later that Malone
‘snapped’ mentally while at Wayside Honor Rancho. The rumor was he had someone in
his custody who claimed to have been shot by me during the Watts Festival shootout on
1968, and this prisoner showed Malone a large scar where he had a stomach operation
from getting shot. After that, Malone ‘flipped out’. I believe he was ‘retired’ from the
department.)
“Did you ever discuss with (investigating officers), or any of them whether or not
you were under investigation?”
“Could we have that read back?” said Mayer.
It was read back and Mayer objected, saying he would have too much difficulty in
answering that question. This should be a tip-off to the witness that he’s to answer that he
doesn’t understand the question.
The judge asked Malone if he understood it.
“No, I don’t, your honor.”
“All right, reframe your question,” Goodman instructed.
“Deputy, do you know what the word ‘immunity’ means?”
“Yes.”
515
“Did anyone with whom you discussed the testimony which you would give here
today offer you immunity if you would testify?”
“No, sir,” Malone replied.
“Did anyone with whom you discussed this testimony offer you anything in terms
of your job, either retaining your job or transferring to duties of your job?”
“No, sir. No one has.”
“Did you discuss with anyone whether or not you should change the supplemental
report which you had turned in to the sheriff’s department?” London wanted to know.
“No.”
“Did anyone ask you to change your supplemental report?”
“No, sir.”
“Did anyone advise you that you should change your supplemental report?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you volunteer to anyone the facts of the statement made to you by the
burglary suspect between the time you prepared your supplemental report and today?”
516
Malone slowly stated, “I volunteered it to the investigating officers of this
particular case; also I advised a superior officer at the crime scene that the suspect had
made that statement to me.”
“At the time you advised the superior officer at the crime scene, had you already
prepared your supplemental report?”
“No, sir.”
“At the time you advised the investigating officer in this case, did they ask you
whether such a statement was made to you or did you volunteer the fact?”
“ I volunteered it,” Malone replied.
“Did you think you had done something wrong in not including that statement in
your supplemental report?” London queried.
“No, because the first day that I was transferred to Firestone station I was advised
by the sergeant that I was a trainee and that I would have a training officer and that
training officer is like a sergeant; in fact, you may not understand why he’s telling you to
do that and you may think it is wrong, but goddamn it, you do it.”
“Who told you that?” London asked with a surprised look on his face.
“Sgt. Wenke.”
517
(This sounds so good. The only problem is that station records showed Sgt.
Wenke was not on when Malone first started. Sgt. Russ Owens and Deputy Barrett were.
And Sgt. Wenke did not tell Malone that until many weeks later.)
London continued, “Was he your immediate supervisor?”
“He was my training sergeant.”
“You didn’t see anybody get shot on the night of August 18, did you?”
Malone looked at Mr. London with hate on his face, “No, sir.”
“Do you know whether the victim of the shooting had a gun in his hand or around
him at the time he was shot?”
“No, I don’t know, sir.”
“Do you know who else was in the room besides the burglary suspect at the time
he was shot?”
“I know Deputy Shaffer was there,” Malone asserted.
“Did you see Deputy Shaffer there?”
“No, in fact, I should rephrase that. I would make the assumption that Deputy
Shaffer was there.”
“You didn’t see anybody in the room at the time?”
“No, sir, I was outside of the building.’
518
After Malone’s testimony London asked me if there was a coroner’s inquest and
if Malone testified at it. I told him there was and that Malone was not subpoenaed to
appear as a witness. London started to question him about the hearing but Mayer objected
to it as being “not material or relevant.” It was sustained.
Malone went on to testify that the suspect was moving at times, and that he was
holding himself up with his left arm. That Malone asked him why he tried to shoot me,
but the suspect said nothing to him and that Malone got his information that Molette tried
to shoot me from Deputy Manskar. “.he said that a burglary suspect had tried to shoot
Bob and that Bob shot him.”
The discussion then lead to the admissibility of the photo album and testimony
linked to it. And from there, until a ruling was made, the noon recess was going to be
taken.
I believe that I just sat in the courtroom with the bailiff and my deputy escort.
This is when I had the thoughts that having a closed hearing was more damaging than
having an open one. No one else would be able to hear Malone’s lies.
After the recess, Judge Goodman ruled on the admissibility of my so-called state
of mind statements to Malone.
“With respect to the witness’s testimony regarding the defendant’s statements on
August 18 and August 19, under section 1250 of the evidence code, the court is going to
receive the testimony. (Damn her!)
“I did not find the cases which you people cited to be very helpful. However, I
think the language in the case of People vs one 1948 Chevrolet, found in 45 Cal 2d, 613,
519
and the language found in Watenpaugh vs State Teacher’s Retirement, 51 Cal 2d 676,
which states the former cases, cover the situation we have present here. On the basis of
that language, the court will receive the testimony. Do you care to cross examine with
respect to that?”
“Yes, I do, your honor,” said London.
London questioned Malone about the incident at Vering, Inc. on the 18th. Malone
testified that there were five or six other deputies there, who could have possibly heard
me tell Malone to shoot Kennedy. He named Null as one of them, and Deputy Verdugo
as another. The rest he couldn’t remember or didn’t want to. The questioning then lead to
the second suspect, the one that Malone ‘caught.’
“Were you the first to see the second suspect?” London wanted to know.
“Yes sir.”
“Were there any other officers in your view at the time you saw the second
suspect?”
“Not when I immediately saw him.”
(Malone answered this question in such a low voice that only the court reporter
could hear him; he was getting shook up.)
“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand him,” said Mr. London.
“Not when I immediately saw him,’ said Malone in a harsh tone.
520
“By the time you got to him, were there other suspects there--I beg your pardon,
were there any other deputy sheriffs there?”
“No, no” he said.
“Were you scuffling with that suspect?”
“Not at first. But when I told him to come out and he wouldn’t come out, and I
didn’t know if he was having a hard time coming out or if he was trying to fight; but
anyhow, he wasn’t very docile about the whole situation.”
“Was he swinging his arms about?” London wanted to know.
“Yes, he was swinging his arms around. And that’s why I stated earlier, I think
Deputy Shaffer might very well have thought the guy was trying to take me on, you
know.” Malone replied.
(It was during this testimony that I really believed Malone was trying to testify in
a way to benefit me. To show that me yelling at him to ‘shoot’ may have been justifiable
and to maybe make the judge believe my actions were reasonable.)
“Did you have your gun drawn?” London asked.
“I had it drawn, but I holstered at one point.”
“Well, at the time you were scuffling with this suspect, did you have you gun
drawn?”
521
Malone then stated, “No. I put it away. I had him with my left arm and he kind of,
you know, pushed me away, or something like that. And at that time I realized that he
didn’t have a weapon, you know, and I put my gun away.”
(At this particular point I must stop and ask for some logical reason for these
actions. I have never known a cop anywhere, once he ‘captures’ a burglary suspect, to
holster his gun just because he knows (or really assumes without searching the suspect)
the suspect is unarmed. Especially if he hasn’t been handcuffed. Malone is treating the
suspect as if he was a crossing guard saying ‘follow me, please.
(The suspect is burglarizing a business and he is physically assaulting a deputysheriff. I firmly believe this is all the reason in the world to keep that gun aimed right at
the suspect’s head, and to shoot if he does assault.)
“But you didn’t know whether or not he had a weapon until you were actually in
physical contact with him; is that correct?” London wanted to know.
“Yes, sir, that is correct. Yes, sir.”
“Would you describe that suspect for me. Would you tell me his size?”
“He was rather a large size. I would guess him to be six-four or six-five.”
“What is your height?”
Malone took a moment or two to answer this, “Five-eight.”
“Had there been any shooting at the August 18 incident?”
522
“No, sir, none at all.”
“In the course of the scuffle did you strike that suspect?”
“Yeah, he was knocked into me and I hit him and pushed him back and put an
arm-bar strangle on him.”
(I would like to know how he, at 5’8”, put an arm bar strangle hold on a 6’4” well
built burglar. I didn’t see it.)
“Did you kick that suspect?”
“No, I never kicked him.” (The fucking liar.)
“Did you use any weapon, at all, in subduing that suspect?”
“No, I did not.”
“Were you armed with a blackjack or sap?” London asked.
“No, I didn’t carry a sap.”
“You didn’t have a sap at that time?”
“No, sir.”
(Because Malone was having such an image problem at the station, I gave him a
sap referred to as a 245 Gonzales sap. 245 meaning an ADW (assault with a deadly
weapon). A deputy named Gonzales made different kinds of saps that cops referred to as
a 245, 217 or a 187 sap. The numbers are designations from the penal code, 217 meaning
attempt murder and 187 meaning murder. The 245 sap was a smaller one but was not part
523
of the official uniform because it weighed a couple of pounds. The 187 sap is said to
have weighed about 5 pounds. Saps are made on leather about 10-12 inches long and are
filled with powered lead. The departmental sap is a spring-loaded mechanism that has
about 8 ounces of powdered lead wrapped in leather. It was useless unless you wanted to
piss someone off.
(So I gave Malone a 245 ‘illegal’ sap, because I felt his size was a disadvantage in
this jungle, and a bigger sap than the issued one might save his ass someday. He did carry
this sap until the day he left Firestone, wherein he returned it to me. I subsequently gave
it to an LAPD Officer I went to school with.
(So, if Malone admitted that he was carrying a sap, he would have to describe it as
an illegal one (at least at that time it was against departmental policy) putting himself in
the same ‘suspect’ category that I’m being put in. The pot cannot call the kettle black
unless it is without discoloration.
(Malone was carrying that sap that night, and in fact I saw him use it on
Kennedy’s chest area.)
“I’m now referring to the incident of August 1, 1969, to which you testified.
Would you tell me on that incident or August 1 what exactly Officer Shaffer said to
you?”
Malone started, “First I believe I testified that it was approximately August the
first--the 1st of August. I cannot testify that it was August 1 , per se.” (More per se shit)
“But we were just talking police work in the patrol car, you know, and the
conversation got around to burglary calls...”
524
“Did you ask Officer Shaffer what to do in the event of a burglary call?”
Malone was getting miffed. “Sir, I don’t recall how the conversation got started,
whether it was just spontaneous, whether we were just talking or if Bob was correcting
me for a mistake I might have made or what.”
“Was he correcting you for a mistake you’d make?”
“It’s possible, but I don’t recall. Bob would make it a point to, during (long
pause), when I would make a mistake out there, Bob, you know, would bring it to my
attention as a training officer.”
“As a training officer did he ever correct you for mistakes which you made in
connection with drawing your gun, when he said you should not have drawn your gun?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember an incident when you drew a gun on a civilian in an alley and
he told you not to do so?”
“No, sir.” (of course not!)
Then this question came up.
“What did he say to you about handling burglary suspects?”
“He said, ‘When you go out of these burglary calls and you’ve been out here as
long as I have and you go in there and you are scared and the sweat is pouring off your
head and your glasses fog up, you can’t see you are scared to death,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you
this--when you catch one of those things, there’s no such thing, and I think his words
were, as a live burglar out here at Firestone.’”
525
(It’s strange, but in the two years I was at Firestone I’m sure that I arrested
probably over a hundred burglars, many by myself. If this is the case, why did I only
shoot two of them, and with many witnesses around?)
“Did he say to you that if you were scared, then it would be all right to use your
revolver?”
“Oh, no, sir. He never made a statement such as that.”
“He was talking about being scared, wasn’t he?” London asked.
“Yeah, he was just saying, you know, ‘You go in on these calls and you are
scared, man.’”
“And what did he say you would be scared of?”
“Well, you are scared because there is a broken window or there is a doorjamb
open and you are walking in a place; you can’t see and there’s some burglar in there and
he can see you and you don’t know if he’s got a gun or not. That’s what you’re scared
of.”
“You are scared of being shot or attacked by the burglar, isn’t that what he said?”
Malone slowly answered, “That’s right.”
“And didn’t he say, ‘When you are in a situation when you can’t see the burglar
and you have reason to be frightened for your life, then it is all right to use your gun?”
“No, he did not say that.’
526
“Why did he say you’d be scared?”
“Well, I’ll object to that,” said Mayer. “That’s asking this witness to speculate as
to the thoughts of Deputy Shaffer.”
“Well, your honor,” said London. “I’m not asking him to speculate as to Deputy
Shaffer’s thought. I’m asking him to tell us what reason the deputy gave him for being
scared or frightened.”
“Well, the objection is overruled,” sail Judge Goodman. “Although I think the
witness has already indicated what reason.”
“It is true, isn’t it deputy, that the context of his statements to you about using
your service revolver was in a situation where the circumstances were such that your life
would be in danger. Is that correct?”
“No, sir. That is not correct.”
“Only that you would be scared because of the circumstances, is that right?”
(Malone was getting upset about this line of questioning.)
“No, sir. No, sir! We were talking about the fact that when you go into a burglary
call that you are scared and that if you do catch a burglar, one-on-one, and you are the
only one there, he’s bought and paid for. There’s no such thing as a live burglar at
Firestone station.”
“That was under the circumstances of the same conversation about you’ve been
talking, is that right?” London wanted to know.
527
“It was during the same conversation. That is correct.”
“And during that conversation he talked about the situation where it was dark,
where you couldn’t see the burglary suspect, but he could see you. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, that was brought up. That is correct.”
“Now, did you think that that was valid police instruction?”
Ralph Mayer objected to this question so London withdrew it.
“Deputy, did you report that discussion to any other superior?”
“No, sir.”
London asked Malone if he ever heard about my service record at Firestone.
Mayer objected to that but the judge over ruled him. The only thing we could get Malone
to say was that he had heard about it, but we couldn’t get him to answer how good it was
because Mayer objected. It was sustained.
“In connection with your instructions as a deputy-sheriff, did you receive
instruction from persons other than deputy Shaffer, during your period of partnership
with him?
Malone was again slow to answer, “Well, in shop talk over coffee sessions you
might pick up something from a deputy or something. But Deputy Shaffer was my
training officer and he was responsible to train me. And we would discuss patrol
procedures, et cetera, between each other.”
528
“Did anybody else who was superior to you discuss patrol procedures with you
during that period of time, the period of time you were his partner?”
“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are saying?”
“Was Deputy Shaffer the only person during the time you were his partner who
gave you instructions as to how to be a deputy-sheriff?”
“Well, the question is kind of vague. You talk shop talk with every cop in the
place.”
Judge Goodman interceded here. “Well, I don’t think counsel is referring to shop
talk. He’s referring to instructions. Did you get instructions from anyone else other than
Deputy Shaffer, such as a sergeant or lieutenant?”
“They have training classes, yes, if that’s what you are referring to. Yes. They
have training classes, et cetera, for a new deputy out there. Yes, they do.”
Judge Goodman asked again, “And were you a participant in these training
sessions during the period of time that you were being instructed by Deputy Shaffer?”
He answered, “I was participating in two: one had to deal with how to use a
shotgun and the other was traffic control.”
London continued, “In any of these instructional periods with other superiors, did
you ever discuss the instructions which you had been receiving from Mr. Shaffer?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you discuss any of Deputy Shaffer’s instructions to you with anyone else?”
529
“No. No, sir, No, I did not.”
“Did you feel that you had any reason to discuss these instructions with anyone
else?”
“I had already been advised of my position at the station as a trainee and advised
that Deputy Shaffer was my training officer and Deputy Shaffer would not (pause)---”
“I felt that if a man is assigned to you as the training officer he must be pretty
highly thought of as a policeman or they wouldn’t assign him to you as a training
officer.”
The line of questioning stopped at this point. Mr. London then went on to exhibit
#9, the little cylindrical object. Judge Goodman accepted the item pending its connection
at a later point, so Mr. London thought he better question Malone about it.
“When was it that Deputy Shaffer gave you that little metal object?”
“It was either the morning of the shooting or the day after.”
“Did he hand it to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did you take it from him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you report that incident as part of your supplemental report?”
530
Malone kind of said irritated, “The supplemental report had been written already.”
“Did you report that incident to anyone?”
“No.”
“Were you ever questioned about that incident?”
“No.”
DA Mayer objected, “When, in period of time,” asked Mr. Mayer.
“Ever,” answered Mr. London.
“He said ‘ever,’” said Judge Goodman. “That means, sir, from that time to right
now.”
“Until the mind of man runneth no further,” said Mr. London. (A bunch of poets,
aren’t they?)
“Yes sir. I made the information available a few days ago.”
(Pretty interesting isn’t it? He can see 2” of a plastic bag sticking out of my
pocket but he DOESN’T remember this object til a few days ago.. Malone’s testimony
reminds me of a person playing a new game and making up his own rules as the game
proceeds.)
“To whom?”
531
“Sergeant Landry.”
“Did he ask you about it?”
“No, I told him about it.”
“You told him that you had been given a little piece of metal by Mr. Shaffer, is
that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“When you told Sgt. Landry about that incident, did he ask you why you had not
reported it sooner?”
“Well, I don’t recall him asking me that. He was insistent that I recall or
remember everything that related to it.”
“Did Sgt. Landry tell you at the time that you told him about that incident that you
should have told him that incident prior?”
“No, because, one, is I forgot about it, and two is, I don’t know what the object
was.”
“That object which was shown to you by the district attorney, is that an object
which you have ever seen before?”
“I believe it to be the same type of object that Deputy Shaffer gave me that day.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the question. Have you ever seen that object which is called
People’s 9 before?”
“No, I did not recognize it. I didn’t know what it was.”
532
“Is that object, People’s 9, the object which Mr. Shaffer gave you?”
“That particular one?”
“That particular one” London said.
“No.” Malone said.
“You testified that you saw a piece of cellophane sticking out of Deputy Shaffer’s
pocket. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. It was a cellophane type material. It might have been cellophane. It
looked like cellophane. I never felt it.”
“Where were you in relation to Mr. Shaffer when you saw that?”
“About five feet behind him—--five to eight feet behind him.”
“Was it dark or light?”
“Well, it was light enough for me to see it. I don’t recall if the lights were on or
off.” (Is that right?)
“He was facing away from you. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct?”
“Were you walking towards him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he turn to face you after you started walking toward him?”
533
“No, he was busy with his camera.”
(How busy can a person be with an instamatic already loaded?)
“Now, I believe in response to a question of the district attorney’s you said that
was unusual. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you mean by that, that it was unusual to see some thing sticking out of his
pocket?”
“It was unusual that I had observed a piece of cellophane sticking out of my
partner’s pocket. (It was unusual that he observed anything!) I had never observed a piece
of cellophane sticking out of or protruding from my partner’s pocket.”
London asked, “How long after the shooting did you see this cellophane sticking
out of his pocket?”
“Well, 1 would say four or five minutes had elapsed.”
“Had you already been in storeroom #3 before you saw that?”
Malone said, “Yes, sir.”
“You hadn’t exited from storeroom 3?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Had you left the building before you saw it?”
“No sir.”
534
“Where were you going when you saw it?”
“I don’t know. To the front of the building for something.”
London was curious, “Were you going out?”
“No, just inside the building. I don’t recall any specific purpose or motive as to
where I was going, sir.”
“Did you usually mark down on your reports those things which you considered
to be unusual?” Mr. London said.
“What reports are you referring to, sir?” Malone asked back.
“Any crime report or supplemental report that you prepare.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve written only one supplemental report.”
“Did you mark down the cellophane in your supplemental report?”
“No.”
“Did you fail to mark it down because you didn’t think it was unusual?”
“Well, I don even think the cellophane came into my mind when I was writing the
supplementary report.”
(See, it’s not cellophane OR paper anymore.)
“Did anybody at any time after this incident ask you if you saw anything sticking
out of Deputy Shaffer’s pocket?” London quizzed.
535
“I don’t recall anybody asking me, sir?”
(This is very interesting. ‘I don’t recall’ means to me that the question is No. Not
recalling means that you don’t want to say indirectly what is being asked.)
“Did Sgt. Landry ask you?”
“Yes, Sgt. Landry asked me if I could observe a bulge in his pocket; and then I
recalled it and I told him about the cellophane protruding.”
(First it’s ‘I don’t recall’, and then there is an affirmative answer. I’ve always felt
that since Malone volunteered certain information, that he had a volunteer something at
every question that he was being asked. Otherwise, his initial story might not have been
believed or acted upon.)
“And he asked you if you saw a bulge and you said, ‘No, I didn’t see a bulge but I
saw a piece of cellophane,’ is that correct?’” London asked.
“That’s right.”
Mr. London was finished, “I have nothing further of this witness.”
Then Mayer wants to re-exam some testimony.
“Now, when did you leave Firestone station, Deputy Malone?”
“Approximately October 1.”
“And was this at your request or the department’s request?”
536
“At my request.”
Mayer kept on, “Why did you request to leave?”
“My wife has got arthritis and we were having a problem with her arthritis.”
“At the time you left Firestone Station to your new duty station, had you
discussed the facts of this August 18, 1969, shooting with anyone else, other than at the
period of time the shooting actually occurred?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, when you discussed this matter with homicide, did they come to you or did
you go to them?”
“I went to them,” Malone replied.
“When was that sir?”
“Approximately two weeks ago, two and a half weeks ago.”
(Well, that blows Sheriff Pitchess’s story about ‘continuing this investigation ever
since the shooting’ all to hell. Nothing was investigated until Malone crawled to
homicide but if you read the articles printed by the LA Times and the Herald Examiner
you would have thought I was under survelliance and suspicion since the 19th of August!
The Sheriff lied or homicide lied to make themselves look good to the public, and it was
an election year.)
“Why did you go to them?”
537
“Because I didn’t have any proof nor did I have any physical evidence, but I
suspected that some foul play was going on and I didn’t know what to do because I’ve
got loyalty to my partner and I’ve got loyalty to humanity and I couldn’t live with it any
longer.”
(Bravo, bravo, this should make an excellent academy award speech.)
“That would be all, your honor.” Mayer said.
Then Mr. London got to ask a few more questions on re-cross examination.
“Did you have a discussion with Sgt. Wenke related to your poor performance as
a patrol officer prior to your leaving the Firestone duties and taking up your Wayside
Honor Rancho duties?”
Mayer didn’t like that. “Your Honor, I think that question is compound. It
assumes facts not in evidence. It is improper re-cross.”
“Overruled. You may answer.” (Hurray, one for us.)
Malone looked at the judge. “I’m sorry, ma’am?”
‘You may answer.” Judge Goodman told him.
“Yes sir. Sgt. Wenke called me into his office, along with Deputy Shaffer, and
advised me that he felt my training wasn’t coming along as it should be.”
“Was that the reason that you went to Wayside?”
“No, sir. No, sir, not at all, sir.”
538
“I have nothing further your honor.” Mr. London said.
“Thank you sir. You may step down,” said Judge Goodman.
Mayer then wanted Malone excused for the remainder of the trial. Mr. London
didn’t want to excuse Malone because we had to possibly use him to re-butt testimony
tying in the little piece of metal, and his testimony regarding the photographs. After some
discussion about it, Mr. London agreed that Malone could go wherever he wanted just as
long as Mr. Mayer would be able to have him in court upon notice.
This is one reason I felt, in hindsight, that the other deputies, including Sgt.
Wenke should not have been excluded from hearing Malone’s testimony. I think their
testimony at my preliminary would have been a whole lot different, and in defense to me.
The judge asked Malone to give Mr. Mayer his location afterwards but I’m sure
that homicide and the DA’s office were going to know his whereabouts at all times from
now on out.
Mr. Mayer wanted to put Sgt. Montgomery of the ballistics lab on the stand out of
order. It seemed that Sgt. Montgomery was leaving Thanksgiving on a four-day holiday
and wanted to be heard as soon as possible.
I tried my best to get Mr. London to object to it. When I ever had to testify in a
case, even while on vacation, I had to be in court and I felt that Sgt. Montgomery had to
live by the same rules I did.
539
Mr. London felt that we shouldn’t make any waves in the matter because
everything we did to get along would count in our favor when the motion of bail would
be heard.
‘Let’s kiss a little butt here,” I thought.
I told Mr. London, “I don’t care about that. I’m not getting out on bail in the first
place. The only thing that will become of this is you’ll be too confused in trying to tie all
the testimony together, and if something that is supposed to be said before this witness
has his say damn it, we’re putting the cart in front of the horse by letting him get a jump
on us.”
“No,” said London. “I don’t think so. The judge said she will not receive it if its
not related or connected.”
“Wait,” I told him. “If the testimony that would have been prior to this, in the
correct order, is weak and maybe not relevant, they won’t be able to bring in subsequent
testimony either. But we are letting them bring it in, regardless of what was supposed to
be given before. Just so Montgomery can go on a trip somewhere. Fuck him, let him stay
home and do his civic duty. Remember what they told me, that a cop looses certain rights
when he pins on that badge. Well, Montgomery should loose the right to take off when I
have to spend the holiday locked up in jail.“
“No”, Mr. London said, we’ll hear what he has to say.”
I asked the investigator who was sitting beside me, “What do you think?
“Listen to your attorney, that’s my advice,” was his answer.
540
“Ok, ok, you win. Go ahead.”
So, James Montgomery was called to the stand. He told the court of his
experience with guns and gun-smithing, being an ordinance officer and for the past eight
years as a member of the crime lab.
I remember Montgomery from when I went through the academy. I also
remember the day I saw him at the crime lab after I. had shot Molette.
When a deputy kills a person, his gun is fired at the crime lab to ascertain if that
gun was in fact the gun used to kill or shoot that person. They compare the slugs taken
from the body and the ones shot in the lab.
When I took the .357 magnum in for what I thought was a comparison test on the
projectile taken from Molette’s body, I had an unusual talk with Sgt. Montgomery.
He had made some sort of reference to the type of bullet that I used. I had turned
in my empty casing to homicide, and it was obvious to them and to the crime lab that the
empty casing was a magnum casing and not a .38 casing. It seems that Montgomery also
saw the spent bullet, and it was somewhat more ‘exploded’ than the ordinary .38 or .357
magnum. Meaning that it expanded just a bit more upon impact. Yet, no one make any
waves over this--yet.
Montgomery testified that he received my .357 from Sgt. Whitley, and he
described the HS (Herbert Schmidt) .22 revolver I threw down near Molette. He said the
.22 was a poor, inaccurate weapon that had a tendency to misfire. Sgt. Montgomery said
that these .22’s aren’t used by police officers because of their unreliability. (Sgt
Montgomery, I don’t think was being too honest.)
541
But then came the important part of his testimony. Upon questioning, Sgt.
Montgomery said that this .22 was missing something--an extractor rod.
This rod protrudes from the front of the frame and activates the extractor on the
back of the cylinder to push out the cartridges or empty cartridge cases. And then he was
shown People’s 9, that little piece of metal that Malone said I gave to him to ‘throw
away.’
“Yes. This is an extractor rod that will fit this particular gun.”
He then showed the court how it would fit into the .22. Sgt. Montgomery went on
the say how two of the .22 bullets had firing pin impressions on them and that they didn’t
fire. Six of the bullets were Western Cartridge Company and one was a Remington Peters
Golden Bullet.
Then his testimony turned to the bullets as the type used by policemen. Rather,
that .22 bullets had misfired and no policeman that he knew would use them over again. I
agree with Sgt. Montgomery on that point. After the .22’s Sgt. Montgomery testified that
he had received some .38 projectiles from Sgt. Wenke so he could make a determination
as to whether or not the bullet I used was homemade by Sgt. Wenke.
It seems that the bullet that killed Molette was so out of proportion that ballistic
tests to determine the barrel grooves or markings were impossible. The bullet had two
sections; one was lead and the bottom was copper jacketed. When Sgt. Wenke would
press the lead nose portion into the copper jacket, his loading machine would leave its
542
own impression of the function. This was the only way that anyone could tell that my
bullet came from Sgt. Wenke.
Next, Mr. Mayer brought in the .25, (or 6.35 mm) pistol that was taken from my
locker. There were arguments about the illegality of searching my locker, about making
motions under 1538.5 of the Penal Code, and about comments from certain appellate
decisions on search and seizure matters.
But, we lost. The motion to suppress this evidence was denied without prejudice
to being renewed.
So, Montgomery went on to say that he was given a .25 A.C.P caliber Ceska
Zbrojovka semi-automatic pistol, and the gun was found to be in proper working order,
with the safety working and the gun firing normally. It was a medium quality gun, but not
one that is normally carried by a police officer in the line of work because of its light
caliber and lack of penetration ability. (I wonder what the narcotics and undercover
officers would say about that?)
He had obtained the gun from Deputy Wilson of homicide, and that it contained
four bullets of different make out of the six that were in the cartridge. Sgt. Montgomery
thought this was unusual but the bullet quality was acceptable.
Mr. Mayer then handed Sgt. Montgomery the .357 Smith and Wesson revolver.
Now this was a very high-grade revolver, with ribbed barrel and target sights. Its value to
Sgt. Montgomery was $75 to $85. (Remember we are talking about 1960’s gun prices.
That was almost a weeks pay.)
543
He was asked to give a value estimate on the .22. At this time London objected as
the testimony was irrelevant and should be stricken.
“That’s correct,” said Judge Goodman. “This witness, we all understand, was
taken out of order; and unless his testimony relating to these various items, or these
items, are tied up in some fashion why, this testimony regarding these items will be
stricken.”
But that only means he can go on saying what Mr. Mayer wants him to say, doing
nothing but confusing the judge and everyone else. In my opinion, we lost a crucial battle
when Mr. London let this man be taken out of order.
Then Montgomery said the .22 was worth $10 and the .25 worth $20. Big deal.
(What I would like to relate is his direct testimony concerning some ammunition that was
found in my revolver and ammo pouches.
(The testimony starts when DDA Mayer asked Sgt. Montgomery if he found
anything unusual about six rounds of ammunition supposedly taken from the gun.)
“I find nothing unusual about the five rounds which are .357 caliber Norma
ammunition. The sixth round appears to be a hand load which has a bullet or projectile
similar to People’s 10, I believe.
“I notice in one of the bullets the hole in the hollow- point seems filled in.” Mayer
said.
“No, not in any of these,” Sgt. Montgomery said.
“All right, now, would you examine the 18 bullets in the other envelope,” Mayer
asked him.
544
(There were 18 bullets in the other envelope cause that’s how many I shoved into
my ammo pouch. At the academy we were told to only put 6 in each pouch because it
looked better that way. These guys have never been in a sustained gunfight!
But today, deputies are issued 9 mm’s that hold 14 rounds in the magazine and
they have 2 other magazines for backup. If I would have possessed one of the 9 mm’s in
the 60’s DA Mayer would have said I was a wacko over armed psycho!)
While he was putting the six back into the evidence envelope, Judge Goodman
had a question.
“While you are doing that, by ‘hand load,’ do you mean a hand load by some
individual as distinguished by a manufactured bullet?” Asked Judge Goodman.
“From a manufacturer of bullets?” questioned Sgt. Montgomery.
“Yes.” Judge Goodman replied.
“Yes,” Sgt. Montgomery responded.
Mr. London stood up. “May I inquire which exhibit that is?”
“The 18 bullets in the envelope is part of exhibit 13,” said Mayer.
Judge Goodman started to say, “This is a part of the exhibit which you have
already indicated will be part of your...”
545
“Yes, your honor,’ said London.
“……Motion,” continued the judge.
As Sgt. Montgomery was answering a few questions about the contents of the
package, I was thinking about spending the next day in my cell. Then my attention was
brought around again.
“Is there anything unusual about these 18 rounds?” Mayer wanted to know.
“There are two or three different manufactures. Eleven of the rounds are .357
magnum caliber---twelve of the rounds.” Montgomery stated.
Mayer asked, “Twelve of the rounds are .357?”
“Yes. And six of the rounds are .38 special.”
“Is there anything unusual about the individual rounds?” Mayer curiously said.
“Yes. One, two, three, four of the rounds are half jacket with a lead nose and have
a cut across the lead nose on the bullet.”
“From your experience as a firearm’s expert, what wou1d be the objective of
cutting the nose of a bullet?” Mayer quizzed.
“Deforming the nose or hollowing the nose or cutting off the nose is usually to
make the bullet mushroom or flatten out more.” Sgt Montgomery answered.
“What effect would that have on an individual who was struck by the bullet?”
Mayer asked again.
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Sgt. Montgomery replied, “It would make a larger hole or do more internal
damage.”
Mayer pressed on with, “Now, assuming, hypothetically for a moment, that all of
these 18 rounds came from the person of the ammunition belt of one individual; would
that strike you as unusual, to have that particular combination of ammunition.”
Montgomery’s answer floored me, “Yes, it would.”
(In my opinion, that was a beautiful, well rehearsed answer. I don’t know why it
would strike him as unusual except that he is supposed to be testifying against me. Both
bullets fit the same gun.)
Mayer wanted to know more, “What’s unusual about it.”
“Well, having two different calibers, .38 special and .357 magnum caliber, and
having the noses mutilated in that form, also on the .38 specials, which I believe are all
Super-Vel (a bullet the sheriff’s department gives and sells to its deputies. It is a high
velocity, hollow nose mushrooming bullet), one of the cartridges has a small lead ball and
we determined it to be approximately #4 shot, deposited in the hollow portion of the nose
and glued in with some sort of glue or epoxy.”
“What would be the objective of doing that, sergeant?”
Finally a sensible and real reply from Sgt. Montgomery, “I see no real objective in
doing that. I don’t think it would make it....”
“I haven’t tested these bullets, but I don’t think it would be particularly make the
bullet mushroom any better or have any better characteristics.”
547
Mayer wanted a better answer so he asked, “Would there be any possibility, in
that kind of a combination, where the stock part of the bullet would mushroom and the
little pellet would keep on going through?”
“No, sir, I believe very little possibility.”
(This was when I thought, ‘Boy, is Mayer really sick.’ He is grasping for straws
so bad it’s pathetic. Anyway, to a cop, what difference would it make whether the little
ball did anything. If it did, the more the damage the better, otherwise, why shoot a
person? What the hell is a bullet for? Shooting tin cans?
(And if you are a shooter in the 1990’s and the 2000’s, these bullets do not even
compare to the .38 and .357 Starfire and Black Talon rounds which basically ‘spread and
shred’ their way through body tissue.)
“Let’s go back to the .357 magnum there on the bench. Will that particular
weapon fire all of these 18 rounds? I don’t mean at once, but can they be fired through
that weapon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mayer asked his next dumb question, “Would it be fair to say the .357 magnum
can fire both .38 caliber ammunition and .357 ammunition?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“That would conclude my 15 minute direct examination of Sgt. Montgomery,”
Mayer said.
“Forty-five minutes!” Judge Goodman replied.
548
“Pardon me,” said Sgt. Montgomery. “There’s one other package in this that I
failed to open while we were examining this.”
(What is this guy, a DA or something. Nobody has to ask Montgomery to do a
thing, he just takes it upon himself to volunteer information.)
“May I reopen?” asked Mayer.
“You may reopen your 15 minute examination.” Judge Goodman told Mayer.
“May I inquire,” said London. “Is that part of exhibit 13 for identification?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out myself,” said Judge Goodman.
“Yes,” said Mayer.
“The one other packet?” said Judge Goodman.
Sgt Montgomery turned red and said, “No. No, that’s the same package I’ve
already looked at it. I’m sorry.”
(What a bunch of crap. Here I am on trial for my life and the three stooges are
trying to determine who has the button?)
After some more talking back and forth about serial numbers and checking of
reports (one said the gun # was 125093 and the other said 125013--it was the former),
everybody decided that it was time to adjourn for the evening. Mr. London had nothing to
ask the sergeant, pending a motion of the admissibility of the evidence. So, back I go to
my cell.
549
I can remember being escorted to the elevator by a deputy. Two guys in suits
approached me and identified themselves as someone from personnel. They wanted to
know how many outstanding subpeonas and court cases I had corning up.
I looked at them and said, “If you guys are so fucking smart to be able to catch me
go fucking find out for yourself, and fuck both of you assholes. Go find out.” I barely got
my answer off as the elevator door was closing.
“That wasn’t too nice,” said my escort.
I looked at him and sounded off again, “When somebody is trying to stomp your
face in with a pair of cleats, you aren’t too nice to them. These guys are trying to hang me
from the highest pole and convict me of 1st degree murder and you want me to be ‘nice?!’
plus they’re trying everything underhanded in the book to do it. I mean, what the hell,
what does Mayer think a cop has a gun for, and bullets to go in it. He knows. He sure
knows. But he’ll twist things so out of proportion that some people won’t know whether
they’re coming or going. And you know what? He’s doing a good job at it, too.”
So, Thursday came around and I found myself back in my hospital cell gazing out
the window at the train yard. My only recollection is that I felt that things were going a
little better that I thought. My private investigator gave me an inspiring note; ‘I should
submit the transcripts at the superior court trial if it even goes to trial.’
I guess you could submit the transcripts instead of testify and let the judge rule
from them. That sounded scary to me.
I know that dinner was good that night, because it usually si on Thanksgiving. I
used to think that the county scrounged the whole year on the budget just so they could
550
have a gala feast on this particular Thursday. And what difference does it make the day
after?
Before I knew it, it was Friday morning and I was being lead to court once again.
I figured that I just might be out on bail today, if things went as they should.
Court started at 9:55 AM. The first witness was Sgt. Paul J. Whitley from
homicide. Paul was the investigator that I spoke with the morning I shot Molette. Now, it
would be interesting here to note the differences, if any, in what Sgt. Whitley testified to
as compared to what Malone said, and later on, what Sgt. Whitley will testify to in a later
court trial if it goes that far.
Basically, Sgt. Whitley testified that he was working homicide on August 18, 1969,
and that he responded to 8464½ S. Central Avenue to investigate the incident.
Of interest, he said that he and I had a talk about the shooting, but at the time we
had our conversation Molette had not yet died. That I gave him a .22 revolver that he
identified was People’s exhibit #3, that I gave him some bullets that (7 of them), and that
two of them appeared to have firing pin markings on them. Sgt. Whitley felt that one had
one marking on it and the other had one, possibly two indentions.
In actuality I did not give Sgt. Whitley the .22. Malone was given charge of it to
turn into the Watch Sergeant with our reports. Sgt. Whitley would have picked it up from
the Watch Sergeant.
Sgt. Whitley then stated that he had not requested a fingerprint check on the gun
or the bullets because I had handled it prior to his arrival. I personally don’t know what
551
this had to do with his duties as homicide sergeant, and what it has to do with him
following the duties of that position. My handling that gun, as presented in my written
report, should be secondary to his responsibilities. I have always felt that since Sgt.
Whitley felt I was completely within my responsibilities, that he did not bother to have
the gun checked for fingerprints. With the scientific apparatus as it is today, a check
might have revealed something else on the gun, maybe a print from one of the mysterious
deputies who handled it, according to Malone. All in all, Sgt. Whitley just didn’t bother
to complete his duties.
I say this because it has been possible to get specific fingerprints off a canceled
check that has traveled from the writer to the place where it was cashed, to the bank, to
the central processing house, and back to the bank once again, and handled by numerous
persons. For someone to say that they didn’t bother having the check dusted for prints
because so-and-so touched it is absurd.)
During cross-examination, he testified that he arrived at the scene at 4 AM,
possibly 4:30 AM, and that he talked with Sgt. Hansell while there.
(Where were his fucking notes? He doesn’t know when he arrived and he’s a
hotshot homicide investigator? The official report indicates I did not get the burglary call
until 4:53 AM.)
Sgt. Hansell took Sgt. Whitley through the jewelry store, gave him a brief rundown on what happened. Then he did not see the body because it had been removed
possibly an hour and forty- five minutes prior. That he spoke with another deputy who
552
was there but he can’t remember the deputy’s name, (cause he didn’t take notes!) but it
wasn’t Malone.
He examined the room where Molette was shot and observed jewelry on the floor,
and blood and stomach contents also. That the jewelry was 3½ feet from the blood. He
made a diagram (verbally) of the store and the doors and windows that he noticed. He
refers to the rooms as being west of one another as he walked through the store, from
west to east, but the rooms are actually east of one another. That there were actually no
doors but archways leading into the last two rooms, and that at 5:30 AM to 6 AM, the
building was dark inside when he first arrived.
Although he said there was no window in the poolroom, under redirect
examination he did say he made a mistake. A photograph showed a boarded up window.
Under re-cross examination, the only window he recalls is the boarded up one.
There was, of course, other testimony, but it deals with doorways and doors and the exact
route one has to take to get to the room with the pool table and blood in it.
With this, he is excused but has to remain on call.
The next witness is Harold L. Manskar, the deputy who was in the room with me.
I was really in doubt as to what Hal was going to testify to. He knew what I knew, but he
also backed up my report with a supplemental report of his own. I figured if he was going
to say anything, it had to be for me and not against.
Hal went on to relate how he was not assigned to the vice detail, and that on
August 18, 1969 he was working car 11 Boy with Carl Spreen. That they arrived at the
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jewelry store around 5 AM, and that Carl, Hal and I went into the store, but with me
leading.
I was described as the one who broke out the remainder of the broken glass in the
door so we could make our entry, and that during our search of the premises I heard a
noise and called out, “Deputy Malone,” he said, “Malone, is that you?”
Hal described the sequence of rooms that we searched, and that with our
flashlights we checked the dark areas. That we finally got to the small poolroom that was
north of the last storeroom and we entered. Without going into the usual question and
answer narrative, Harold Manskar in essence said the following:
“Deputy Shaffer entered the room first. He had his flashlight on as did I. As we
entered the room we checked it out with our flashlight and didn’t see anything. Deputy
Shaffer walked around the end of the pool table. I had my flashlight on and was also
looking about the room but I didn’t see nor hear anything.”
(A note here to state that there were two dogs in the yard next door barking
furiously almost every minute we were inside the building. But, they were so obvious that
I think everyone of us overlooked their presence.)
“Deputy Shaffer walked left around the end of the pool table and I was stopped at
the doorway, just inside the doorway. He took a couple of steps and I don’t know how
long after that--just a couple of seconds, I guess-- he turned to his left and extended his
left hand with his flashlight out towards the corner of that room, which would be the
southwest corner of that room, where there were some boards standing in the corner,
554
lengthwise, towards these boards. He took a half-step backwards, raised his right hand
and fired one shot.”
Hal went on to say that he did not hear anything prior to the shot, nor did I say
anything to Molette and that he did not hear what sounded like ‘two clicks’ from a gun as
he originally reported, and that what Malone doesn’t remember about what came first, the
question or the shot, is clarified. Probably from here I should give the question and
answer narrative to keep things clear.
“Did you hear any sort of noises of any kind?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“After the shot was fired, who spoke next?”
“I did,” Hal responded.
“What did you say?” Mayer asked.
“I said,--well the first thing I did, I peeked my head around the corner. Deputy
Spreen was still outside in the other room. I stuck my head around the corner to see if
possibly the shot had gone through the wall and hit Deputy Spreen.
“He appeared to be all right. I stuck my head in and walked around the pool table
and said, “Did he have a gun?””
Mayer asked, “Who did you say that to?”
555
(I don’t really know if Manskar peeked out, but I sort of felt that this testimony
gave me some leeway, and him some leeway especially, since that might have meant he
didn’t see the act of planting the gun.)
Mayer asked for more, “And did you see a gun at that time?”
“Deputy Shaffer said, ‘Yes, there it is,’ and it was on the floor next to the
suspect.”
Mr. Mayer didn’t like that answer, so he asked for it to be stricken. It was denied
until Mayer argued that my statement was hearsay, although Molette’s wasn’t.
“Approximately how much time elapsed between when you heard the shot and
you observed the gun lying next to the suspect?”
“Maybe between five and ten seconds, I guess. Maybe five, six, seven seconds.”
“After you observed this gun lying on the ground what happened next?”
“Deputy Shaffer, when I asked if he had a gun, Deputy Shaffer said, ‘There it is.’”
“I would move that to be stricken,” said Mr. Mayer.
“It may go out,” said Judge Goodman.
“The suspect then said, ‘I didn’t have no gun.’”
“Your honor,” said London, “I move to strike that, as being hearsay.”
“Your honor... .“ started Mayer. “I don’t think it was responsive to the question,
was it?”
556
“Deputy Manskar. .. ,“ said Mayer.
Judge Goodman ruled, “It may be stricken.”
“Thank you. Thank you, your honor.” Mayer said.
What comes next is this: Mr. Mayer wanted to get a sequence of questions and
answers admitted as testimony. Because Hal Manskar is testifying that he asked me a
question, and that after I answered his question, the burglar commented to my answer.
Unable to get the burglar’s statements admitted, my statement could not be admitted as
the truth of the matter asserted (that the burglar had a gun), but just as a question and
answer situation.
Mr. London argued that all of it was hearsay, but Judge Goodman ruled that under
1240 of the Evidence Code, Molette’s statement that he didn’t have a gun are not
hearsay, and that my statement that ‘Yes, there it is,’ should be admitted to show a
contradiction. They were all received.
Mr. London tried to show that when a man is intellectualizing questions to make
an answer, to it surely isn’t a ‘spontaneous exclamation.’ Mr. Mayer figured that they
should be admitted because Molette was under a condition of stress or excitement.
To this Mr. London argued that I could not subject Molette to cross-examination,
thus violating my rights. It seemed to be a legally valid argument, but illogical.
Mr. Mayer said that this was the purpose of 1240 of the code, and that the
legislature of this state knew that, thus the exception. But the only problem 1 could see
was, Molette could have said anything he wanted to against me. In fact, any dying person
557
could put another person in quite a spot. But, the rules are the rules, and there was no way
out. Judge Goodman allowed Molette’s statement in because, “…the decedents statement
itself does not constitute substantive proof of anything.” But also, “. . . .in terms of
actually constituting one of the necessary elements of the offense charged, it doesn’t.”
So, Hal Manskar’s answer was, “He said, ‘I didn’t have a gun.’”
“Then what happened?”
“Deputy Shaffer told me to get an ambulance. I walked to the door, and told
Deputy Spreen, who was still--I don’t recall if he had come to the door by then or not.
But I believe Deputy Spreen was still standing out in the other room, and I told him to get
an ambulance.”
“Did you see Deputy Shaffer, or anyone else, pick up that gun that was lying by
the suspect?” Mayer asked.
London stood up and said, “Objection. Leading....”
Judge Goodman ruled, “Overruled.”
“I don’t recall whether I actually saw him pick it up or not. But I saw him with it.”
Hal said.
“Your honor” said London. “I move to strike everything after ‘not’ as being non
responsive.”
“It may go out.” She said.
558
(I don’t know what it goes out of, because it’s still in the transcripts for everyone
to read.)
Mr. Mayer then showed Hal Manskar a picture of a gun, similar to the one next to
Molette.
“Do you recognize it?”
“It looks similar to the gun that was there. I couldn’t say for sure if that was it or
not,” Hal said.
“When you say ‘there’, are you referring to the one lying next to the suspect, Mr.
Molette?”
“Yes.”
“Now” Mayer continued, “ in response to my question, did you see anyone pick
up this gun as it was lying next to Mr. Molette? Is your answer ‘no’, that you did not see
anyone pick it up?”
Hal answered, “Right.”
“The answer is” said the judge, “he doesn’t recall.”
“You do not recall?” said Mayer.
“I don’t recall actually whether I saw him actually bend down and pick it up or
not.”
559
Mayer continued, “All right. After viewing this gun, People’s exhibit 3, in that
storeroom next to the suspect, when was the next time that you saw that gun?”
“Objection,” said London. “That assumes a fact not in evidence.”
Mr. Mayer had to rephrase the question. The answer was the next time Hal saw a
gun that looked like people’s #3 was in, “...Deputy Shaffer’s hand.”
“In terms of when you heard the shot fired, how much later was that?”
“Maybe a minute. I don’t know. I’m not sure. It is hard to actually-- less than a
minute,” Hal said.
“What if anything, was Deputy Shaffer doing with the gun, when you saw him
holding it?” Mayer questioned.
Hal replied, “Examining it.”
“What do you mean by examining it?”
“Just looking it over, you know.”
“Was he touching it with his hands?”
Hal looked at DA Mayer like Mayer was a moron. “Yes.”
“Did you see whether or not he unloaded the revolver?”
“Objection. Leading, your honor,” said Mr. London.
“Overruled.”
“Did you see him unloading it?” Mayer asked him again.
560
“Yes.
(This is where I think that little object that Malone said I gave to him comes into
play. The only problem here though is I had to unload the .22 with a paper clip I found on
a desk in the 2nd outer room. Since there was no ejector rod, I bent a paper clip hook into
a small hole where a small cotter pin would hold the ejector to the cylinder.)
“Did you see what, if anything, he did with the bullets that came out of it?”
Hal looked at DA Mayer and replied, “No, I don remember what he did with
them.”
(After I unloaded the .22, I put the bullets in my shirt pocket for safekeeping. I
unloaded the gun because I thought I was following common-sense procedures by
keeping someone from ‘firing’ what they thought was an unloaded gun.)
“Did you see him hand the revolver to anyone else?” Mayer asked.
“Objection, your honor,” said London. “That’s leading.”
“Well,” said the judge. “In the court’s mind the answer could be yes or no. It does
not suggest an answer either way, to me. As it turned out he doesn’t recall whether he
saw him pick it up, either. Overruled. You may answer.”
“I don’t recall if he handed it to anybody. I’m not sure whether he handed it to
anybody else or not,” Hal answered.
Mayer then asked, “Do you recall whether or not you saw anyone else holding
this revolver?”
561
“Objection, leading,” said London.
“On that particular evening,” Mayer continued.
“Overruled,” said Goodman.
“I believe Sgt. Wenke held the revolver.”
(Wow, that’s why Malone was believed when he said others held the revolver. No
one held that gun but me. No ifs ands or buts. But since Malone couldn’t remember who
held, and Manskar said he thought Wenke held it, that means that 2+2 is almost 4.)
“Do you recall seeing anyone else holding the revolver?”
“No.
“Did you hold the revolver?” Mayer questioned.
“No, I don’t believe I ever did.” Hal told him.
(I sort of feel here that when the initial investigation was going on, many deputies
answered some questions about the gun very ambiguously. They thought someone else
did so-and- so, but they never did. Because of this, there were too many answers
indicating other people but no one would directly admit or deny these allegations.)
“This statement that you’ve testified to today in court, about what the suspect, Mr.
Molette, said. Did you place that in any of your reports that you wrote regarding this
incident on August 18, 1969?” Mayer wanted to know.
“No.
“Did you tell anyone about the statements that Mr. Molette made?”
562
“When,” said Mr. London.
“While at the scene on August 18, 1969,” said Mayer.
“I believe I made that statement, but I don’t recall who I made it to,” Hal replied.
(See the pattern? By saying you told someone else, but you didn’t know whom,
almost assumes you told a superior. And no one knows who the superior was so the
deputy is off the hook, because he supposedly told someone.)
“Did you make that statement to one or more than one individual at the scene?”
Mayer wanted to know as he was treating Hal Manskar like a hostile witness..
“I think I just made the statement one time, if I recall
Mayer then asked him, “Did you write a report about that incident?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all I have,” concluded Mr. Mayer.
With that Mr. London got out of his chair and stood in back of it. Mr. London
knew that Hal Manskar had written a false police report but I don’t know how far he
wanted to push it. So far, it didn’t seem that Manskar’s testimony had really hurt me, so
Bob London didn’t want to hurt him on the stand. But, something had to be done.
“Did you testify as to this incident at a coroner’s inquest?” Mr. London asked.
“Yes.”
563
“When you testified as to this incident at the coroner’s inquest, did you testify as
to any statements made by the suspect?”
Hal looked at him and said, “No.”
“Did you testify that there was no such statement made?”
“No.”
“Did Deputy Shaffer testify at the coroner’s inquest?”
Hal said, “Yes.”
“Did he testify as to any statement made by the suspect?”
“No.”
“Did you testify at the coroner’s inquest that you had nothing to add to the
testimony when given by Mr. Shaffer?”
“Yes.”
“That was a lie, wasn’t it?” London asked.
“Your Honor,” said Mayer, “I object to that as being argumentative.”
Judge Goodman ruled, “Sustained.”
“When you testified as the coroner’s inquest that you had nothing to add to the
statement made by Mr. Shaffer, that statement which you made was not the truth, was
it?”
Hal gulped and said, “Yes.”
“Are you saying it was the truth?”
564
“Yes.”
Mr. London wanted more. “Have you discussed with anyone the difference
between your testimony at the coroner’s inquest and the testimony which you would be
giving here today? “And have you discussed with anyone whether or not, in either your
testimony then or today, you would be committing perjury?”
Hal looked perplexed and said, “I don’t understand the question.”
“I don’t either,” said Judge Goodman. “How could he discuss his testimony
today, when he hasn’t even completed his testimony today?”
Mr. London then said, “Did you discuss with anyone the testimony which you
were going to give here today?”
“Yes.”
London went on, “When you had that discussion, did you discuss the fact that the
testimony you were going to give here today may be different than the testimony which
you had given at the coroner’s inquest?”
Hal said, “Well, I haven’t given any testimony at the coroner’s inquest other than
answer the question, ‘Do you have anything to add?’”
London shot back at him, “That doesn’t answer my question. Can you answer my
question?”
“Well, you honor,” said Mr. Mayer. “I’m going to have to object to the question,
because I think it assumes facts not in evidence in the testimony.”
565
“Well, said the judge, “all he’s being asked is, did he discuss the fact that the
testimony today was going to be different. ‘Different’ could be more complete. He can
answer yes or no, for whatever value it has.”
“Yes,” said Hal
.
“When you had this discussion, did the subject of the statement from the burglary
suspect come up?”
“Yes.” He answered.
London then asked, “Did you discuss the fact that you were going to mention that
statement today?”
“Your honor,” said Mayer, “let me think about that for a moment. Could I have
that read back?”
(Record read.)
Then Mayer said, “I have no objection to it.”
“Well, I didn’t know whether I would be asked about it. I told them I would come
here and tell the truth.”
“Did you discuss the fact that if you were asked about it you would talk about the
statement made by the suspect?”
Hal said, “Yes.”
“During the discussion, did any conversation take place, relative to the fact that
you had not mentioned that statement at the coroner’s inquest?”
566
“I don’t believe so, no,” Hal replied.
Then the line of questioning changes. Mr. London started in on other related areas
about lighting, noises, etc.
Hal Marskar testified that the room was dark when the shot was fired, and that he
could not see the suspect and could barely see me. That he heard no noises prior to the
shooting nor and statements; that we possibly talked while searching the premises, that he
may have heard our footsteps while walking through, traffic, planes overhead, or just
about anything. Mr. London never asked him if he heard ‘two clicks’.
He continued on that Deputy Spreen was the only other deputy in the building,
that the suspect made some noise falling on some lumber and things on the floor, and that
there was some jewelry lying near where the suspect fell.
Then the judge wanted to take the morning recess, and discuss further testimony
and motions. Sgt. Whitley would not be called Friday and Mr. Mayer wanted him
excused. There was the issue of search and seizure and the testimony related to it. When
these things were cleared up, Hal Manskar took the stand once again.
The only things that Mr. London had to ask Deputy Manskar had to do with his
revolver. Hal said he was armed when he entered the store and that he had his gun in his
hand because the situation called for it. Hal figured that if he had to shoot somebody
that’s what his gun was for, and that if he had to, he would use his gun.
With this, Hal Manskar ended his testimony. There was no real damage done to
me here, but Hal ‘s later testimony at the trial was to do so much irreparable damage, in
clearing himself of wrongdoing, I got fucked.
567
The next witness called by the prosecutor was Sgt. Burville Edward Wenke. To
me he was ‘Bud.’ A pretty good sergeant, and an ok guy out of uniform. The only thing I
can recall bad about Bud was when we went drinking one night at a bottomless bar in
Carson called the Whalehouse, There were four of us there including Bud. The drinks
started at $l.50 and all he brought along was a dollar!
Sgt. Wenke started out by telling his assignment and that on the night in question
he arrived at the store between 4 AM and 5 AM, but that he doesn’t recall the exact time,
to be honest. That he was one of the field supervisors and that somehow he arrived at the
location and eventually made it to the rear of the premises. The insides were very-very
dim and that he found us near a piece of furniture in one of the storerooms.
Upon meeting me, I was supposedly to have wanted to show him the .22 that I
had stuck in my waistband, but that he ‘did not touch’ the weapon. Bud figured that at
times weapons found at crime scenes should be treated with special care to preserve their
evidentiary value and to maintain a proper chain of evidence.
I supposedly removed the gun from my waistband and opened the cylinder. He
doesn’t recall me removing any ammunition but he does recall me handing him some
ammunition. The only thing Bud saw was, me place my hand in my belt area and come in
an upward fashion and he saw the .22.
Mayer asked him, “He did not hand the gun to you?”
“Not at that time. I’m a little fuzzy about that in my memory,” he answered.
“Did you see him hand the gun to anyone else?”
568
“No sir.”
“Did you see anyone else handle that gun that evening?”
“No sir!”
(That should have settled the issue that Malone said I passed it around, but no saw
who was supposed to have held it, but Mayer did not drop that issue.)
Then came the discussion about the bullet with which I shot Molette.
“I believe I asked Deputy Shaffer, ‘What did you shoot the man with?’” “He said,
‘With one of your hand loads.’”
“I move to strike that as being hearsay, Your Honor,” said Mr. London.
“If it is an admission, your honor,” said Mayer, “It is an exception to the hearsay
rule. It would be the same argument I previously made, requesting the court to hear the
evidence before ruling.”
“Is there more?” the judge asked.
“Yes.”
“All right, let’s hear it then.” (She was curious)
“Your honor,” said London, “If I may be heard just for one minute, we are
proceeding along the lines now, which I, for one, don’t see are tied in. And I say that it is
hearsay and also it is irrelevant. And at one point or another I would like to see some of
this tied in.”
569
She replied, “well, I don’t think the method or device of which the charged crime
is committed with is irrelevant. On that basis, the objection is overruled. But as indicated,
it will be received subject to a motion to strike, if there is not something in here that
constitutes an admission.”
“Please go on with the conversation,” said Mayer.
“At the time he told me that he had used one of my hand loads, I believe the next
thing that was said was, he asked me if he should put a Super-Vel .38 in his gun.”
“What did that mean to you, that statement Deputy Shaffer made?” Mayer wanted
to know.
Sgt Wenke said, “Well, this means that our department is only authorized to carry
.38 ammunition and the ammunition I had been loading and selling some of it was .38
and some was .357 magnum; and it indicated to me that he had apparently used a .357
magnum, which is against departmental policy.”
Then there was an objection by Mr. London because he felt the whole thing was
hearsay. Judge Goodman quizzed Wenke about policy, ammunition, his familiarization
with that policy, to determine if she was going to let the testimony in. She did. She also
said, “Well, I must admit I’m a little confused on it. As I understand it, the question by
Deputy Shaffer was; ‘Should I put in a Super-Vel .38’...
“Case. Empty casing, your honor,” clarified Wenke.
“Oh, case.” She said.
570
Sgt Wenke clarified things with, “Fired projectile case which is left after the
bullet has been fired.”
“I see, we’ll leave it in.” (But I didn’t think she really saw.)
“I’m sorry,” said Mayer, “I didn’t hear the court.”
“It will stay in then. I didn’t get the word ‘case,’ I just got the word, Super-Vel
.38. As a result of which, I missed the point.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Mayer.
“No.”
Then Mayer concluded. “That would be all the evidence we intend to introduce
from this particular subject, on which the motion to strike is now pending; and we would
offer it as an admission two ways:
“One, showing a consciousness of guilt that a crime had been committed, in the
fact that he wanted to replace the ammunition; and two, we offer it to show premeditation, that he was carrying an empty standard Super-Vel cartridge on his person at
the time.”
“Your honor, I object to that as being a fact not in evidence,” said London.
“I think the court, if I may reply,” said Mayer, “I think the court could presume, if
he made that kind of statement, that he had that type of cartridge.”
(Not so. I had intended to discharge my revolver on the way into the station in a
back alley to secure the empty casing.)
571
“Well,” started Goodman, “for what probative value it has, I’ll leave it in.”
(She hoses me again.)
London asked, “Is your honor going to leave the entire testimony in?”
“I have to leave the entire testimony in or it is nonsensical.”
“Your honor,” said Mr. London, “If I may be heard on this. I believe that the basis
for leaving this testimony in, over my objection, is that it constitutes an admission; and I
don’t recall exactly what else he said, but we are here, your honor, on a ‘murder one’
case, and the most that I can see is that this is an admission, if at all, that perhaps the
defendant violated some policy.
“There is no indication of anything that was said that this defendant violated any
law or had an awareness that he violated the law.
“He had a field supervisor with whom he is talking and the field supervisor is
charged with the sheriff’s policy. The only admission, if any admission, in response to
the questions put to him by his supervisor would be that he violated some policy.
“This is not at all probative as to whether or not he committed a crime. Certainly
not probative as to whether or not he committed a murder; and it certainly is irrelevant. It
just has nothing to do with this case.”
(All I could understand was that Sgt. Wenke had to volunteer this information
during questioning. No one but he and I knew of that conversation.)
Then Judge Goodman started. “I don’t really see how it goes to prove or disprove
any of the essential elements of the crime charged. It is true that it may show he violated
572
departmental policy and that he had some desire to disguise that fact; but what element of
the crime charged does it go to prove or disprove?”
“Well,” said Mayer, “a man that would have nothing to fear from a particular
shooting would not be going through this period of attempting to cover up.”
“Well, what is he attempting to cover up?” asked the judge. “He’s apparently
attempting to cover up the fact that he was using a type of ammunition which is not
authorized on the sheriff’s department policy.”
“That’s correct, your honor,” Mayer agreed.
“But,” said Judge Goodman, “assuming, for the sake of argument, that the firing
of his weapon were a justifiable act, I don’t think the fact that he was using unauthorized
ammunition would in any way change it.”
(It wouldn’t and didn’t when Lou Wallace was to get killed years later.)
“Well, your honor, we would contend...” Mayer started to say.
Judge Goodman interjected, “It might make him subject to censure for his own
department, but I don’t think you could make something a crime out of that which was
not otherwise a crime.”
“Well, your honor, I agree with the court completely, in that, for example, picking
up the .22 and handling it; that certainly doesn’t constitute a crime.”
But she said, “No, I think that’s something else again.”
Mayer came back with, “It is not a crime as the court points out.”
573
The judge replied, “It is not, but I think that has some probative value in terms of
it being a possible action to, as it were, obliterate evidence or provide an excuse for why
fingerprints of the decadent were not available. That has some probative value. But I
really don’t see that this does and I’m going to reverse my ruling.”
“May I point out a couple of factors, your honor?” asked Mr. Mayer. “First of all,
by switching empty shells you would completely injure the chain of evidence as far as
who committed the crime, it there was a crime to come out of it.”
“But,” Judge Goodman replied, “the indication, though, is not that that is the
reason that he made the inquiry about it. The indication is that he made such an inquiry
about it because he was using an unauthorized form of ammunition.”
Mayer responded with, “I don’t think the reason for his making the inquiry is as
important as the fact that he did.”
“I know,” reflected the judge, “but I only see it as an admission that he recognized
he was violating departmental policy.”
“Well, your honor,” London said.
“Motion to strike is granted and it will go out.”
(I won one!!)
From here Mayer asked Sgt. Wenke why he made ammunition, which was never
answered over our objection. Sgt. Wenke looked at two slugs labeled people’s #10, and
said he gave some slugs that looked like them to a sergeant from personnel, and some to
Deputy Wilson from homicide. Then there was a question of comparing Sgt. Wenke’s
ammo to standard ammo. London objected and another hassle was developing.
574
“Where are you going with this?” asked Judge Goodman to Mr. Mayer.
“Well, your honor, at any murder prosecution I think state of mind is material and
relevant. All these questions, even those that we’ve been ruled against already by the
court, relate to the state of mind of the defendant. I think the type of ammunition carried
by the defendant and its qualities for killing ability are material. I think the people have a
duty to attempt to prove, if the evidence is there, that this defendant armed himself with
unusual ammunition.”
He continued, “I think that what made it unusual was its ability to deliver deadly
force and I think this is the object of having Sgt. Wenke here, is to testify as to this
ammunition, these dumb-dumb bullets or whatever name Sgt. Wenke will give to them,
have this ability to do more damage than the standard bullet.”
(I would have loved to hear Mr. Mayer give a talk like that to seasoned policemen
at a luncheon or something. The only unusual thing about it is for some moron from the
DA’s office bad-mouthing policemen who want to stay alive because their department
has stupid rules that limit their fire-power and destructive capacity, when the people who
are shooting at you have the whole selection of any gun shop in town. I carried this bullet
for one reason--because it had with Sgt. Wenke claimed had the ultimate destructive
ability for the revolver I carried. Not in between ability, but the most. But it was only
effective to a human body if there were no obstacles such as windows or doors,
otherwise, it was a useless piece of junk that made a loud noise.)
575
Judge Goodman said, “Well, with respect to this particular ammunition, which
you are now referring to, to wit, people’s 10, I’ve kind of lost the point of where it is
coming into it.”
“Well,” said Mayer, “I think as far as people’s 10 is concerned--I don’t think I can
produce the proper chain of evidence and I’m resigned to having it go out.”
There was some problem about the question asked to Sgt. Wenke because Mayer
thought the judge had threw out part of his testimony. There seemed to be no connection
between Sgt. Wenke and me, so Judge Goodman decided to take the noon recess and
review the record to be sure things were clear.
So, I had to go back to my big, lonely cell and dose for two hours while everyone
else went out to a nice lunch. It was during these intermissions that I realized I did the
wrong thing in clearing the courtroom. I wanted people to hear these things, and through
my own hand, I kept the story from them.
The recess was taken and we were all back in court once again. Bud Wenke took
the stand and the judge cleared up what she was going to keep out and what was to
remain in.
“So far as the inquiry by the sergeant as to what had been used, referring to the
shooting and the defendant’s reply to the effect that it was one of your loads, that will
stay in. The balance of the testimony relating to the question by the defendant about
replacing or placing in his gun a .38 casing will go out.”
Then Mr. Mayer started again.
“Could you describe the characteristics of one of your loads?”
576
(As like most ‘gun nuts’ it seemed to me that Sgt. Wenke was more than willing
to testify to this. I’m not saying that he shouldn’t testify, but he almost jumped at the
opportunity, like I was someone else, and not a deputy who knew him both on and off
duty. Like he was testifying against some unknown suspect he briefly knew during an
arrest.)
“Referring directly to the loads that I sold Deputy Shaffer, noting the make-up of
the projectile as well as the amount of powder used, it is an extremely high velocity
explosive type bullet.”
Mayer then asked him, “When you say ‘extremely high velocity type bullet,’ what
do you mean by that?”
“The bullet is traveling at approximately one thousand six hundred feet per
second, and the make up of the projectile being a half jacket copper cupped into which is
swaged a very, very soft lead, that the bullet once it strikes anything will expand readily
and probably disintegrate.”
(Sgt. Wenke made this bullet for .357 magnums mounted only on the .44 magnum
frame. He said any other cylinder would crack under the pressure. It’s probably a good
thing it wasn’t a ‘frangible’ type bullet.)
Then Mr. Mayer wanted Sgt. Wenke to fit his bullets into a scale of deadliness,
ranging from zero for a BB to 100 for whatever. Mr. London objected to this as being
irrelevant, which the judge ruled it was.
577
From here Mr. Mayer went back to the jewelry store. He asked Sgt. Wenke
whether or not he asked Molette anything.
“I did. I asked him, ‘Did you try to shoot my deputy?’”
“And did he reply?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Objection. That’s hearsay.”
Judge Goodman said, “It will be received under the circumstances as the other
similarity offered statements.”
“He stated, ’No man,’ this is the best of my recollection, what he said.”
“That’s all he said?”
“No, sir.”
“What else did he say?”
“I asked a question before he made the next statement.” Wenke replied.
“What did you say?”
“I asked him—----I don’t recall the exact words. But I asked him, ‘Did you try
and shoot him with a .22?’ or something to the effect this, and he stated, ‘I didn’t even
have a gun.’”
578
Mr. London objected. “Objection and I move to strike ‘and he stated, ‘I didn’t
even have a gun.’”
“Your honor,” started London. “I think, if I may be heard, we can go on three or
four times and now here’ a situation where the burglary suspect apparently has been
asked the same question twice or three times.
“Now, we have an investigating officer standing over him asking the same
questions of him. It is not spontaneous this time. Maybe the first time, of which I
disagree, as my objections will note; the second time I doubt seriously; but the third time,
or the time when this man has now come and is interrogating the burglary suspect,
answers to questions given by that suspect are intellectualizing; they are thought out
answers. It is not spontaneous when he says the same things twice or three times.
Particularly under these circumstances. And I don’t think the exception applies here.”
“What about a dying declaration?” asked Judge Goodman.
“My same objection would go as to a dying declaration. First of all, there is not
foundation to establish a dying declaration. I don’t believe we can carry the man from the
time he was shot to the time he ultimately expired and have interrogation by police
officers and allow this, magically, to be spontaneous exclamations and then all of a
sudden, dying declarations. It is just not proper.
“It goes to the corpus of murder one. I can’t cross examine that poor man because
he’s not here now, and I don’t think we can sit here and listen to the testimony of that
deceased burglary suspect, attempting to prove a case against my client.
579
“That deceased burglar suspect is testifying in these proceedings, your honor, and
I can’t cross examine him.”
Mr. Mayer said he wanted to show corroboration between Sgt. Wenke and
Malone’s testimony, and that Molette would not have fabricated anything. The judge
allowed these statements in because she felt they were allowed under the rational of
1240, this it was also based upon the lack of opportunity for reflection and deliberate
fabrication, so they were received.
Mr. Mayer felt he was finished with his questions so Mr. London was allowed to
proceed. But Mr. London was now quite confused as to the area he was allowed to
question in, so Judge Goodman cleared that up and we were on our way with Sgt.
Burville Wenke.
Mr. London asked him if he had sold any of this type of ammo to any other
deputies. Of course, Mr. Mayer objected because he didn’t want to admit that there were
possibly other deputies like myself who carried such high-explosive bullet showing a
weird state of mind. It was overruled and Sgt. Wenke said maybe up to 20 other
occasions.
Then he moved to the .38 Super-Vel, that Mayer played down so much. To Sgt.
Wenke it was a hollow-nose explosive bullet also. He was not allowed to say why he
thought the department went to this hollow-nose bullet because Mayer objected.
(We deputies at the academy were always told that it had more ‘shocking’ affect
and more killing power than the standard .38 158 grain or 200 grain bullet. It went much
580
faster, but would not richochete because the light 110 grain bullet would flatten out much
easier. Although this could have been a factor, I’m sure the explosiveness of it was also.)
“Is the Super-Vel .38 ammunition more explosive than the ammunition which was
prior thereto used?” he was asked.
“Definitely.”
“Would you say it has greater killing power?” Mr. London asked.
“Well, I would object to that,” said Mayer. “He couldn’t answer that question
when I asked him.”
“Well, if you wanted it, why are you objecting now?” asked Goodman.
This is what the ass says, “Well, I suppose as a matter of principle. I’ll withdraw
the objection, your honor.”
Sgt. Wenke went on. “I couldn’t qualify it as to killing powers; but I would say
the effects would be much greater than that ammunition which was previously authorized
by our department.”
To show a point about killing power and capacities, Mr. London brought up, on
my idea, about the shotgun.
“Is it a policy of your department at all, to allow the use of shotguns by deputies?”
“Objected to as not material,” said Mayer.
“It is a general area. You may answer,” said Goodman.
(Wenke couldn’t give a yes or no: answer.)
581
“They are required to carry them in their vehicles and required to have knowledge
of them and at times required to have them.”
(I should note here that Sgt. Wenke and a few other deputies trained themselves in
the desert for upcoming tactical situations during riot situations using shot-guns and
carbines. Although it wasn’t exactly approved by the department, the activities were
carried on.)
London asked him, “Is it contrary to the policy of the department for a deputy to
use a shot-gun?”
Mr. Mayer objected to it as being vague. What times and conditions, he wanted to
know. So Judge Goodman asked Sgt. Wenkë if deputies use them under certain
conditions, “Yes, ma’am.” When Mr. London asked if policy allowed a deputy to use a
shotgun on a person, Mr. Mayer objected once again. You see, what’s good for the goose
is not for the gander to know now.
“I know what the answer is going to be,” said Judge Goodman. “And so do you.
I’m sure they don’t give them shotguns to shoot down birds. You may answer.”
It was, of course, “Yes.”
There were some questions asked about the .357 I shot Molette with. Mr. London
wanted to know why Sgt. Wenke didn’t take it from me to protect the chain of evidence.
Apparently Wenke got confused, as did the judge, and the questioning changed to policy
about armed suspects.
“Is there any departmental policy respecting weapons on or about the person of a
suspect?”
582
“Written policy, no. Common sense, yes.”
“What’s the common sense?”
“Common sense is naturally to disarm any armed suspect as quickly as possible.”
London continued, “Now, wouldn’t you say that taking a loaded gun from a
suspect would be in the departmental-common sense policy that you are telling us
about?”
Mr. Mayer objected but the judge let Sgt. Wenke answer. “You may answer.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“How long have you been a sheriff?”
“Approx. seven years, six months.”
“If a burglar suspect were lying within reach of a gun...”
“Your honor, at this point....” started Mayer.
“Let him finish his question,” said the judge.
Mayer then said, “I’d be willing to stipulate that you don’t leave a loaded gun
next to a burglary suspect that’s still alive. The question is the manner in which it was
removed. We are not disputing something that basic and that common sense.”
“All right,” said Bob London. “Counsel, will you then stipulate that the response
to your question, that it was contrary to policy for the gun to have been removed from
where it was, was incorrect?”
583
“I think you better go ahead and ask your questions,” said Mayer to London.
Mr. London got to a good question that never got answered.
“Have you an opinion as to the difference between the explosive effect of a
shotgun (at close range) and the explosive effect of one of your hand loaded bullets?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
(It was a good question because I always felt that nothing would have been
brought up to this degree if I had killed Molette with shotgun. Of course, if I had shot him
in the same area of the body at the same distance, he would have never uttered a single
word. I suppose that then Mayer would have contented that I used a more lethal weapon
instead of using my .357 to keep the burglar silent.)
Mr. London then got back around to what Sgt. Wenke said to Molette as he lay on
the floor. Sgt. Wenke said he made two statements, “Why did you try and shoot my
deputy,” and also “Did you try and shoot him with a .22?”
Sgt. Wenke was very aware of what Mr. London was getting at. When he was
asked whether or not these were the only two statements he made, Wenke’s answer was
“Regarding direct questioning of him, yes.”
Robert London asked him, “Did you say, ‘I hope you die?’”
“No, I believe I said, ‘You are dying, don’t you know it? You are dying slowly.’”
London asked another, “Did you say, ‘You are getting everything you deserve?’”
584
“That I definitely did not say.”
“Did you say, ‘I hope you die slowly?’”
“I don’t recall phrasing it that way?” Sgt Wenke replied.
“Could you have said it?”
Sgt. Wenke thought for a moment and said, “I don’t think I could have, in all
circumstances.”
Mr. London looked at him and said, “Well, I’m not talking about your conscience,
now; but I’m talking about your memory.”
Mr. Mayer stood up and said, “Objection. That’s argumentative.”
Judge Goodman looked up and said, “Sustained.”
(In actuality Bud Wenke stood directly over Molette, with one foot on each side
of Molette’s chest and yelled so excitedly that spit was coming from his mouth. In my
opinion and best recollection, he yelled at him, ‘I hope you die!’, a couple of times. Hey,
this was my favorite sergeant scolding someone he thought just tried to kill me. He
wasn’t trying to be nice or sociable. Bud Wenke could have stated just that but he
wanted to put a different attitude to the DA’s office or internal affairs. God forbid if he
should have true emotions.)
Mr. London then quizzed Sgt. Wenke about my evaluation report. Just before I
was arrested I received my best report ever stating I was bordering on out-standing. Mr.
London wanted to get that into the testimony.
585
London asked, “If I told you that the regular quarterly report involving and
concerning Deputy Shaffer, which was issued after this incident, indicated that he was an
excellent officer, would that refresh your memory?”
Sgt. Wenke replied, “No sir. The only thing I know is what I observed on his
regular evaluation booklet which we keep in the sergeant’s office.”
London asked him, “Did you have anything to do with the preparation of his
evaluation?”
“Comments are made every day about different officers and I might have made
one. I think the one you are referring to, I didn’t make. I recall being there.”
Bob London then asked Sgt. Wenke, “Were you consulted at all in connection
with that?”
“I might have been. I don’t recall.”
(Years later I had some correspondence with Captain Klein in personnel involving
my evaluations. Capt. Klein denied that this report even existed. See post-scripts.)
Some questioning develops about what kind of ammo Sgt. Wenke carries on his
person, and then back to the .22 and the opening of the cylinder. I had been passing Mr.
London questions to ask and he got around to this one.
“Is it not departmental policy, when handling a gun under these circumstances, to
also open the cylinder or otherwise indicate that it’s non-firable at that time?”
Sgt. Wenke answered, “Written policy, no. Common sense, yes.”
586
With that Mr. London ended his questioning. Mr. Mayer wanted to ask a few
more questions about velocities and hand-loads again. Mr. Mayer wanted Sgt. Wenke to
give a comparison on the Super-Vel .38 and his .357 hand loads. London objected, and
said, “we are playing the same game.”
“I wish you two would get together with what you want in or not,” said Judge
Goodman.
Both of these men have objected to each other’s questions on certain issues they
wanted presented. Things like this get very confusing because each side is afraid their
opponent will get in something that they didn’t want brought in. Sgt. Wenke’s answer
wasn’t much either way, he could only say what the manufacturer’s indicate a particular
bullet will travel at certain loads.
With this, Sgt. Wenke was excused.
I want to get ahead of my story at this time. In 2004 I mailed out hundreds of
letters trying to contact any deputy I was involved with to see if they would have done
anything different or said anything different, how were they treated, etc, etc.
I received an unsigned letter supposedly from Bud Wenke. Even after 35 years,
as you will also find out later, many deputies would write but not sign their letter to me.
Are they still afraid or did someone else write the letter in their name? There was a
disclaimer on the letter that I was to destroy it and I had my attorney read it. My attorney
said that since it wasn’t signed there was no way to really determine who it was from so
the ‘destroy by fire’ disclaimer was a moot point.
It seems that if the letter is truly from Bud Wenke, he took a lot of heat from his
superiors for his testimony at the superior court trial to the point of extreme stress and
illness. The unsigned letter follows:
587
588
Next was Deputy Carl Spreen. Carl and I had worked together on a few occasions.
Although I didn’t think he was the brightest deputy I ever worked because of our incident
involving him not wanting to take the patrol car over a center divider to catch some
burglars, he was very dependable, knowledgeable in law, and a good back-up man.
Carl started testifying only to be interrupted by Mr. London who wanted him to
be advised of his constitutional rights because he knew Carl had testified and prepared
documents in this matter at another time. It was a good scare tactic, but something that
should have been used on Hal Manskar in this manner, not Carl Spreen.
Judge Goodman advised Carl that he had the right to refuse any question which he
might think would be incriminating. Carl understood this and testified.
His testimony followed everyone else’s except that Carl kept saying ‘we’ instead
of ‘I.’ The only discrepancy in Carl’s testimony was this: Carl said that after Hal and I
entered the last room, he heard boards moving and then a shot. And the shot came less
than a minute after he heard the boards moving.
This would give an indication that in this small room, that if Carl could hear
noises on the outside, then Hal and I would hear them inside. And since the room wasn’t
that big, that we had to know the source of that noise. I just felt that Carl misconstrued
things or else what he heard were the dogs outside???
He also stated that he called out to us to ask us if we were injured, and we
responded ‘No.’ Then, I asked him to call an ambulance.
589
Carl may have asked us that question, and we may have answered it. The only
problem is such a stressful situation where all bedlams breaks loose, is that it’s hard to
remember every detail of the event. Maybe Hal and I responded unconsciously to his
question, but I don’t think either one of us was really aware of it.
Carl went on the say that he saw me holding the .22 but that he didn’t touch it,
didn’t see it handed to anyone else nor saw no one else holding it while there. (Geez,
that’s amazing. I wonder why homicide believed Malone and not Carl Spreen?)
Mr. London had no questions to ask him. Carl was excused.
The next person called to the stand was Sgt. Stuart Hansell. I don’t have much to
say about Stu Hansell. He was around when you needed a sergeant but I never had any
close contacts with him. There was another sergeant at the station and when the two of
them were together we would call them Hansell and Gretell.
Sgt. Hansell’s testimony was very short. He talked about being at the store and
seeing me, Deputy Spreen, Malone and “I don’t recall the other deputy.” (This goes to
show you how these deputies had no real idea of what was happening. They were kept
under the watchful eye of the Administrative Services Bureau and were not allowed to
discuss the case amongst themselves. And they also made some bad notes or no notes in
their field notebooks.)
The crux of his testimony was that he saw the .22 tucked in my gun-belt. That I
did not take it out of my gun-belt, that he never saw it actually in my hands, that I didn’t
show it to him, and that he saw no one else holding the .22. That was it.
590
(So, Malone said everyone there was holding the .22. Sgt. Wenke didn’t touch it,
Lt. Hansen didn’t touch it, Carl Spreen didn’t touch it, Hal Manskar didn’t touch it,
Malone didn’t touch it. It must have been ‘those deputies, I can’t remember their names
deputies’!)
Next came Deputy William Sieber. Bill and I worked for months together as
partners. He was at this time a training deputy at the academy but has since transferred to
intelligence.
Bill testified that we were partners for six months, from January 1, 1969 to July 1,
1969. That in that period of time he saw in my possession a .22 revolver similar to
People’s 3, but not really in my immediate possession. He saw a small-type revolver in
my locker, one time in the earlier part of 1969, the particular date, time and hour he
doesn’t know.
Bill testified nicely under cross-examination. He said he saw at least 10 small
white handled guns in Firestone station, many of them in the locker room, all small
revolvers, all looking somewhat alike. (I wondered if ten more arrests would ever be
made for some obscure penal code violation of having a state of mind to own a .22 pearl
handled revolver that you would ‘maybe’ murder someone?)
With that, Bill Sieber was excused.
(Bill and I had yet to share another trial together. This will come later)
After Bill Sieber, Sgt. Reynoldo (Ray) Verdugo was called to take the stand. Ray
was at Vering, Inc. when we caught the two burglars that Malone testified about earlier..
591
Ray said that he and John Null, who was his partner, caught the first burglar at
Vering Inc. August 16, 1969. That while he was searching for the other possible burglary
suspect, he heard Deputy Malone’s voice.
Ray stated, “Well, I was responding, and I’m relatively certain it was Deputy
Shaffer, and I heard, ‘Shoot him,’ while Deputy Malone was struggling with the burglar.”
Under cross-examination, Deputy Verdugo related how he was searching the
building and he heard Malone cry for help. He yelled something like ‘Oh, he’s over here’
and he went to assist Malone who was fighting with a burglary suspect. Ray didn’t
actually see me when the ‘shoot him’ was yelled out, and he wasn’t sure if I was even in
the room. That he had his gun drawn for self-protection, and holstered it when he went to
assist Malone. With this he was excused.
Ray Verdugo’s testimony was very brief, as was lots of the testimony given. Here
again, I wish that I hadn’t had a closed hearing but I was afraid that the tape recording I
made at homicide was going to be played in front of my parents and close friends, and I
didn’t want to embarrass them, or myself, as being a 100% honorable liar.
Charles Allen Stowell, my one-time friend and roommate was called next. Charlie
was going to testify in regards to the photo album the personnel Sgt. Poole picked up at
my house.
Charlie said he saw Don Cope, my brother-in-law, give the album to Sgt. Poole in
the den of my house. That Don brought the album to my house at Charlie’s request and
Charlie should also give Sgt. Poole my hat piece and badge, and my county gun. He said
I called him around 5 AM to tell him I was under arrest for murder.
592
The real situation was I told Charlie to cooperate with them in a way and not to
get himself into any trouble. I needed Charlie as a friend, and someone to keep in contact
with the station for me. I also figured that if I needed any reports that he would get them
for me. I was very, very wrong. Charlie’s words to me much later were he had to
consider his kids in all of this and “blood is thicker than friends.”
Under cross-examination, Charlie told the judge that I called him an hour or so
after calling him the first time. That he was not to give my album to anyone because I
needed it for my defense.
Charlie said he didn’t authorize anyone to take the album, but when I called later
on, the album was already in possession of Sgt. Poole.
Charlie said, “Sgt. Poole said, when he came to the house, ‘I want the photograph
album. Bob said you’d know which one I meant.’ And so this is the only photograph
album that I knew of, and I said, ‘Yeah, I think his brother-in-law has it.’ And I said, ‘If
you want me to, I’ll call him.’ And I called him and I said, ‘There are two sergeants here
from my department that want the photograph album,’ and I said, ‘Can you come over?’”
He continued, “He said ‘yes,’ and he came over and brought it with him.”
No one had a search warrant.
(I found out years later that when I didn’t come home after being taken
downtown, Chuck called Don and asked him to come over. Another cop neighbor also
came over and entered into a discussion about what was going on.. My neighbor told
Charlie to get rid of the album, or that he would take it and get rid of it. Instead, Don took
it and was going to take it to his house.
593
(When Sgt. Poole came over, he supposedly searched my house, under my bed
(for guns) and demanded that Charlie give him the album. Charlie, in fear of loosing his
job, called Don and demanded that Don give him the album back. Don did so. This irked
my neighbor so much that before Don handed over the album, he asked for a search
warrant, but was advised that if they wanted one, they would get one.
Don didn’t want to give them the album, but it seems that Charlie told Don he
should give them the album and not give them any problems. So, I am fucked once
again.)
The next witness called was William A. Wilson. Deputy DA Mayer referred to
him as Sgt. Wilson, but Wilson was just a plain deputy.
Wilson testified that the investigation started November 6, 1969, probably the
date that Malone went downtown, that the album in question was one he had asked for,
and that I gave ‘him’ my permission to get it. Permission was given at 4 AM, November
13, 1969, in room 326 at the Hall of Justice. (That should be an indication of how long I
was ‘held.’)
Wilson also had obtained most of the items presented in this case from my locker,
locker #31 at Firestone station.
“They were taken from locker #31, in the main floor locker room at Firestone
Sheriffs station.”
(It should be noted here that my locker # was 231, not 31,( left 33, right 10, left
42.)
594
Sgt. Landry was with Wilson when he took the items from my locker. The locker
was opened by Captain Melvin Wert, who used a master key, because Wilson received
allegations that I had engaged in criminal activity: to wit--a homicide.
Wilson went on to say how station locker searches are written policy. He had to
say this to lay a foundation on the legality of the locker search. He said that he was made
to understand that the station captain could inspect equipment at any time he so desired,
or anything in the lockers.
Wilson said that he had been told, by his training officer six or so years ago, a
deputy he couldn’t remember, that his locker was subject to search. The only problem is
that there is no written policy--at least not when I was a deputy.
So, he took the .25 automatic from my rear pants pocket, and the .357 from my
gun belt. I am sure he meant to say ‘holster’. I don’t know what he expected to find in my
gun belt other than a gun?
Some of the items presented, my .38 2” for instance, went from Sgt. Greene, to
Sgt. Poole, to Wilson, to Sgt. Montgomery, back to Wilson, and then to court. And the
bullets from Sgt. Wenke, went to an unknown deputy (there are a lot on ‘unknown
deputies with Los Angeles Sheriff’s Dept) in administrative services bureau, to Sgt.
Poole, to Sgt. Montgomery, to Wilson, to court. Some what very confusing at times. So
what we get is a poor chain of evidence, brought out of turn in court so some witnesses
can go on vacation, and then presented as evidence.
595
Wilson also brought it out that I apparently resigned after I was arrested. (Geez, I
really didn’t get fired!) Maybe those were the papers I signed after being advised of their
decision to book me, I can’t remember.
Under cross examination, Wilson testified that since Capt. Wert came to the
station he did not discuss the locker search policy with him, and that he ‘thought’ his
locker was searched sometime in 1964 or 1965, he wasn’t sure.
(Lockers may or may not be searched, I don’t know. But I do know that two
revolvers were stolen from the locker room during the two years I was there. Just think
about that. Deputies stealing other deputy’s revolvers!
(We would chuckle at these things during briefing. Our locker room was actually
the local gun exchange and swap. When citizens would stop us on the street and turn
over a firearm either they didn’t want anymore or one a family member brought home
and they wanted to get rid of, most deputies just kept them.
(I had ridden with partners that kept some very nice rifles and handguns, telling
the person turning them in they would be ‘disposed of’. We didn’t need a buy back
program, we had a ‘let me give you’ program.
(So, deputies would swap weapons constantly in the locker room.)
Testimony centered on my locker. Capt. Wert unlocked it with a master key, and
since Wilson was searching it, he searched everything in it including my clothes.
Apparently they aren’t personal items anymore, when they are locked in a station locker.
Let’s pick up some testimony here.
596
Mr. London asked him, “Which gun did you find first, the big gun or the little
gun?”
(By this Mr. London means the large 6” barrel .357 or the small .25 automatic.)
“The little gun.”
Bob London asked him, “Were you looking in the pants pocket for the magnum,
is that right?”
Wilson said, “No, sir. I wasn’t.”
“What were you looking in the pants pocket for?” London wanted to know.
Wilson responded in the classic way, “I happened to see a bulge in the pants
pocket and felt the solid object in the pocket.”
(You would have to picture a pair of uniform pants to decide whether or not a
bulge was visible. The material is very heavy and the pockets are somewhat deep. A
bulge of this type, considering a flat .25 automatic is in the pocket, is impossible. My
opinion is that Wilson just felt this pocket for the .25, but the testimony is that of ‘I
happened to see a bulge,’ is police testimony establishing reasonable cause to search.
Seeing bulges in pockets is a blanket cause to search a person on the streets, just as seeing
certain items in ‘opened’ glove compartments, and certain illegal items ‘visible or
partially sticking out from under a car seat. But in my experience, once you start to testify
like this, you get to believe it.)
Bob London asked him, “Did you think that solid object was a magnum service
revolver?”
597
Wilson replied, “I didn’t know what it was.”
(What moron can’t tell the difference between touching a .25 pistol and a very big
Smith and Wesson magnum. You tell me, is this honest testimony or did this guy just flat
out hate me?)
So Mr. London asked him, “Isn’t it true that it couldn’t possibly have been a
magnum service revolver?”
“At that point, I don’t know that it wouldn’t have been possible. It didn’t occur to
me to consider it.”
(It didn’t occur to Wilson because all he had to do was to look in my holster and
see the .357 magnum. Anyway, my revolver was a large one, possibly 10’ at least in
length, and very bulky. Hardly the type that would fit in my back pocket.)
London asked, “You were exploring for whatever you felt was a solid object, isn’t
that right?”
“No, my original purpose was to get the .357 magnum.”
London kept on, “That’s right. But when you opened up the locker, you were
looking for something, but you didn’t know what you were looking for. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I was looking for the .357 magnum.”
“When you went into the pants pocket you were looking for the .357 magnum?”
Wilson replied, “No, sir. At that point I was looking for something else.”
(No shit.)
598
“And isn’t it true, the thing you were looking for is something that you didn’t
know what it was?”
“No, I knew exactly what it was, when I removed it from his pants pocket.”
(What all this boils down to it this: Wilson was told that he would find a .25 semiautomatic in my locker, and possibly other incriminating evidence. He went to my locker
to dig up anything he could find to use against me. He had a strong feeling about what he
was going to find in my pants pocket, because someone told him what he might find.
(His consent to search was an blanket consent, and any thing of any nature was
subject to his scrutiny. In fact, many of my personal papers were in that locker, and many
of them ‘disappeared.’
(Wilson had known I had the .357 in my locker days before he searched it. But
then all of a sudden he decided to make a search of my and get it, with other things. I
have always felt he waited this long because he didn’t have enough: ‘evidence’ against
me to justify his search. And also that waiting until I was off duty would make things
much easier for them. I don’t know how many times I have cussed myself for leaving that
.25 in my locker, since I usually took it home every night, and no, it was not another
‘throw-away’.
(It was one of those ‘locker room gun swaps’ and that would be pretty hard to use
as a throw-away when everyone in the locker room knows who’s swapping for what. I
believe I traded Lew Wallace a nice Buck knife for it.)
The conversation then got around to the photo album. Wilson said that I told him
he could have it as long as I got it back. I don’t know what sort of agreement we entered
599
into because he must have figured I would never get it back. Some of it I did, but the
incriminating parts I never did.
(I always thought that I never said those words, but until I listened to the tape
recording of our conversation I denied it. But, I in fact did make that statement. I don’t
know where the initial conversation about the photo album came up, but it’s obvious that
someone told Wilson about it during the investigation. He said that I might have brought
it up, or that maybe he did, he wasn’t sure, but that he knew about it before I was
interrogated. I hated Wilson so much when I found out he died and was buried in
Nevada, on a motorcycle rally in the state I stopped by his burial place and pissed on his
grave.)
It was getting late so Judge Goodman wanted to take the evening recess. This
meant I had to go back to the county jail and wait out the weekend until the Monday
session. Mr. London made a brave attempt to get things out of the way before the
Monday session.
Mr. London told Judge Goodman, “I honestly don’t believe that there’s any
reason to come back on Monday, irrespective of what were to happen to any of the
motions. This is my witness, now. The People have no further witnesses. Your Honor, I
don’t see the crime. I don’t absolutely don’t see the crime of murder one.”
Judge Goodman didn’t want to hear any motions on Friday at 5 PM. She felt that
efficiency would be impaired after such a long day, and that it could be handled more
expediently on Monday in the morning.
600
Back to my hospital cell to celebrate the weekend. I was somewhat happy at the
way things were going, because I felt that although some bad things were said, it just
didn’t look that bad. It was one of the first times I enjoyed a meal.
I can remember Gil McMullen and I passed a few magazines back and forth, and I
read The Manchurian Candidate for the third time. I read the Sunday LA Times on the
floor with my feet propped up on the bed, much to the amazement of the deputies.
Monday morning rolled around, and at 9:55 AM, court was ready to start once
again. Deputy Wilson was sitting in the courtroom but he wasn’t going to be called to
testify under cross-examination. I can’t find out in the records when he was excused, but
it seemed Don Cope, my brother in- would be first to go on.
Before we started, the motions on the exhibits were heard. Mayer wanted 1
through 13 admitted, with the exception of the 18 rounds of ammunition. There was no
chain of evidence on them.
Mr. London wanted to get rid of 3,4,9,10,11,12 and 13 (with its subparts). That
would be .22 revolver, photo album, 2 large caliber slugs, 7 rounds of .22 ammo, .25
semi-auto, .357 magnum, and one cylinder opener.
Judge Goodman said she was not going to admit 1,2,4,5, 6,7,8,9 unless something
came up later on. With this, I was called to the stand instead of Don. I don’t know what
Don had to say, and never found out until years later.
Truth: The Obligation to Lie According to Fixed Convention
601
I took the witness stand. I testified that I was never given any instructions about
locker searches, and that my locker was private and for my personal use. So far, this was
true.
The .357 magnum was not mine but a detective’s at the station, and that I gave no
one permission to have my photo album. (This, I realized later on, was a lie.) But, what is
the truth, but to lie according to fixed convention?
That was all, and now it was Mr. Mayer’s turn. Mayer wanted to know how long I
had a locker at Firestone station, and whether or not I had a locker at my prior
assignment. I was assigned a locker at Firestone April 15, 1968, and never had a locker at
the Jail Wards at County General Hospital.
In essence, I was given a locker by a training sergeant, who told me it was for my
clothes and gear. I knew that there was a keyhole in my combination lock, but said that
the key could be used in case the lock broke or if a deputy lost his combination.
Then Mayer got around to the album. I told him that I didn’t give Wilson
permission to have it, and I didn’t know how Don got possession of it. I didn’t recall
telling Charlie to cooperate in the manner he did, but that he shouldn’t get himself into
any trouble and lose his job.
I remembered calling Charlie the first time, but didn’t bring the album up then. I
also testified that it was the homicide captain that asked me for the album, and not
Wilson initially. I told them I would need it for defense.
602
There was a lot of conversation that was ‘not recorded’, especially after I was
arrested. It seemed that the conversation didn’t need to be recorded since my being
arrested, I was guilty and no more evidence was needed.
After telling Mayer that I gave ‘no one permission’ to get it, he ended his
questioning. I was then excused.
Next was the argument on the evidence. Judge Goodman citing People vs Shepard
212 Cal. App 2d page 701, was going to admit the evidence from my locker. Mr. London
argued that under People vs Bradley, a Calif. Supreme Case 12806 in the Daily Journal,
the controllant, (me), controls whether or not my things should be private.
Bob London told her, “Just because he’s a police officer, I don’t believe he has
any lesser rights. He’s entitled to certain privacy.” argued London.
“I’m afraid,” said the judge, “just because he’s a police officer, in some respects
he does.”
Over objections, the photograph album was admitted, but only for pictures
depicting Molette and nothing else. Judge Goodman felt the rest was highly prejudicial,
but that she was going to leave everything intact for now. When Mr. Mayer felt the rest
of the pictures would show my state of mind, she felt . . .’that’s getting mighty far afield.’
Then came the arguments about dismissing the charges.
This comes from the transcripts:
603
MR. LONDON: “What I’d do with it, Your Honor, is strongly argue that it has
nothing to do with his state of mind, under the circumstances, when he fired the gun, if he
fired the gun to kill somebody”.
THE COURT: You don’t believe, sir, that planting a gun shows a consciousness
of guilt?
MR. LONDON: “It may show a consciousness of guilt, Your Honor, but it
doesn’t show anything about the mental attitude of the defendant, if and when he shot the
gun”.
THE COURT: Well, to dispose of our evidence problems::
First, let me see what I’ve got left. All right, People’s 9 will be received. The
objection is overruled.
That leaves us with People’s 10, which is the two slugs. And the defendant’s
objection to 10 would be sustained. I take it there’s nothing further from the People?
MR. MAYER: “People rest at this time, Your Honor.”
MR. LONDON: “We have no defense, just an argument, Your Honor.”
THE COURT: “I’ll hear your motion.”
MR. LONDON: “Your Honor, the defendant has been charged with first degree
murder. The testimony of most to the witnesses fails even to tie the defendant into a
shooting. As a matter of fact, I seriously doubt whether there has been sufficient evidence
presented to this Court to show that the defendant shot anybody.
604
“It would be far reaching to go beyond the point that the defendant shot his gun
and then we only have one witness who indicated the defendant shot his gun. But going
beyond that, Your Honor, this is a police officer who answered a burglary in progress
call, went into a room. He was literally alone when he went into the room. There was one
other officer behind him who, as the officer testified, that the defendant shot his gun.
“There was no question but that there was, in fact, a burglary going on. There is
not question, up until and past the time of the shooting, that this defendant was doing
exactly the job with which we charge him, and that in preserving our property and
protecting it against burglaries.
“There was some testimony that some time before he yelled, ‘Shoot, shoot,’ to his
trainee partner in a situation in which it was clear that the trainee partner, a small man,
was having trouble subduing a large man.
“I believe that was offered to show state of mind. But I don’t see that. There was
no other evidence which has been allowed, other than this defendant’s gun, and I don’t
think the defendant denied that he possessed guns. That’s his job, to possess guns.
“Your Honor allowed, over my objection, evidence is to a .25 caliber gun, which I
say is irrelevant; even if it was lawfully obtained, and what do you have? We have a
defendant who performed his lawful duty, if he did shoot somebody, and he shot
somebody, and then, very, very, very, sketchy oblique kind of evidence relating to the .22
caliber gun which the defendant gave to another officer. There is no showing that the
defendant had any pre-mediation of any kind to unlawfully take someone’s life.
605
“If there is a showing that he took someone’s life, as I say I doubt that, then
perhaps we have a showing of some negligent activity oh his part. And even,--and I’m
speaking only for the purpose of these hearings--even if after he were somewhat
negligent in taking a life, if he were negligent, and if he took a life--all we have then is
something which took place afterwards.
“And all that can show, in terms of consciousness of guilt, is consciousness of
guilt of this man that he did something negligently.
“It is a far cry from that to first degree murder. You can’t take the fact of what
took place after the shooting to establish that the defendant committed a murder. I submit
that the only thing which has been shown is, if anything, that the defendant didn’t do
exactly what, on Monday morning quarter-backing, some of his superiors thought would
have been proper police procedure; and even that the defendant may have known that he
committed some breach of proper police procedure, and even assuming—-and again
these are all assumptions--that he attempted to cover up improper police procedure, we
don’t have a murder here. And there is none of this evidence that goes any way to
establish a murder-- certainly not murder in the first degree.”
THE COURT: “Well, of course, your section just charges murder and it doesn’t
define between first or second degree”.
MR. LONDON: “Well, I understand that.”
THE COURT: “It is just a charging section.”
MR. MAYER: “Would the Court care to hear from the People?”
606
THE COURT: “Yes.”
MR. MAYER: “We view the evidence differently, Your Honor. I won’t attempt
to answer all of the statements of Mr. London. First of all, I would point out Code Section
1105. The defendant must prove mitigation, if there is to be any mitigation.
“And when counsel argues things like possible negligence, that’s still the
argument. I point out to the Court that there is no evidence, whatsoever, of any negligent
act on the part of the defendant. Perhaps at some later time, anticipating his trial tactics,
he may say he pointed the gun and it went off accidentally. But there is no evidence of
that in front of this Court.
‘The evidence in front of this Court is that the defendant was carrying this gun,
People’s 3 in evidence, in his pocket and that evidence is established circumstantially by
the testimony of Sieber, saying he saw a gun like that in the defendant’s locker in early
January.
“It is established by Deputy Malone who says he saw an object about the size of
that gun in a cellophane wrapper in the possession of Deputy Shaffer; that at the scene he
saw a bag part way sticking out of Deputy Shaffer’s pocket, and the part of the bag that
he saw was empty, indicating, inferentially, that something had recently been removed
from that bag and the bag hastily stuffed in the pocket.
“In addition to that, the Court has before it the statements of Mr. Molette, that he
didn’t have a gun, the gun was thrown there. Additionally the Court has evidence of the
conduct of Deputy Shaffer at the scene, his handling of the gun and his statements made
to Malone.
607
“We now have the view of Deputy Shaffer that goes out on a scene carrying a gun
in his back pocket. What kind of a gun is this? Is this a gun normally used in ordinary
police work?
“Is this the kind of a gun that an officer would rely upon in the event he loses his
major weapon, his large weapon? We have the evidence of Sergeant Montgomery who
stated this isn’t true; this isn’t the kind of weapon that would normally be carried by an
officer, because it is unreliable. Sergeant Montgomery testified he’s attempted to fire this
gun and sometimes it fires, sometimes it doesn’t fire. It is unpredictable.
“Sergeant Montgomery testified that this weapon contains ammunition that has in
it two indentations on two bullets, indicating two misfired on two bullets. He indicates
this isn’t the kind of weapon an officer would use for his own protection.
“Why does Deputy Shaffer then carry this. This is answered by the testimony
given words of other witnesses, but the words that he shot him and threw this gun down.
This gun indicates that he went on this a preconceived idea to shoot someone. Now, this
is further established by his instructions to Malone approximately August 1. Malone
doesn’t recall the exact date, but if he ever meets a burglar on this type of situation, that
the way to handle him is to kill him. This is further established by Shaffer’s conduct the
evening before at Vering Manufacturing, Inc, by his admonition to Malone, “Shoot,
Shoot him.” for no reason at all. An officer can, under certain conditions, take a life.
Again, I’ll give the Court the code section. I think it is 197 or 198, but it is couched in the
word of necessarily--Penal code Section 196, where it says “necessity”. Again, whether it
is necessary or not, this was up to the defendant to establish that there was a necessity. It
608
is not up to us to establish this. All we establish is the unlawful killing, and we establish
the person who did, who committed the killing.
“We have the testimony of Deputy Manskar who was right in the doorway who
stated he saw Deputy Shaffer shooting the suspect and he states that in his left hand
Deputy Shaffer held a flashlight, he shined it into a particular area, he pointed the gun in
the same area; there is no sound no warning, no ‘Lookout, he’s got a gun,” no “Drop the
gun,” nothing, no sounds except the previous sound of boards, and he sees Deputy
Shaffer firing the gun.
“There is no question there was one shot. Deputy Shaffer fired the shot and we
have a man, Mr. Molette, now dead. I think, Your Honor, that viewing all of this
evidence that the People have made out a case that causes one to have a strong suspicion
that the crime of murder has been committed and has been committed by the defendant in
this case.”
THE COURT: “Do you wish to respond, Mr. London?”
MR. LONDON: “No, Your Honor.”
THE COURT: “Well, it is a very difficult case in terms of the charge of 187; but I
think the People have shown a sufficient case to hold the defendant to answer. The
defendant’s motion is denied.
“The Court finds the evidence is sufficient to establish the commission of the
offense alleged and the likelihood the defendant is guilty thereof; the defendant Will be
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held for arraignment in Superior Court. The date of arraignment is December 15, 1969 at
9:00 AM is Department 100. We’ll go off the record.”
(Discussion held off the record.)
THE COURT: “The defendant will be admitted to bail in the sum of $15,000 plus
$3,750 penalty assessment.”
End of transcripts..
In the discussion held off the record, Judge Goodman made the statement that
since she felt the gravity of the charges were serious, that she would not dismiss them but
rather let a superior court judge decide on that. (No guts, in my opinion.)
She also directed a statement to Mr. Mayer: that in effect all that was presented
was that a deputy-sheriff killed a burglar and planted a gun because he was scared. I
swear her words were, “You know and I know exactly what you have here, and it’s not a
murder.”
I was happy that at least I could be bailed out, even if it was $18,750.
It was also during this off-the-record matter that the bail was argued. Mr. Mayer
figured that $100,000 bail would be about the right bail, I thought that $7500 would do it,
and Mr. London figured $10,000. From all that the $18,500 came about.
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Chapter 28
Out Of Jail On Bail…..For A Very Short Time
I went back to the county jail that afternoon all smiles. It was sometime in the
evening that I was advised my bail was posted. I figured it cost me about $1850 in
bondsman fees, (in 1969 dollars) but the freedom was worth every cent of it. I can only
express my thanks knowing that I could afford to bail out, but I wonder about all those
un-convicted prisoners who weren’t able to make bail.
I was given my suit and handed a copy of my booking slip after being printed
once again in the release room. Out the door I went, where my father was waiting to see
me.
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He took me over to the bondsman’s office that was across from the county jail,
where my wife and other relatives were waiting. I was in tears I was so happy, and
couldn’t stop kissing Marilynn.
I signed some papers that said in essence if I split they could take my house and
whatever equity I had in it. My dad had to do the same with his house, only his was paid
for. After that Marilynn took me to her apartment, where we were to have a coming out
party later on. The first thing I did after opening the door was to take a big swallow of
some Usher’s Green Stripe scotch. Then a shower, and then we went to bed! But before I
went to sleep I just had to wonder why no from Firestone had ever called me to give me a
‘heads-up’ on my locker search. The guys I would have died for if necessary.
The next afternoon people showed up in droves. They were mostly relatives, very
few friends and some of Marilynn’s neighbors. We talked, partied and drank till the
liquor was gone. Then it was time for Marilynn and I to be alone again. To try and find
ourselves in this mad world, and to tighten the bond between us that had deteriorated
She was standing behind me all the way, putting our divorce on hold hoping we
could work this out and our personal lives.
Soon I set out to find a job. I found one with a sewer construction firm, whose
owners knew the situation I was in and agreed to give me all the work I needed. They
were sympathetic although their brother-in-law, who was also working with me, was a
station trustee at the time I was a deputy!
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I was offered another job in the Anaheim area from a friend of my brother-in-law
Bill Geiger. His friend owned a firm that manufactured…..computer components. What
the hell was a computer? It looked too complicated so I turned it down.
I figured the fight would be a tough one and would cost me more than I had. I also
figured that the case might go to trial in six or seven months if Mr. Marks could keep
continuing it. By that time I would have plenty of money to pay for court costs.
I worked until my next court appearance date was December 15, 1969. It was my
superior court arraignment in Department 100 at the Hall of Justice. I had to give another
plea and then a court date would be set for my trial.
Marilynn and I went to the courtroom on that Monday expecting to find Mr.
Marks. Instead, Mr. Marks had his partner, Al Sherman stand in for this proceeding. This
irked me since I thought I had hired Mr. Burton Marks but kept getting his associates. But
no one in my family was prepared for what was to happen.
I took my place in the defendants box to give my plea. After doing so, Mr. Mayer
dropped a bombshell. It seems that Mr. Mayer secured a no-bail warrant for my arrest
charging me with assault with the intent to commit murder--2l7 P.C. A separate and
different charge against me. I was fucking floored and ready to start fighting right there in
the courtroom, bailiff, judge or no judge. I was ready to start swinging! I almost dropped
on my ass from the shock.
I couldn’t believe what was going on. Not only did Mr. Mayer request that my
bail be revoked because new evidence of some sort of plot to kill burglars on my part
seemed to have surfaced, but that I be tried on both charges later on.
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I can remember the look on Mr. Sherman’s face because he was unable to answer
this charge. He couldn’t speak he was so surprised. He just told me to ‘remain calm’.
“Who are they referring to?” I yelled at him. “Who?”
I looked over at DA Mayer and called him a motherfucker. The judge banged his
gavel but I can’t remember what he said. I didn’t give a shit.
No one had any answers, except me. There were only two other people I had shot
and I had a good idea of which caper they were talking about. Frank Jurado Morales, the
liquor store burglar I shot at Bat’s Liquors many months ago.
So, the judge revoked my bail and I was once again in custody. I was asked to
empty my pockets of my personal property right in the courtroom. There were three court
bailiffs standing behind me and I was cussing at Landry, Mayer and Wilson while Mr.
Sherman was trying to calm me. I felt like fighting with them all in front of every
attorney, spectator and newsman present. After giving Mr. Sherman my personal
property, I was hand cuffed, lead outside in front of my shocked parents and relatives,
and down the hall to the arraigning municipal court. Once down there, Judge Chavez set
the bail on the attempt murder charge of $15,000, ignoring the pleas of Mr. Sherman to
include both the murder charge and the attempt murder charge on the same bail.
I was to return to Judge Chavez’s courtroom for arraignment December 22, 1969.
But in the meantime, back to the stinking county jail. I did get to see a copy of the
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warrant. The victim was as I figured, but how the charges came about I was not to find
out till many months later.
I was rebooked under number 332-028, but instead of going back to the hospital
section, I was sent to the ‘high-power tank’, a row of cells housing death-row inmates
and those with serious, heavy charges and state prison returnees. My time of suffering has
finally come.
I say suffering because as of yet I had not been subjected to the psychological
traumas of a cop being booked into jail. This time, my feelings were not spared.
After being booked, I was taken to the ‘high-power tank’ and housed in a cell near
a rear surveillance door. There was no one in the next two cells to my right, and I was the
last cell on the tier. But needless to say, I was scared shitless. I was in the middle of every
asshole that I learned to hate while being a cop.
That afternoon while everyone else went to chow, I was kept locked up. My food
was slid to me under my cell door by two kitchen officers. And there was plenty of it, but
I was going through another stress period and I could not eat.
Later on that evening, the tier trustee, Ronald White, a guy down from death-row
in San Quentin came down to my cell. He was sweeping the tier.
“Hey man, how come they don’t let you out for chow? What you in for? Don’t
they like you?
I figured I better tell him something because it will be in the papers soon anyway.
News broadcasts are turned off on the jail radio so only music is heard. I told him I just
didn’t get along with authority.
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He came back later with some books and magazines. I think he shit when he
finally got the news who I was.
No one knew my name as of yet. When I was called over the loudspeaker, my cell
number was referred to. I was let out for a shower and a phone call. I had to let Mr.
Marks know where I was being kept.
But, some idiot deputy called me out for something or another, and he said my
name. “Shaffer, step out.”
It wasn’t really him calling my actual name that started things. It just got the ball
rolling.
Later on in the evening it started with, “Hey, you up there in 47 (or whatever cell
I was in), are you that fucking cop?” someone asked.
I didn’t say a word. I was scared shitless.
“Is that Salyer?” a familiar voice asked the other prisoner.
“Yeah, that’s Salyer’, that LAPD fucking pig, that’s who.”
The familiar voice was that of Jerry Lee O’Brian. I had O’Brian in my custody
when I worked the hospital jail wards years ago. Last I knew he was sentenced to die for
killing a Torrance policeman in a robbery attempt. He was back down from death row for
another penalty hearing.
“Hey, 47. You that cop that busted that dude with the shotgun in the face. You
mother-fucker, you’ve had it, we’re going to get you,” someone yelled.
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The whole place seemed to go off at once. A few things were thrown up in the
direction of my cell. But, I wish I were Salyer instead of Shaffer.
(LAPD Officer Salyer went on a raid looking for guns or something and when he
was arresting one of the suspects he got carried away and hit the suspect in the face with
the butt of his shotgun, while his suspect was hand cuffed.)
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That night, a deputy came around making his nightly checks, “Shaffer, you ok. I
heard that things got pretty hot around here today.”
“Yeah, I’m ok, but wait until they find out who I really am. The Times comes
around at 7 AM. Can I get transferred back to the hospital section like I was before?” I
asked.
Not only was I scared, but this place was noisy and hot. Bells were going off that
were codes for particular officers, and the intercom was always in use looking for stray
inmates. And the heat was enough to put a man to sleep most of the day.
“I’ll check on it. Listen, we’ll be bringing you a snack around 10 PM. That’s the
least we can do for you.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The snacks came, and so did the Times the next morning.
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“Shaffer, you bastard, your mother sucks dick in the morning.’ yelled O’Brian.
“And your mother sucked mine” I yelled back.
He went berserk when I said that.
Then I heard O’Brian telling another inmate how he met Shaffer years ago in the
same county jail.
“Yeah, I know Sieber too. I spit in his face one day and he punched me in my
face.”
“Shaffer, how does it feel to be in here?” someone else yelled.
“A fucking bowl of cherries,” I answered.
A bottomless pit, I thought.
“You fucker”, another yelled, “the beginning is all you are seeing, your ass is
ours. Things will get so dark you’ll never see daylight again.”
“Yeah, said another, “We’ll see you later on. Your ass is ours.”
I put up with the abuse all day long. The only thing that bothered me were the
threats. Every time my cell door automatically opened up, I jumped up from the toilet and
got ready to fight for my life.
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My cell was not supposed to be opened up for any reason without an escort at the
door. But a few times it opened up when the others went to chow and I was in a state of
high anxiety. The toilet was my chair and bed, as I slept on it. I didn’t want to expose
myself to anyone, and I was afraid of getting a foot or arm caught in the sliding iron gate
as I was a bit too long for the bed.
The only guy that never really hassled me was a black Muslim three cells from
mine. He had also come down from death row with his crime partner. I can’t remember
his name but he and his partner were convicted of kidnapping, robbery, murder and rape
of some girls on the UCLA campus in the l960’s. I think it was Geronimo Pratt.
When the tier was let out for dinner one evening I had a few visitors. I could hear
some inmates walking towards my cell so I got up and stood tall.
There were three of them. One asked if I was ‘the bull’, prison slang for a cop.
I told him “yep, that’s me”.
The biggest of the three, a blonde haired man in his 30’s said, “Yeah, ok”.
I looked back at him and said, “Yeah, ok.”
When they left I about collapsed. I wrote a letter to the Captain to please move
me. This was just way too much stress and I was beginning to crack.
I soon had a visit from my wife and was escorted to the inmates visiting area. A
small, noisy screened in area.
Marilynn said she called Burton Marks and asked him to come see me. I couldn’t
talk, I just cried. But sooner than ever the visit was up and Marilynn had to leave.
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I was waiting for my escort and sitting next to me was a man with a familiar
voice. He also was on the ‘high power’ tier. He used to be a Beverly Hills attorney
before he started robbing people while driving his Rolls Royce. He had been locked up
here for going on two years fighting his case.
He started to chat with me and then asked me my name and when I told him who I
was he jumped up like I had just kicked him under the chin and got as far away from me
as he could. He didn’t want anyone else seeing me talking to him.
I was escorted back into my black hot hole and almost every inmate there was
standing up next to the bars to see who I was. I expected someone to throw some urine or
shit on me but it didn’t happen.
There was a copy of the LA Times in my cell and I noticed Ronald White had
taken his magazines back. I had left them in the bars.
I was reading the Times, actually squinting at the print in the darkness, when
about 11 PM my cell door opened. That could only mean I was being transferred to
somewhere else.
A deputy came down and told me to collect my property and to follow him. We
walked to a sally port near an elevator and he told me to sit on the floor. Already sitting
on the floor was another inmate who had stacks of notebooks and paper. I wondered
what we had in common, and then I noticed it.
He was wearing a ‘basket weave’ leather belt that was thicker on the sides than in
the front. Detectives wore this kind of belt when they were wearing a suit. The wide belt
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didn’t show in the front and it was suppose to conceal their true identity and that they
were carrying a sidearm.
‘Those sons of bitches’ I thought. ‘They were going to apparently put me in a cell
with an undercover man, disguised as an inmate, hoping I would incriminate myself.
Why the fools. They forgot to have this guy change belts.’
‘Where am I going, deputy?’ the guy asked.
“Never mind. Just sit down and relax.”
I didn’t say a word because I knew it wouldn’t do any good and anyway I was
most happy to be leaving this cell and tier. My letter finally got through to the right
person, and maybe my wife called the right people complaining of the mental abuse I was
having to put up with. I didn’t care where it was, as long as I got out. And Marilynn was
writing letters to every TV station, newspaper and broadcaster she could think of.
The events that occur next I’m not sure of. I remember finding out the other guy’s
name was Miller. We were taken downstairs to the court holding tanks and next thing I
remember is being transferred to the Hall of Justice.
I was taken through the basement to the elevator, up to the 10th floor, and then
checked in. We got back on the elevator and went up to the 13th floor where we got off
once more. There was a desk to one side, and what appeared to be the deputies briefing
room on the other side. I was taken down a corridor, through a locked gate, further down
the corridor to another locked gate, given a strip shakedown, redressed and lead to a large
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barred and wire caged cell. This was the old female Siberia (or hole) in the Hall of
Justice.
This large tank had in turn three smaller cells, and next to this cell was a nicely
furnished cell with a shower, foam mattress bed, and on the outside was a stove and
refrigerator. It was Sirhan Sirhan’s old maximum-security cell. My cell was where his
visitors used to come in and talk to him on his visits.
And then in walked Miller, my so-called undercover man. We shook hands and
gave each other our name. This guy sure could play the role good. Then in came another
inmate, but this one I recognized, Gilbert McMullen the ex-sergeant who lived across
from me in the hospital section when I was first booked.
I shook hands with him and he shook my hand like someone who had never seen
a human being before.
“Man, I haven’t talked to anyone else in over five months now, and coming here
is a miracle for me,” he said.
Then for the next 3 hours the three of us started talking non-stop. I found out that
Ronald Miller was an undercover man at one time, but with the Internal Revenue Service.
He was under arrest for robbery, and to make sure we believed him, he showed us his
newspaper clippings. I think that if each one of us couldn’t come up with a good story as
to why we each were there, the suspicion of a snitch would have lingered on. As it was,
Gil McMullen knew me by sight and by what he read about me, and now it seems, Ron
Miller was ok too.
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We were in cell 1300-A. It was going to be a special cell for policemen arrested
and booked into the county jail. It was off in a special area of the Hall of Justice, near the
Lieutenants office, the briefing room, and in a highly maximum area too.
If there’s one thing that a cop doesn’t have when he’s booked, it’s someone to talk
to. We were so happy knowing we were going to be with other cops, that we talked for
three solid hours. It wasn’t until the 6 AM breakfast call that we went to bed. We didn’t
have to go out to eat, our food was brought to us by the escort and kitchen deputies, who,
although they weren’t too happy about it, they had an idea we wouldn’t hassle them like
many other inmates would.
But things would change in the long months to come.
Chapter 29
Cell 1300-A, Hall of Justice
1300-A: The Hole on the 13th Floor
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During my three-month stay here, time crawled. I was getting to fully realize that
a man only came to life a few days during his temporary incarceration. Each time was
when he was called into court. Might as well been in hibernation.
People on the outside can never fully understand the frustrated processes a county
jail inmate g through. Court dates are set and the man is suspended in hell until he is
called again. I know I never cared when I was a deputy.
I was called out Monday, December 22, 1969 to go to Dept. 100 in Superior
Court, in front of Judge Keene. He refused to set bail on the murder case. I was then
taken to Division 40, in front of Judge Chavez and my bail was reduced to $7500 on the
attempt murder charge.
Judge Keene set my court date for February 25, 1970, and Judge Chavez set the
attempt murder hearing for January 5, 1970. And with all this, my wife was trying to set
up a press conference to let Mr. Marks present our side to the people. It was never done.
I spent my Christmas in jail. Our radio (Sirhan’s actually) was blaring the
appropriate music, but no one in our cell was too happy. By now, there were five of us.
We were joined by Jay Bauer, a deputy who took my place at the jail wards at LA County
General hospital when I transferred to Firestone, and Wayman Dial, ex-chief of police
from San Marcos, Texas. Jay was booked for eleven counts of armed robbery (liquor
stores) and Wayman Dial was booked for a burglary and jewelry heist in Beverly Hills.
There were now five ex-lawmen in the Hall of Justice Sub-Station.
As I related before, the deputies sort of liked Gil and I. And then that needs to be
clarified. I had no hassles, nor did McMullen. But, the deputies thoroughly disliked
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Bauer, Miller and Dial. There were lawmen who used their position to steal, rob or
whatever. Gil killed his ex-wife, and I shot a burglar. Our crimes were excused in many
eyes, but the other three? Well, they were garbage.
Jay Bauer would get off work, take off his uniform and put on a ski mask and rob
liquor stores. He said he was under stress from a bad marriage. Wayman Dial fell in
with some gangsters and burglarized homes in Beverly Hills. Ronald Miller, intelligence
man for the IRS ‘mob detail’, pulled robberies and kidnapped a banker’s son for ransom.
(Gil and I weren’t like the LAPD officers from the Rampart CRASH detail who in
the late 90’s stole drugs from the station locker, systematically waged a ‘war’ on the local
Pico-Union gangsters and went around shooting people just because they didn’t like
them. See ‘The Making of a Police Whitewash’, LA Times, 10/7/99.)
When things first went along, our food was delivered to us warm. But as the
months went by, we would find our food cold, or even left outside our cell by one shift
because they were too busy or too lazy to put it inside. Then the day shift would ‘sneak’
it in our cell. By the time we got around to eating, the coffee was cold and had leaked
through the paper containers all over the floor. Things got so bad that we just stopped
eating.
I went down to 195 pounds, and everyone else lost a considerable amount of
weight also. We didn’t enjoy the food because the same food was served every week at
the same time. We knew the lima bean lunch and dinner day, the chicken day, the hardboiled egg and donut breakfast, and on and on.
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Bauer cut down drastically on his intake, as did Miller, Dial and Gil. I cut down
on most things but would eat whatever meat they didn’t want. And the loaf of bread they
would give us with every meal, well, I would play games and toss each slice into my
toilet from across the cell. One night I had so much crap in my toilet that it finally broke
and had to be shut off. And it remained on the “we’ll fix it tomorrow” list for months. It
was never fixed.
Not only was the food getting colder and taste wise worse, but so was cell
cleanliness. On the other tiers the cells were mopped every morning. In our five-man cell
the floor was mopped after we bitched about having dirty feet for about a week. (I can
remember when I came back from state prison to testify in Miller’s case. When I arrived
the floor was so black it was unbelievable. The main cell overhead light was out for
weeks, and things were in a bad way. Gil was back for official sentencing after doing
some time in Chino for evaluation and Ron was still waiting to be tried.
(When they told me they had no mop bucket for probably a month, I filed a writ.
That was one thing I learned in prison and that was if you don’t like something, file a writ
to a judge and let him decide whether or not things should be changed.
(The writ never left the lieutenant’s office. A mop bucket was brought down filled
with hot, soapy water and the light bulb was replaced. The real sad part of thi smatter was
the mop supply room was just outside the cell, and no one would take time to give us the
equipment to clean our own cell. But, the mop bucket came almost every day after I came
back.)
When the food was getting real bad, a small word helped there also. Gil was a
long-time deputy and knew many of the high brass. Once in a while these men would
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come on an ‘inspection’ tour and just happen to stop and talk to Gil. He told an inspector
one afternoon about our cold coffee and breakfast, and things changed... for about a
week.
Things changed structurally around our cell also. Two deputies that Gil worked
with for years in the intelligence detail came down to see Gil. But actually they came
down to check the layout, because they were going to bug the place. I never knew that
when I was there. At times Gil gave me some indication of it because he would give me
the ‘be quiet’ signal with a finger at his lips now and then. We used to discuss our cases
at times.
(It wasn’t until I was released from prison that I was eventually told of the
bugging. Gil told me the two guys who did it were the counties experts and his pals, and
Gary Komers, a Deputy D.A. Investigator told me, “Bob, I will deny every having told
you this, but your cell was bugged. Not for you specifically, but for Miller’s part.”)
But we assumed it was, and only one of us knew it was. And if it was bugged
when I think it was, then the conversation between me and two L.A. Times reporters was
taped, along with another conversation I had with California Assemblyman Floyd
Wakefield. I had asked Mr. Wakefield to check into this after my release, to no avail.
(See letter.)
Back to the county jail. Not only was the food situation bad (in a place where the
deputies eat good meals for free at the county expense) along with trying to keep a clean
cell, but so was the medical treatment and shower facilities.
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I had spent three months in a small confined sleeping cell. The bed was welded
fifty years ago for a woman not over 6’ tall, and I was expected to sleep in it, at 6’7”.
Because of the cramped condition of the bed, and the thin mattress that did not pad the
iron cross sections that made up the support, I was developing back problems. I started to
notice that I could not stand up straight without severe pain in the lower back region. And
then I could feel a numbing sensation on the inside of my right leg to my right foot.
When the time came that I could not wiggle my toes, I really made a fuss.
Before this period I had complained to the deputies of back problems. I wasn’t
allowed to sleep on the floor as of yet (too many cockroaches. was the answer) and the
doctor at the Hall of Justice screamed me out of his office.
The time I went to see him I was escorted by five deputies, handcuffed behind my
back. I was assigned a seat next to a black named Fitzgerald who had killed a highway
patrolman and some other loud mouthed black on the other side. I was given a few heat
treatments by the duty nurse, a fellow I knew when I worked at LA County Jail wards.
He had moved to the United States from England..
When the doctor asked me what was wrong, I told him that I didn’t know
specifically but that my back hurt and my foot was loosing circulation, he blew it. He
yelled and screamed for me to get out of his office. I was taken back to my cell.
It was about this time that I started thinking like I was a bad guy, and that every
time I could find something on a deputy, I would find it and yell back.
First, I wrote to my attorney what transpired. I was immediately taken to the new
county jail and given extensive X-rays of the back. The problem was lack of exercise and
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circulation, and cramped bed-quarters. That meant I was allowed to sleep on the floor,
and exercise in the adjoining exercise room that was across the cell... two times.
But the worst I ever yelled was on a visit day. I was roused out of bed by a
deputy who used to treat us OK. But this time, I got upset. He came in and told me there
was a ‘blonde bitch’ waiting to see me. He then made the motions of a man jacking off
while standing up.
“Is it my wife? You son-of-a-bitch, don’t talk about my visitors like that.”
“No”, he said, “ I don’t know who it is.”
But, it was my wife, and did I yell about that. I wrote the lieutenant that I didn’t
want any deputy referring to anyone that came to see me as a blonde bitch, or anything
except ‘visitor.’ I got an immediate reply and an interview with two senior deputies who
wanted to smooth things out. An agreement was reached quickly.
Not only did I have problems, but so did Gil and Ron. Gil was given the wrong
kinds of medication at times and Ron kept having a temporary filling put in a bad tooth
for almost a year. The county spent more on temporary fillings than they would have a
regular filling. But, what’s wasted money to the county?
Along with his tooth problem Ron was having prostrate difficulties. Since none of
us were openly jacking off for sexual relief, and having to rely on nocturnal emissions,
Ron for instance, had problems. After many complaints he finally received a ‘fingerwave’ from the doctor.
It was ironic in the respect that many of the usual rights given to inmates were not
given to us. Sirhan Sirhan’s cell was equipped with a shower, but we were subjected to
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showering sometimes once every ten days. And the security set up was such that we
could have been given the whole area without complication. None of us ever expressed
the desire to escape, nor know HOW to escape and the thought was not appealing.
So, Sirhan’s old cell was adjacent to ours but we could not shower regularly, not
even before going to court until some shit hit the fan.. .for a while. The exercise room
was directly across the hall but we only used it twice, the mop room was across from
Sirhan’s old cell but we used it only frequently until I bitched, and the deputies restricted
us from buying certain articles at the jail canteen. We were only allowed to buy articles
that they could carry easily.
So, conditions were appalling now that I think of it. Only 2 toilets for the five of
us. Now maybe that doesn’t sound too bad but how many middle class business-men
would object to sharing his cell toilet with two or three other men while awaiting trial,
after being used to personal privacy for years? Many would, I’m sure.
But as things happened on a living day-to-day basis, we learned to adjust. On the
cold nights the deputies would leave the window open and the heater down. Our window
was hard to shut because it took some effort to reach behind the iron shields placed over
them to protect Sirhan from long distance snipers. So, it was kept open.
On the warmer days the door to the exercise room was closed and we lacked for
fresh breezy air. But, this was a jail, wasn’t it.
When all five of us were still at the ‘sub-station’, we decided to leave our names
to posterity and other cops that would subsequently take refuge here. We inscribed our
names, booking numbers, charges and dates on the wall. (When I was at state prison, a
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few others dropped by now and then. Ronald Hughes, and a few attorneys for the
Manson Clan were doing their contempt of court time in 1300-A. An LAPD Officer spent
some time there on a rape charge before going to state prison. So, we had an infamous
cell after all.)
After all of the months of being together, it was time for us to leave. Jay Bauer
left first. He went to Chino Institute for Men for psychiatric evaluation to determine if he
should be sent to prison. Jay came back for formal sentencing and was given probation!
For twelve armed robberies. He went to Idaho until 1972, and then later returned to
California.
Next, Wayman Dial left for Chino also for evaluation. He was recommended
probation but the judge sent him back to prison anyway. Besides, he had a Texas hold
against him for burglary. He subsequently filed an appeal, won, and was taken to Texas
for those charges. (Last I heard in the late 1990’s he was still living in the San Marcos
area of Texas. I called him once and he denied he ever knew me but he had a voice I will
never forget.)
(I was subpoenaed back to Los Angeles County as a ‘witness’ by a convict who
looked very similar to Ron Miller. He claimed he pulled the kidnapping Ron was
convicted of and filed a motion to go back to court with Ron Miller and claim he was the
kidnapper. It was an attempt for him to break out while in court. The story is in my
prison diaries. While I was back at 1300-A Gil was sentenced after doing 14 months
waiting trial. He was given his five years probation. Ron and I received a telegram from
him the day he was released. He was having steak and lobster at a fashionable hotel in
Beverly Hills with a deputy-sheriff friend of his.)
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Gil was sent to Chino for evaluation after I was initially sent, but I missed him by
hours. I was on my way to San Luis Obispo when he was driven to Chino by a friend of
his from the department. Gil was the only one of us who wasn’t subjected to the bullshit
of a bus-ride.
We met again in October when I came back to testify at Ron’s trial.
I went back, and then came Ron later on. All five of us were convicted. Only
some of the five made out a bit better than the rest.
This small description in no way tells the story of 1300-A. I did not keep a log
because we were searched now and then and ‘ripped-off’ of our personal property
because the deputies didn’t like what they saw.
Ron kept many of his copious notes and legal papers because he was thought to
be a pro-per case, meaning he was his own attorney. Ron was our mail smuggler, and Jay
Bauer smuggled in paperback books.
Actually the shakedowns we brought down on ourselves. Or rather I brought them
down. One evening we were given the mop and bucket to clean up. This bucket had the
nick name ‘submarine’ It has the mop squeezer attached to it. Well, this squeezer is held
shut by a small metal clip, who’s diameter was about the size of the iron screen on the
outside of our barred cell.
That evening the clip was left on our floor. Jay Bauer picked it up, bent it in our
lock fucking around, and threw the pieces outside of our cell when it broke to see what
would happen.. The pieces lay on the floor for about two days! Then one of the ‘sharper’
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deputies came along and kicked a piece. He didn’t let us know that he found the piece of
metal on the floor, but we all watched him kick it and pick it up.
Gil knew what was to come soon so we told each other that we never saw the
object before. We needed a story to cover ourselves. About 2 AM the search came, as
according to the manual. We were rousted, shown the piece and asked what it was and
then stripped and shook down. The sergeant who held the piece in his hand while
showing it to us betrayed himself. He was shaking uncontrollably.
About an hour later someone (a deputy) recognized the broken, bent up object as
the clip from the mop bucket, and the crime was solved. But, we were subjected to
harassment in the way of these shakedowns, all my fault cause I should have stopped Jay
from goofing off.
But the psychological trauma of doing time in that green cell can never be told in
words, only experience. And it was by far the most suffocating of all.
Chapter 30
The People vs. Robert E. Shaffer
Attempted Murder
635
January 5, 1943 George Washington Carver dies, January 5, 1948 Warner
Brothers shows a colored newsreel Tournament of Roses parade, January 5, 1957 Jackie
Robinson retires from baseball and January 5, 1961 ‘Mr. Ed’ the talking horse debuts.
On January 5, 1970 I was taken to Judge Joseph Grillo’s municipal court for a
hearing. But this time I elected to have an open hearing, letting all of the people who
wished to attend hear what was going to be told. I had even made up my mind to testify
in my own defense and spill the whole load of lies that I put in my report. I was tired of
taking all of the blame and keeping silent for all those deputies at Firestone who had lied
on reports and covered up their screw-ups and didn’t have the guts or courage to stand up
for me.
I don’t have the transcripts of that hearing, but I will try and relate what
happened. These transcripts and many others seemed to have mysteriously
‘disappeared’. Go figure.
Frank Morales, the burglar I shot, who was never prosecuted for the burglary
because some detective ‘forgot’ about him in the jail system and the statute to go to court
expired, got on the stand and said that I ordered him to halt, and that when he did, after
putting his hands over his head, I opened fire on him while he was standing defenseless.
In fear of his life, he then ran into the bathroom.
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He said he was now serving time in the state prison system for other convictions
but that he really, really, really, really wanted to tell the truth…now.
There was one gigantic physical problem with his story and this was the time that
I was so glad that I was a lousy shot! The problem was the pattern of the bullet wound
scar on his arm. The wound, which was almost a straight line from his outer tricep to his
outer bicep, would appear up and down if Morales had his arms over his head as he
testified. This meant that I would have had to shoot at him from the ceiling or from the
floor. Deputy DA. Mayer, Deputy Wilson and Deputy Landry all knew this, but it didn’t
mean a thing to them. They just wanted my ass. And they were going to ‘lie’ and file this
attempted murder complaint against me.
Frank Morales said he couldn’t remember too much after the shooting. He doesn’t
remember being booked, or being taken to the hospital either. He didn’t even remember
going to his own court hearing days later on burglary charges, where I testified that he
was armed and attempted to shoot me. But, he was placed on parole violators status and
sent to Tehacapi State Prison for narcotic users, but I think he got more dope while in
there than on the streets.
My old partner Deputy William Sieber, and Deputy Dan Bejarano,were the only other
witnesses, I believe. Except for maybe the lapdogs Wilson or Landry, testifying as to
when they questioned Morales in prison.
Sieber’s testimony was all for him. He testified now that although Morales ‘could
have been armed’, he didn’t see him long enough to distinguish with what kind of
weapon. A far cry from what the papers printed. And this was the testimony that had me
re-arrested. A dope head who couldn’t remember his own name and my old partner who
637
seemed to ‘want’ to help the DA’s office convict me but yet not give total, honest
testimony.
If I were taking the stand there would be a few more deputies being booked at the
county jail!
(Bill told me told me many years later that he was ‘invited to’ a cocktail lounge
by a good buddy of his from homicide. This good buddy told Bill to weigh the merits of
him spoiling his career with the department by lying for me, because I was finished
anyhow, or else level and save himself before he got in too deep. With this, and a few
drinks, Bill told them he thought it was a rifle that was the weapon Frank Morales was
supposedly to have been holding when I shot, but when he saw a shotgun booked in as
evidence, this meant that I lied and it was enough to get these morons to file their new
charge. So he lied just a bit to save his career and to make himself look more credible,
but it made me look like I was on a ‘killing spree’.)
Bill wasn’t too happy about testifying because the newspapers distorted his
statements after I was rearrested, as did Captain Walsh and the others on the case. He
showed his distaste when he testified, but it was also obvious that he wanted to cover
himself. No one, not even Judge Grillo, would believe Bill if Bill testified that we were
told to lie on our reports by the other homicide investigators. Bill, as well as I, wanted to
get off this caper without having to spill the beans.
Deputy Dan Bejarano also testified. He did testify at one time that he heard Frank
Morales say if the shotgun was loaded, he would have blown me in two. After this
testimony was heard, Judge Grillo, (also known as ‘Gorilla Joe”) was fit to be tied.
638
He started talking like he was going to hold me over for trial on this case, but
soon his words turned to fire, and aimed at the district attorney’s office, and directly at
Deputy District Attorney Ralph Mayer. Sic em judge!
Judge Joe Grillo told Mr. Mayer that this case was a total waste of the taxpayers
time and money, and that the DA’s office should have better things to do than to file
attempted murder charges on the type of testimony he heard. He had Frank Morales take
off his shirt and show everyone the position his arms were ‘supposed’ to be in when I
shot him and the position they were actually in when I did shoot him, and I thought he
was going to have a seizure.
. When Mr. Mayer attempted to interrupt, but the Judge snapped at him and said,
“You shut-up, I’m talking. This is my court.” Sic em judge!
He continued scolding DA Mayer, going on to say that it was obvious that
Morales was not telling the truth, and he then looked over at me and said, “Deputy, if the
rest of the deputies in this county shoot like you do, God save this county. Case
dismissed!”
Case dismissed. That judge had balls and the vision to see a railroading under the
worst of pretenses.
I shook Mr. Marks’ hand and started crying in the courtroom. The only people
who showed up were two reporters from the Los Angeles Times, who were ‘white’
enough to print a very small shitty column on the dismissal, not anywhere the size of the
arrest report. It should have made front-page headlines.
639
This should have made the front page but I think Pitchess had some pull with the
newspapers.
640
(Many years later I was told that one deputy, Billy Kirkley, was told by homicide
to stay away from the courtroom and not to testify in my behalf unless subpoenaed by the
defense. In fact, he was told to take a vacation, my source relates. He wanted to
volunteer as a defense witness. How is that for ‘suppressing’ evidence?)
I will never forget the next experience. On the way out of the courtroom, Bill
Sieber, DA Mayer, Wilson and Landry were standing in a circle near the courtroom door.
It seems they were not happy with Bill’s testimony and voicing their dislike of it. I put
my hand on Bill’s shoulder and said, “Thanks Bill, thanks.”
He wouldn’t look at me. (Many years later he told me that I put him in quite a
spot doing that in the courtroom. I mean, it wasn’t like I was in a jam or nothing, but he
was. Who in the hell does he think was facing the murder and attempt murder charges,
him?)
I went back to my cell all smiles and laughing. I wasn’t allowed to talk to my
parents or wife in the courtroom on orders of the transporting deputies but other cops
who were there were giving me the ‘thumbs up’ sign and one even said, “I believe in
you”.
The transportation deputies actually released me from custody in court by
mistake! They thought that all charges were being dismissed, and I wish they were and
then a minute or so later realized their mistake and handcuffed me. When I got back to
1300-A, you should have heard me yell.
641
“Charges dismissed. You should have heard Judge Grillo rake Mayer over. ‘A
waste of the taxpayers money,’ he said.”
I was happy, because this meant that since my bail was revoked because of these
totally bullshit charges, then it should be reinstated because they were dismissed. The
articles in the papers really don’t say much. They act like I committed a crime, but they
just couldn’t really prove it. Both papers should have printed the testimony from
beginning to end, and then I wonder what people would have thought about the other
charge.
It seemed to me, and I may be totally wrong, but it seemed the Sheriff himself
was telling the Los Angeles Times staff what to print. What really bugged me was how
bad homicide wanted me now. Anyone who was a Dick Tracy fan was able to tell that
Morales was lying. The physical evidence showed that. I was so upset that I insisted that
Mr. Marks file a false arrest charge and lawsuit against those involved against me. To this
I got nothing but mumble-jumble talk. I believe he felt that way because Mr. Mayer
wanted to file charges again on this incident. He wouldn’t let things rest. And it made
logical sense that if my bail was revoked because of the new charges, since they were
dismissed I should be released again, right? Wrong!
My father was keeping a daily diary of the events as they took place.
January 6th:
Tried for bail again.. .no dice.
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January 14th:
No bail, Judge Rodden.
February 25, Division 106 Judge Malcolm Lucas, ready for trial. But do (sic) to the
asking of judge change and D.A. not ready, set to Mon Mar 2nd Division (sic) 100 for re
set of new trial date. Judge Dell.
‘No bail’ was the name of the game. Although I was once out on bail, and even
after having the new charges dismissed I could not get out. I sat in the county jail writing
poems with McMullen and playing dominoes with the group every night on the dirty
smelly floor.
Although Judge Goodman said I was eligible for bail, the superior court judges
refused to consider her move as a rational one. She was the one who had my bail revoked
on whatever evidence DA Mayer gave to her. (I also heard years later she was extremely
upset as she felt DA Mayer ‘played’ her.)
The game can get real shitty at times.
Monday, March 2nd:
Won re-setting of bail. Trial to start Division (sic) 117, Judge James Kolts. Tues March
10 at 9 AM.’..
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Judge Dell heard some motions to throw some evidence out which we lost. But he
did reset my bail at the original $15,000 and after I was taken to Judge Kolt’s court, I was
released.
My release wasn’t that simple either. My armband, a plastic band with a paper
insert inside, became old, wet and smelly after a few months of wearing it. One day, it
just deteriorated itself off. That was the day I went to Judge Dell’s court. After I was
ordered released in Judge Kolt’s court, none of the deputies would take it upon
themselves to release me because none of them knew whom I really was. Although a
Robert E. Shaffer, ex-deputy, appearing before Judge James Kolts, on paper, no one
personally knew me and my armband was missing. You would have thought they would
know who the hell I was or just ask the judge, bailiff or homicide?
Therefore, I was supposed to have been taken to the release area, fingerprinted,
and detained until the prints could be matched up with my originals, and then released.
The only problem was I was supposed to have been back in court at 2 PM, and if I was
going to be released from the new county jail, I would have never made it before 6 PM
that night, as slow as they are.
So, I was transported back to the Hall of Justice to the 13th floor, where a Senior
Deputy, one of the few guys who did me a good turn, simply put another arm band on
me, cut it off immediately after that, attached it to the release papers, and I was released.
It’s nice to have someone who does know their ass from a hole in the ground.
I was free once again…….
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Chapter 31
Going To Trial
This case was not an easy case to try. On one hand my attorney, Burton
Marks, wanted to jump up and down and be disruptive, but it was just not his nature. He
had to protect his ‘good ole boy’ reputation, in my opinion. I should have had an
attorney who had no reputation to protect and could tell the judge to ‘fuck himself’ once
in a while. Good demeanor meant nothing.
I also wanted to be on my best behavior because I thought good behavior was a
sign of innocence, and that the system I worked for would work for me when I needed it,
and my friends and deputies would finally come forward and straighten things out.
645
I moved back in with Marilynn in his Hollywood apartment. Almost daily when I
went for a walk there was a ‘telephone’ truck working on the underground sewer-type
phone lines, but the truck didn’t seem to look quite right to me.
I asked a LAPD friend to come over and check it out one evening and low and
behold there was a phone bug on Marilynn’s telephone circuit that was located in the
basement of her apartment parking area.
When I called the phone company to report an illegal wiretap the bug disappeared
over night and when the real phone company truck arrived the next day, of course they
couldn’t find a thing.
And when driving around Los Angeles before the trial started I would see the
same brown 4 door sedan always a few cars behind me. It didn’t matter if I was going to
Hollywood, Santa Monica or South Gate, it would show up.
This matter of defending myself was going to be very expensive too. Daily court
costs was $350 a day in 1970 prices. My retainer was $3500 and there were other
expenses for transcripts and a private investigator.
The county always preached at the academy that the Peace Officers protective
Association would assist us if we had an on-duty incident, but they told my father I was
too hot to handle. They told my brother their representation was only for ‘good’
deputies, not those who disgraced the department. So much for paying my dues.
646
I am going to try and relate to the best of my ability and the notes of my father
and brother, about the superior court trial. I do not have the court transcripts as in a letter
dated July 24, 1980 to John J. Corcoran, the Clerk of the Superior Court requesting a
copy, and I would pay for them, in a reply letter dated August 6, 1980 from Gary Innes,
they ‘were not in the file’.
Mr. Innis wrote that only 21 pages of the sentencing transcripts were available.
(See letter) And, Mr. Burton Marks, my attorney, also seemed to have ‘lost’ his copy.
The shit never stops piling up.
647
648
The trial started Tuesday March 10, 1970. One year after James Earl Ray pled
guilty to murdering Martin Luther King. We were supposed to start at 9 AM but with all
the usual bullshit of the day when 2 PM rolled around we started with the jury selection.
The selection actually went very fast. They were all older people; well, much
older than I was then.
There was one Mexican man, and four of the women had relatives in various local
police departments and Mr. Marks thought that was a plus. I actually wanted them
excused. There were two alternates, one a very old man and one a very good looking
young lady.
I also wanted to excuse the Mexican man as his brother-in-law was shot by a
policeman in a burglary years prior. Mr. Marks thought by letting his stay we would
prove I wasn’t prejudiced. That rational really worked!
There was one other man I wanted excused because he looked to ‘dapper’ to me
and I thought he would never understand the ‘macho’ side of police work. I lost again.
And a few hours later we were ready to start. DDA Ralph Mayer gave his version
of the shooting, and as he did so the many deputies who were in the courtroom could
actually be seen squirming in their seats. They were either nervous about being
considered a ‘rat’ or they were afraid of later departmental recriminations. Maybe both.
649
Mr. Marks actually mentioned that the deputies in the courtroom were scared of
departmental harassment, and that my shooting was the result of reflex actions in a dark
room.
(I actually subpoenaed as many deputies as I could to be in court because I
wanted them to hear all of the testimony first hand. From Malone on. I wanted him to see
them when he testified this time. No closed courtroom this time. And I also figured I
could cost the county money ‘cause the county would have to pay them court over time.
But, the homicide detectives who wanted my ass decided to change things. They
wouldn’t let most of them appear in court as someone changed their subpoena’s to read
‘on call’ and they sequestered them in a room at the homicide offices, until Mr. Marks
found out about it a week or so later. Nothing like suppressing things.)
After we presented our version Judge James Kolts, an ex- deputy DA, adjourned
court til tomorrow.
On Wednesday March 11, 1970 the pathologist testified that the bullet entered
Roderick Molette’s left side and hit the spine, and he felt it was not a straight on shot.
Then Curtis Malone took the stand. He looked like a different person. He had a
sharp looking suit and his hair was styled. He came in the courtroom with a girl I didn’t
recognize and since he always told me his wife was bed ridden I didn’t think it was his
wife.
His courtroom demeanor didn’t change since the preliminary hearing. He slurred
words, didn’t speak up, looked very pale and still couldn’t look me in the eyes. He put
the microphone in between our gazes.
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Basically most of what he could remember was all the supposed times I told him
to ‘shoot them’, about passing the .22 around and his conversation with the fallen burglar.
He said that I gave him something to throw away that was long and metal and skinny but
he didn’t know what it was, that he saw something in a plastic or paper bag in my pocket
once but he didn’t know what it was BUT it looked like a gun, that I told him to shoot
people when he had the chance and he still claimed I asked the burglar his age before he
heard a shot. The same usual lies and odd-ball testimony that he gave at the preliminary
hearing. But, the jury was sucking it all up like a sponge. You could see them shake
their heads in disbelief at times.
The neat thing was almost every deputy who was at the shooting was in the court
room, listening to him say they all held the .22. I mean, if it was passed around and they
were there they must have held it, right? Wrong!
On cross-examination, he started with the ‘I can’t remember’ and the ‘ I don’t
recall’. It was basically sounding like the same as the preliminary hearing but the time
came for afternoon adjournment. He was hard to rattle because his narrow scope of
answering was like a rock, ‘I can’t remember’. We would have him tomorrow.
But this is what the newspaper reported on that day’s testimony…
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Again I say, for a trial of the most notorious deputy-sheriff in Los Angeles
County history this is all the coverage the LA Times gives the 1st day.
Thursday March 12, 1970
Malone took the stand again, and again was taking valium. He was very
slow in responding to Mr. Marks’ questions and a few times he just sat in the witness
chair and didn’t say a thing. He actually had to be ‘snapped’ out of his trance (like Judge
Kolts did once in a while, nod off. (Hello! Is Anybody In There?)
652
The sweat from his underarms was soaking through his suit coat. I couldn’t
understand how a person who was supposed to be telling the truth could sweat so much.
The ‘I don’t knows and can’t remembers’ started again and his testimony was almost
word for word from the preliminary hearing, and he didn’t know anything else outside
what he was coached to say. If you read the preliminary hearing, it was about the same.
(In fact, everyone who testified before testified here again. Maybe there were a
few different twists on things but basically the same.)
He was dismissed but subject to recall but at least Hal Manskar, Bud Wenke, Carl
Spreen and others knew what Malone had said and how this whole thing got started..
Some of them groaned when Malone testified and Judge Kolts had to admonish them for
their behavior.
Hal Manskar was called to the stand next. The deputy in the dark room with me.
My backup. I figured his testimony would be as solid as before but my worst fears came
to haunt me.
Hal also testified that he had ‘lied’ on his report. He told the jury he had perjured
himself and filed a false police report! (See my follow-up conversation with Hal in 2004,
plus emails). I told Hal the morning of the shooting that he did not have to back up my
story that he heard the two clicks I had reported hearing but he wanted to support my
version. Now his support of my version looked like not one single deputy could be
expected to tell the truth, and he admitted to the jury he had lied (he was never arrested
for filing a false report). He really said he was more concerned about his partner Carl
Spreen than he was me or the burglar. After this court was adjourned for the day.
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If you were a cop how would you like another cop to write a false report you
didn’t ask to be written and then have him recant later on?
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On Friday March 13 Carl Spreen took the stand and gave a simple version of what
he did. Neutral testimony.
Next came Sgt. Bud Wenke. I will never forget the look on DDA Mayer’s face
when Bud Wenke decided to give what he described as ‘clear and concise’ testimony this
time. What that meant was he was changing his testimony from the preliminary hearing
and from the statement he gave to homicide, now claiming he had thoughts about it all in
a trial aspect and not the confused and tired testimony during his interrogation.
Sgt. Wenke claimed he did not touch the .22 revolver, nor did he see anyone else
touch it or handle the .22 (which was the truth), that I was the only one who touched it
and it was not handed around.
Unfortunately that was too little too late. Here is another deputy testifying to the
jury that what he said before was not quite the right story and if he would have said this
before who knows what the outcome would have been?
DDA Mayer was really pissed off at Sgt. Wenke to the point of almost screaming
at him. It was obvious to everyone that Bud Wenke knew that Malone was a liar and
now wanted to help in any small way he could.
Sgt. Stu Hansell also testified he saw no one else holding the .22 nor did he hold
it. And did the papers print anything to my benefit? Not a word.
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On adjournment Sgt. Wenke told me he wished he could have heard Malone’s
testimony at the preliminary hearing, and that he more afraid for himself at that time but
now, job or no job, he was telling it like it was. Bravo!
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On Monday the 16th Bill Sieber, my old partner, testified basically we
were partners and that he had seen me with a white handled .22 revolver, but that he
couldn’t identify it from any of the other 10 or 20 white handled .22 revolvers he had
seen around the station.
(Now that must have given the jurors some ammunition. There are 10 or 20 other
Shaffer’s at Firestone waiting to murder some poor burglar?)
Then Sgt. Montgomery testified about the .357 revolver and the .22 as he did in
the preliminary hearing. Ho hum. And we adjourned for the day.
On Tuesday the 16th Sgt. Montgomery testified about the .24 semiauto found in
my pants pocket. It was reliable was about all he said.
Then came Deputy William Wilson, a man I hate almost as much as Malone as
his lies are basically, in my opinion, prejudicial.
He testified the .22 revolver had never been registered and the .357 magnum
belonged to Detective Looney at Firestone.
Then homicide detective Algie Landry took the stand but whatever he had to say
was considered hearsay and never said so he was excused.
Then the courtroom was cleared and the jury excused as DDA Mayer wanted to
try and re-introduce my admission of throwing down the .22, but Judge James Kolts ruled
the tape information unconstitutional. It was the only decision he made, in my opinion,
that made any sense. And then we adjourned for the day.
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I could trace it to Lewis Cornelius!!
658
Before I forget about this I just want to note that almost every afternoon
before lunch recess a different nice looking young lady would come into the courtroom
and carry on a hand-signaling, head nodding conversation with Judge Kolts, even during
testimony. I am trial for murder and he’s not paying attention but making a date!
On Wednesday the 18th of March we had issues to discuss without the jury
present. I told Judge Kolts how Malone was changing the un-flat tire, how he left his
revolver in the station numerous times and that he was being considered for termination,
to no avail.
DDA Mayer put good ole Gilbert Morales, the burglar I shot inside Bat’s Liquors
on the stand, to tell his story of getting shot. His testimony was thrown out. A 2nd good
move by Judge Kolts. I wondered if Algie Landry promised Mr. Morales an early parole?
We had Thursday and Friday off so on Monday March 23, 1970 Mr. Marks asked
for the .25 semiauto found in my pants pocket to be excluded. It was. So was my photo
album. We had ten other deputies ready to testify they carried .25 semiauto’s and also
had photo albums of work incidents but Judge Kolts said they were ‘irrelevant’.
Mr. Marks also called on five other deputies I had worked with to testify as to my
professional demeanor. I had forgotten who they were until 2004 when I re-read the
newspaper article.
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Gary Komers, my friend from the jail wards basically I was too restrained because
of my size and was not a ‘heavy’.
Deputy Robert Moeller said I was a cautious, prudent deputy.
Sgt. Dale Underwood testified that I did not have a reputation as a ‘heavy’.
Deputy Charles Stowell testified that he had never witnessed me use excessive
force, and that he heard Malone say one time to me, “Bob, when are we going to get
ours?”
With this Mr. Marks asked for a motion to dismiss the murder charge and to
reduce the charge to a manslaughter charge. It was denied.
660
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Tuesday March 24, 1970.
My last partner, Steve Voors, testified that I taught good teaching
principles and gave fair treatment of suspects. That I did not tell him to shoot unarmed
burglars in darkened buildings nor could I cover for him if he ever made a mistake and
shot someone by accident. It was the total opposite of what Malone testified to. In fact,
the prosecution could not find ONE deputy-sheriff who was alleging what Malone was. I
worked months with Lew Cornelius, months will Bill Sieber, Mike Doolittle, Harry
Estep, Ted Lenz, and lots of shifts with deputies like Brakebush, Bollinger, Chow, Day,
Devereaux, McCrary, Lane, and on and on and on. Why in the hell would I tell
something as controversial and illegal to a ‘rookie trainee’, that I didn’t really know and
didn’t care to know on a personal basis, how to cover up a shooting or to just go and kill
somebody when I wouldn’t and didn’t do it with those I trusted and depended on? But
this information was NOT admissible in Judge Kolts’ court.
Then my father took the stand. He testified that he had loaned me his .22 white
handled revolver. And he had. It was not a ‘junker’ .22 revolver and I had carried it
many times on and off duty when I first started at Firestone, long before Lewis Cornelius
and I came upon the .22 I starting using as a throw-away.
After my dad’s testimony we took a short recess as Mr. Marks wanted to talk to
me in private. He felt that I should testify to rebut Malone’s remarks because I seemed to
him, to be a much better speaker and present myself better than Malone. I agreed with
that but as of now all I felt they had on me was a manslaughter conviction at best. And I
doubted that I would be sent to prison for a manslaughter conviction.
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Mr. Marks’ argument was they could not use the taped conversation I gave the
night of my arrest so I could still say that I ‘accidentally’ shot on purpose. I had to stick
by my original report that the burglar was armed and testify to that although Mr. Marks
knew different. It was very scary.
I told him that maybe I could talk better than Malone but I did not know what my
attitude would be like under questioning by DDA Mayer, as I hated him, and the jury
heard everything from Ray Verdugo about the incident at Vering Inc, and they really
seemed to wonder who the hell they could believe. And sometimes jurors believe a man
IS guilty just because he has been arrested and brought to trail, regardless of what they
hear in court. I have seen that before.
Plus, I hated the cover-up. More lies on top of lies.
Mr. Burton Marks presented a good argument that my testimony could set me
free, so why worry about the manslaughter issue. I listened to the seasoned criminal
lawyer I had hired and took the stand.
I went through my testimony for about an hour or so until we had lunch recess.
After returning DDA Mayer was going to have his shot.
DDA Mayer tried to get me to admit I just shot Molette out of cold bloodness and
that I wanted Malone to also murder at Vering Inc. I told him I yelled at Malone to shoot
at Vering because it sounded like he was being attacked, and no, I did not murder
Roderick Molette. At 4 PM we adjourned for the day.
I was very tired that night and went to bed about 7 PM. DDA Mayer and the
pressures were wearing on me.
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The next day DDA Mayer kept pounding away, jumping from incident to
incident, to guns and bullets, to back up weapons, to deputy/trainee relations, to August
16th, to August 18th, to Malone, to Sieber.
My problem was I was answering just like a cop. Brutal and to the point, in some
cases. I told him, as I was trained at the academy, that all guns were made for one
purpose---to kill. Not for plinking, not for target practice---to kill.
Since I was testifying that Molette was armed I testified that I was trained to shoot
to kill, not shoot to wound and my actions regard to shooting Molette were to kill him. It
made no difference if I was scared, if the room was dark, if he jumped out at me,
whatever. Shoot to kill.
I can remember one high-light moment. A shotgun slug I had in my ammo case
had the name Hillard etched into the slug. DDA Mayer asked me about that and was that
David Hilliard, head of the Black Panther party? And, as the cop I was I said ‘yes’. That
shotgun slug was meant for him, in a metaphorical way that air force people wrote the
names of their enemies on the bombs they dropped. The newspaper had it in the
headlines. (I met David Hilliard in prison and we talked about that shotgun slug.)
This makes a bigger headline than other more relevant testimony of mine.
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Even the above article is screwed up. The writer states I picked up the .22 and put
it in my holster. Yeah, I jammed the .22 on top on my .357 which was in my holster. I
am telling you these newspaper people do not listen.
My father’s notes indicate that I testified on March 25th and March 26th also,
ending in the morning of the 26th. Since I have no transcripts I have to take his notes as
gospel. To this day I cannot remember three days of testimony but I knew I was very
tired at the end of each day of testimony.
After I was finished Mr. Marks called a Deputy Poole to testify that carrying a 2nd
gun and extra ammo was pretty much standard practice at Firestone. I do believe this
may have been John Toole from Firestone as I don’t remember a Deputy Poole.
DDA Mayer then played parts of the tape recording the morning I was arrested. It
seemed there were a few differences like where I bought the .25 semiauto they found in
my pocket. If I told the jury our locker room was like a weekend gun show the way we
traded ‘turned in’ weapons what the hell would they believe now? And also about
moving the boards in the back room where Molette was shot. I couldn’t tell you what I
said on that taped conversation as I was so tired after being held downtown for over 13 or
14 hours, plus no one ever played the whole thing back to me.
Sgt. Landry and the captain of homicide testified about something, and a finger
print expert was also called to the stand. The finger print expert could only say that he
was in a car accident and in the hospital for three weeks and all the records in his car
were destroyed, whatever they were.
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Odd isn’t it. All my transcripts were ‘lost’, Sgt. Wenke’s home burns down and
he has evidence for me to see years later, and the fingerprint experts notes get destroyed
in a car accident. And every deputy testifying is pointing a finger at someone else. What
a fucking mess.
We had a weekend break, and for me it was pretty much one of heavy scotch
drinking and as much sex as I could get. We were winding down to the finish and I did
not have a good feeling about things. I had a meeting in the LAPD offices of Captain
Roger Guindon, Tom Merchant’s father-in-law and when he asked me about things, the
only thing I could say was something about Charlie Stowell’s father, who came to the
trail, had a premonition I would be acquitted because he could see into the future and he
was never wrong! If that’s the best I could come up with I was up shit creek.
I told Capt Guindon about my discussion with Mr. Marks about not wanting to
testify, but he said Mr. Marks was a very smart attorney and to listen to him, even after
the fact. Roger knew the true story.
Monday, March 30, 1970
Sgt. Whitley from homicide, the deputy who came to the station the
morning of the shooting, took the stand and came with a 3rd version of what happened
and what I said. Boy, those jurors were really confused and sometimes looked irritated
after hearing some testimony. Sgt. Whitley said that when he told me Molette was dead
that I became very ‘happy’. Funny. He never mentioned that before in his testimony or
reports.
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To rebut this we had Charles Stowell back on the stand to testify that he, not Sgt.
Whitley received the death notice call, which was true and that he, not Sgt. Whitley, told
Hal and I about Molette dying, and then told Sgt. Whitley about 10 minutes afterwards!
The jurors looked like they wanted to faint. All 12 of them.
We were finished.
DDA Mayer then started his summation with what he called ‘Shaffer’s 18 lies’.
All I can remember was what was printed in the paper, for what that’s worth. He
basically summed up all the testimony to his way of thinking, and said at last that I was
the worst liar he ever knew and that most deputies who testified for me were distorting
the truth or lying on my behalf. That’s what he wanted the jurors to hear.
My father’s notes indicate that it was a Black Day for us. We needed two good
ones……1) Mr. Marks summation and 2) the day of acquittal.
DDA Mayer ended at 4:10 PM.
Tuesday, March 31 1970
Mr. Burton Marks spent about 30 minutes on his rebuttal, and in California, the
DA’s office gets another and last summation. DDA Mayer brought up 8 other issues to
help confuse the jury and he rested.
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The jury received instructions of murder 1 and murder 2 differences and also
about reasonable doubt if they chose to acquit me. I wanted Mr. Marks to include
manslaughter instructions, but it seems Judge Kolts said murder or nothing. Gads.
Mr. Marks felt Murder One was out, but murder in the 2nd was a dangerous ‘catch
all’ in California. I told Mr. Marks they will find me guilty of 2nd degree because with all
the confusing and finger-pointing testimony they will feel that they have to do something,
anything but let me go.
Wednesday April 1, 1970
The jury was still out but we could hear them arguing and some ladies
were crying in the deliberation room area. That was not good.
Thursday April 2, 1970
They came back in and wanted to hear about fifteen (15) hours of testimony
again! They must have been sleeping like Judge Kolts did. They wanted mine,
Manskar’s, Malone’s and on and on. And just think about that for a moment. If you
watched the OJ Simpson trial on television you know that no one gets on the witness
stand and talks continuously. They are prompted, they answer and there are always
objections, interruptions, motions, whatever. And my jury wanted to hear about a good
five days of testimony! What the fuck were they doing all this time, dreaming about their
next vacation?
Judge Kolts told them no and Mr. Marks disagreed but the judge said for them to
go back and hammer it out. They were 9 to 3 for conviction.
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They went out for an hour or so and came back again 10 to 2 for conviction.
Judge Kolts called for adjournment for the day.
Friday April 3, 1970
In the morning the foreman said they were still deadlocked at 10-2. I figured
Judge Kolts would call a mistrial and we would start over. The foreman said two ladies
who had law enforcement relatives were holding out. I was praying for a mistrial but
Judge Kolts got real mad and said 10 overrules the 2 and to come back with a unanimous
verdict. They did. About 10 minutes later they said I was guilty of 2nd degree murder.
Well, hit me with a 2 x 4. Deputies sitting in the courtroom erupted with their
displeasure, my wife Marilynn and my parents and family started to cry and deny the
verdict. Ralph Mayer, Algie Landry and Willie Wilson whooped for joy.
I really wanted to attack DDA Mayer right at that instant but the courtroom filled
with homicide deputies just in case I went off. And, I was the meek person who said
nothing to anyone still figuring the system would come to my aid.
Judge Kolts said I could remain free til sentencing and upon dismissal we rushed
out to talk to the jurors. DDA Mayer was shouting at them that they did the right thing
and I was nothing but a liar.
One lady told me she found me guilty because she didn’t want to spend another
weekend locked up with those ‘maniacs’.
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Another woman told me, “Don’t worry, they won’t send you to prison. You’ll
probably get another trail anyway.”
The foreman refused to talk to me but another man said they had to convict me
because the judge didn’t give them manslaughter instructions. He said they all felt that
almost every deputy who testified, including me, was a liar and not to be believed, but
they all felt I was guilty of manslaughter but they didn’t want to turn me free! He said
the contradictions between deputies working for the same department totally confused all
of the jurors and this was a way of punishing all of them! He then said to me, and this
was burned in my brain, “After all, 2nd degree is only a year in jail, right?” When I told
him it was 5 years to life he gulped and turned around and almost ran away. I did
manage to get some jury statements for my appeal process later on.
The only person to tell me that I should have been found not guilty was the old
man who was an alternate juror. He kept daily notes on why I was innocent of murder,
and he almost, almost got into the regular jury as we had one woman who was starting to
get sick at the beginning, but decided to stick things out.
As DDA Mayer was walking across the street to go to his office my friend Tom
Merchant approached him and gave him a piece of his mind. For months DDA Mayer
tried to find out who he was to no avail.
One thing that struck me was not a single deputy-sheriff I worked with showed
any emotion towards DDA Mayer or the pricks at homicide. They seemed to just take it
in stride. No outburst, no name calling, nothing.
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I was supposed to be sentenced on May 8th but that was postponed until May 22nd.
In the meantime I was free but I had to go see probation officer John Seferian for a
probation report.
In California you can actually be put on probation after being convicted of a
felony. If the probation officer has the balls and feels you are NOT a candidate for prison
the probation officer can recommend county jail time, or time served with a few years
probation, supervised or unsupervised. I really couldn’t see that in my case.
I went to his office in downtown Los Angeles and he wasn’t really interested in
hearing anything I had to say about the trial and conviction. He had some transcripts and
a copy of my taped admission about planting the .22 and reports from homicide. I am
sure he was under pressure to stomp me good, which he did. In essence he stated that the
company I kept, the deputies I hung around with, were the worst bunch vermin he had
ever read about, and recommend that I be sentenced to prison.
He asked me over and over about other deputies at the station who had committed
infractions and possible crimes and if I would tell him anything about anyone at Firestone
my prison time would be much easier. He kept alluding to a deputy who started just
before I got arrested who was selling ‘full auto’ weapons and made no bones about
talking loud when he was asking for buyers. We all thought he was an FBI plant or
working for internal affairs.
He also wanted to know who threw the road flare in the back seat of a car some
drunk was sleeping in. I didn’t know a thing about this except I heard one night at
briefing some man who had too much to drink parked his car in one of the south end
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parks to sleep it off got burned to death and it was determined the origin of the blaze was
a road flare.
I had heard many stories before I arrived at Firestone Station how deputies would
find other deputies in their black-and-white asleep and throw a road flare in the back seat
to ‘wake’ them up! Someone may have mistook this guy for a sleeping deputy or
detective or some local gangsters decided to have some fun.
He also was very interested in Charlie Stowell. Did he steal, was his shooting like
mine, and before Mr. Seferian could go on I told him he could shove his questions up his
ass cause I had nothing to say about anyone, prison time or not.
So, you know I go to prison. A few funny things happen while I am doing my
time. Los Angeles County serves me and Mr. Marks with papers that if we want to
object to me getting fired at attend the personnel board meeting and present our case why
I should be reinstated as a deputy. Of course I couldn’t be there so I loose by default.
Mr. Marks starts on the appeal process, which is long and tedious and
unsuccessful. Eventually he abandons me cause I am basically out of money and I have
to file my own appeals. All that information is in my prison diary and space does not
allow those experiences here. Later on I file complaints against him for lying to me
about some appeals, to no avail.
Also while in prison I am served with a ‘wrongful death’ suit by the family of
Roderick Molette. I did forward that to Mr. Marks who was still representing me in a
limited fashion, but he filed a response with me as ‘propria persona’, pro per in prison
slang, meaning I am my own legally uneducated spokesman.
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The wrongful death trial took years to get into the system and no one really
expected I would be out of prison to appear on my behalf in court or to have
representation. And really I did not care if his family won millions of dollars against me
because I had absolutely nothing. I made $5 a month as a clerk and I had a ‘life top’
sentence. What could they get from me? From the county, well, that was another story.
I think their attorney, Abe Hoffman, who wanted to sit in on the preliminary
hearing, was asking for a few hundred thousand, which seemed logical. I had a deputy
friend Mike Currin, I think it was him, who shot a juvenile suspect with an armor
piercing .38 round and because it was unauthorized ammunition the family was awarded
almost $50,000. Certainly a deputy who ‘murdered’ someone would be worth lots more
in compensation.
But after two years eleven months and fifteen days (but who’s counting?),of
prison time, where I literally fought for my life at least twice a week if not more, I was
paroled. Some would say ‘that’s no very long’. You’re right, it’s not for 2nd degree
murder. The average inmate spends over twice that for the same conviction but
apparently the parole department thought the conviction was a bunch of shit also.
But think about this. Did you ever see one of the ‘gladiator’ movies where the
main character becomes a gladiator and he is waiting to go into the killing arena, and just
outside the arena gate is a bunch of blood thirsty, better armed, tough guys waiting for the
gladiator to enter the arena so they can cut him to bits? That’s the psychological stress I
went through every time the cell doors were unlocked and I had to step out into the
hallway. The ‘fucking cop’ is coming out. You don’t go out right away, you kind of peer
out to see who’s so hanging around instead of going to chow or to work. You pick up
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every stray magazine you can and you design yourself a back and chest plate so if you get
stabbed the magazines just might keep the blade from going in too far. You learn how to
take a thin magazine and squeeze it tight when you roll it up and then wrap it with scotch
tape so you have a weapon you can jab into someone’s eyes if they attack you with a
shank. A rolled up magazine is not contraband or an illegal weapon in prison. You live
with the prospect that someone can cut your throat in a split second with a razor blade,
which are plentiful. Or bash your skull with a baseball bat or a 20 lb. weight. They’re
available too. I lived with the real fear of being killed every single day I was in that
hellhole. It was two years, eleven months and fifteen days lurking, stalking terror. You
talk about cruel and unusual punishment; this was it to the max.
In all that time I believe I had only four visits from any cop buddies. Al Campbell
from Firestone stopped in to visit once, Gary Komers came once he says but I can’t
remember, an LAPD college mate of mine visited once and Ed Roszyk made one of the
most important visits that actually saved my life after I was paroled, and the mystery
homicide detective whom I will never name made the trip once a month for about a year
them mysteriously stopped coming. Of course my close friend LAPD Officer Tom
Merchant came often and sent me cigars for Christmas.
Psychologically I was a wreck and according to the parole department’s
psychiatrist after I was released to the Santa Barbara area, I was suffering from acute
post-traumatic stress syndrome and on the verge of suicide. I hid it very well. Countrywestern singer Tim McGraw sings years later in a hit song about ‘live like you are dying’
but that triggered too many negative signs in my case. Physically I was OK, I could
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bench press 405 pounds, whoopee. And I think I hated the world. I was eating out of
trashcans for some unknown reason, among other things.
So one afternoon in April or May of 1973 I came across some information that the
superior court trial on my wrongful death was to begin, I hopped into Carole’s 1966
Corvette and drove from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles and found the right courtroom.
I was walking down the hallway towards the courtroom and sitting outside were
some of Roderick Molette’s relatives and when they saw me were they surprised,
shocked and angry. One even said they should kill me right there, right now. I was alone
but thought ‘ yes please, put me out of my misery. Do it quickly. Thank you, Jesus.’
I entered the courtroom of Judge Delbert Wong and the process was underway
and everything absolutely stopped……frozen in time. Everyone looked at me and the
judge asked me who I was. I told him ex-deputy-sheriff Robert E Shaffer, here to defend
myself and I wanted the power to issue subpoenas because I was going to re-try the
whole case all over again! Get Malone in here with his valium, homicide and anyone I
could serve, at county expense, plus the newspapers if they were interested. I was going
to reopen the worst experience the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department ever had
(besides beating the crap out of a family of Samoan’s years later and loosing a civil
judgment worse than Rodney Kings) and this time it WOULD BE THE TRUTH, THE
WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH SO HELP ME GOD! I had
nothing to loose and if the public wanted to hear about all the cover-ups I ever knew
about I was going to let it blow! And that was pretty much what I said to Judge Wong
and anyone else in earshot, including Mollette’s relatives.
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Some attorney said he didn’t think I would be out of prison so soon. Great
response! The judge called a recess and we went into chambers. The judge said this
changed everything and he was recommending that the county now represent me, and he
gave the county attorneys some time to think this over as the county did not want to
represent me as they thought the total judgment would be against me and nothing against
the county. I guess they didn’t want to recognize ‘scope of employment’ status, or if they
did they would still put 99% of the blame on me and since I was still supposed to be in
prison and not able to defend myself, I would loose again. But the county was just as
liable as me if not more so. They had ‘deep pockets’, I didn’t.
I can remember meeting with Deputy County Counsel Robert Rodolf, who was
acting on the behalf of John Larson, Acting County Counsel on May 7, 1973 in the
county counsels office.
Mr. Rodolf told me basically that I had been fucked over by the DA’s office, and
he started to cry! He took off his glasses and actually wept in front of me when talking
about my conviction. He said it should never have happened and the County of Los
Angeles was going to represent me in the wrongful death suit. He slid over to me their
First Amended Answer to Complaint, Case # 978.923 to read. (A copy of included here.)
Los Angeles County now alleges that Roderick Molette ‘acted in a negligent
manner in attempting to avoid apprehension’ while doing a burglary and ‘caused and
contributed to his own death’.
On May 31, 1973 the Los Angeles County Counsel wrote that they authorize the
county to pay the sum of $17,500 to the deceased’ family for the wrongful death. In
Robert Rodolf’s letter he states, “He (deputy Shaffer) explained that he had been startled
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by the hiding suspect and had accidentally discharged his service revolver. He attempted
to make it appear as though he shot in self-defense to avoid having disciplinary action
taken against him for shooting an unarmed man and using unauthorized ammunition.”
They could have just as easily said, ‘Deputy Shaffer planned and murdered an
innocent burglar after catching him unarmed in a back room and killed him with one
bullet to the stomach area, planted a gun and claimed self-defense which wasn’t true. He
went to prison for murder.’ But they didn’t, they printed the real truth. Some people will
say that’s how things are done to settle court cases in a quick and timely fashion. No
need to cost the taxpayers lots of money defending a loosing proposition. Others will say
they didn’t want the case to be retried in a civil court and to air all that dirty laundry once
again. I just want to make some personal observations.
First off, court documents filed by the County Counsel, in my opinion, are filed
under penalty of perjury. They can’t be telling lies just to file documents to get
themselves off the hook for damages. And if the County Counsel is taking the stand that
what happened was what I admitted to homicide years before was the truth, was DDA
Mayer and homicide lying when they prosecuted me?
I just don’t believe that on one hand Los Angeles County via the DA’s Office can
say I am a cold blooded murderer and form a case around the statements of a ‘sick’
person like Curtis Malone and then via the County Counsel’s Office to get out of paying
damages Los Angeles County now says that ‘it was all an accident because that’s what
Deputy Shaffer admitted to homicide and the burglar caused his own death’.
Two different Los Angeles County departments, both filing ‘truthful, under
penalty of perjury’ documents that basically say the opposite thing and my psychiatrist
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wonders why I am suicidal. “He’s a murderer”, says DDA Mayer. “No, it was an
accident”, says County Counsel Robert Rodolf.
And I have to live with this for the rest of my life.
Chapter 32
Some Afterthoughts and Follow-up
After I was out for a while I was invited to return to the Firestone Station
during the afternoon shift change so say hi to the boys. Charlie Stowell, at that time was
with the California Drug Enforcement, was my chauffeur in a drug enforcement car. We
arrived at the station about 3 PM. I was greeted by about 20 deputies, including sergeants
and lieutenants, for a short but general bullshit session. I felt uncomfortable and so did
many of them so we didn’t stay long.
I didn’t see much of Charlie Stowell after that. He joined the US Drug
Enforcement Agency, got himself involved in a fiasco when a joint task force between
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LA County and Ventura County raided some man’s couple of hundred acre ranch looking
for marijuana that Charlie said he saw from a few airplane flyovers, and during the raid a
deputy shot the owner, claiming self-defense. I don’t believe any marijuana plants were
found. You can find the incident on the world wide web.
Years later after he moved to Florida he either quit the DEA or was asked to retire
or quit due to some incident at a police seminar or excessive drinking. In about 1992 ??
when I was living in Seattle Washington there was a knock on my door about 8 PM one
rainy night. Standing outside was internal affairs from the DEA and a Los Angeles
County homicide detective to talk about Charlie Stowell.
When they attempted to invite themselves into my house I stopped them cold at
the front doorway, rain or no rain. I told them I would talk the next day but I was using
my own tape recorder.
The LA County detective asked me about Charlie’s shooting of the young
burglary suspect in about 1968 or 1969. I told him to just read the reports and go over the
coroner’s inquest records but to take a careful look at the dead boy’s photos and to make
up his own mind, that I had nothing to say 20 plus years later about a shooting they all
knew about.
The DEA headhunter wanted to know if I ever witnessed Charles Alan Stowell,
while a deputy-sheriff, ever steal money belonging to any drug suspect or arrestees of
drug related crimes.
Well, that one I had to think hard and long about. This DEA agent said he would
have Charlie fired in an instant if I would admit I witnessed such a thing. I could have
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told him one instance, if I wasn’t hallucinating about who the deputy was as I ‘thought’ it
was Charlie I was with when money was ‘recovered’ from under a floor mat of an
arrested drug suspects impounded car, but that wasn’t the problem I was dealing with.
I had lost all my ‘cop mentality’ by this time and I thought these lawmen were
basically slime even coming to me asking me to help them with whatever investigation
they were doing. The fact was I knew they would try to screw Charlie in any fashion
they could just like I was screwed so I told the DEA man, “No, I never saw Charlie
Stowell take any money from anyone.” They left.
It was kind of odd because while in Seattle I was selling real estate for Better
Homes and Gardens and was very successful by some standards. One of our relocation
clients was the federal government and specifically the local DEA office. I had sold
homes to three DEA agents who transferred in, even the office supervisor. The
supervisor knew Charlie from past assignments and I couldn’t resist bringing up my
history with Charlie and when he told me Charlie was in Florida I checked the home
ownership records and found his address and wrote him a letter. The supervisor received
a call from Charlie and asked him to tell me to never call or write him, ever.
The supervisor said he didn’t want to know anything about what the problem
might be and asked me not to ever contact Charlie again. He even had a fax copy of my
letter.
In the late 1990’s my wife Carole saw Charlie at the DFW airport terminal in
Texas and she says he told her someone was looking for me again and that I should be
careful like I was going to be arrested for something. He asked her if I was around
because if I was he was taking off and would claim he never talked to her. I think he was
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making trips to Arkansas where Luther Smith, the infamous Deputy Smith in Steve
Beeler’s “Firestone Syndrome” book was living, but slowly dying with cancer. Luther
and Charlie were always very tight friends.
Charlie used to live in Florida but now is with a company that makes or markets
infrared spotlights and night vision stuff for the police and military. I think he lives in
Reno Nevada but that’s just a guess. He hasn’t made any contact with me in over 25
years. My old roommate.
After I graduated from Santa Barbara City College in 1975 I went to work for
Sambo’s Restaurants based in Santa Barbara. It was fashioned like Denny’s, a 24 hour
operation. I eventually opened up my own Sambo’s restaurant in Mission Viejo
California, an upscale Orange County suburb right off the 405 freeway. A few deputies
found out where I was and dropped in. The Rupp brothers lived close by and stopped in
once in a while. I once thought Curtis Malone came in to eat. This guy looked a lot like
him and while I was cooking I asked a waitress to ask him if his name was Curtis
Malone.. She said it wasn’t Malone. If it had been him I was going to cut off his head
and make him look at his headless body before his brain died. Yeah, I hated him.
One of my cooks was associated with a couple called the Harris’s. His name was
William Harris, she was Emily Harris, of the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA), the
group that kidnapped Patricia Hearst the newspaper heiress in the early 1980’s. My cook
would receive letters from Bill Harris and somehow the local authorities found this out
and dropped by to find out what I knew about all of this.
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I had read a few of the letters but couldn’t tell them anything more that my cook,
as most fast food cooks, worked for me a few months and headed off somewhere else.
He didn’t even pick up his last paycheck.
(Bill (Tico) and Emily (Yolanda) were wanted for murder and various robberies
while with Patty Hearst but they never got caught until 1/16/2002. On November 7, 2002
they pled guilty to murder and were sentenced to 7 years state prison).
I have no knowledge about any of the other deputies I worked with except what I
read on the LA County retirees or the Firestone website. I am not a welcome guest on the
Firestone website so maybe Steve Beeler was right after all and there was and still is a
‘Firestone Syndrome’.
My moves with Sambo’s Restaurants eventually took me to Twin Falls Idaho in
the early 1980’s. I was going for a few drinks at the local Holiday Inn one evening and
this bearded man using a cane came out the front door towards me. We starred at each
other for a moment with that ‘I know you’ look. So, I told him, “I know you”.
He looked at me, 6’7” and then smiled. I then recognized his as Firestone Station
Senior Deputy Hitchcock, a semi-supervisor when I worked there. Small world, isn’t it?
We shook hands and chatted a while and then said ‘see you later’ and he was off. He was
in Idaho fishing.
I moved to Lewiston Idaho a few years later and while driving through a small
Indian town named Lapwai I decided to stop and get something to drink at the local store.
While I am going back to my car the local police chief (one of 4 officers) pulls up and
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gets out to go into his office. He looked very familiar so I followed him to his small
headquarters.
I asked him if he ever worked for the LA County sheriffs department and he said
he had, in fact he said he worked Firestone. Small world, isn’t it? I did not tell him my
name but I asked him why was he here in Lapwai Idaho. He told me he was getting
stressed out in the big city environment and when this position came up he regrettably
jumped on it. He hated it in Idaho and he hated working in an Indian town. He could
only make misdemeanor arrests as all felonies were FBI business on Indian reservations,
so he was basically a ‘ticket writer and drunk Indian arrestor’.
I asked him who he worked with at Firestone. He told me he his most infamous
partner was that Bob Shaffer, the deputy who went to prison for murder. He said he
knew ‘the truth’ about that shooting because Bob told him everything. I told him that I
had heard about that but it was before me time at Firestone. I remember seeing him
around the station but who in the hell could forget someone 6’7”? He was one of about a
hundred partners I was supposed to have had who I told everything about my shooting.
I went to Africa many times on medical missions but in the mid-1990’s on a
medical mercy mission with a group of doctors who planned a trip to Namibia and
Angola to give medical treatment and aid to the ‘bush’ people who were being abused
and rejected by the then current government. It was in the hot month of December and
we were just near the Angolan border, deep in the bush, feeding and giving injections to
those poor souls who possibly had never seen a white person, understood no English,
whose sole possessions were what they were wearing on their backs but were eager to get
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a shot on anything just to say hello to someone who didn’t hate them because they were a
different ethnic sub-culture than the ruling class. What friendly people they are.
We were parked under a large shade tree during our lunch break, snacking on
crackers and drinking the local beer (we all had given our daily lunch ration to some
starving local children) when all of a sudden I could hear a motorcycle in the distance
coming towards us.
There are no towns for many miles in either direction, and in fact we were using
our reserve gasoline supplies to get back to base since we ‘wandered’ way out of our
protection zone, on purpose.
Coming down this excuse of a dirt road (a super highway where we were) was a
lone rider on a dirt bike with every possible piece of camping equipment and extra
gasoline cans strapped everywhere something would fit. The rider saw us and pulled
over to chat and maybe, of course, share a beer.
When he took of his helmet low and behold, it was a deputy-sheriff from LA
County. Small world, isn’t it? I did not know where I knew him from exactly so I asked
him if he worked for LA. He was very surprised to hear that question. Sure enough he
did. He retired as a lieutenant a few years ago and was doing what he always dreamed
about, biking across Africa. I told him he might make it if the lions or terrorists didn’t
get him first. He laughed.
I asked what stations he worked and he said Lakewood, West Hollywood and
Firestone. And in the conversation he said he had even partnered with Bob Shaffer at
Firestone. “Did I remember Bob Shaffer?” he asked.
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In my group of volunteers were a local community nurse, our guide and driver,
our ‘bushman’ interpreter and a doctor from Germany who called me “Herr Doktor
Shaffer”, and before he could spoil this conversation I said something like, “I think so,
but give me more information.”
I am sitting and not standing, I am wearing a sleeveless fishing vest filled with
medicine and needles and plastic gloves and I have a stethoscope around my neck, a
cowboy hat on and my arms have lots of tattoos on them (I had none in the 60’s and 70’s)
so my appearance and age is somewhat different at this time.
“He was the deputy who went to prison for murder. We were partners for a few
months at Firestone. He told me everything about the shooting.”
I told him it was before my time and didn’t remember. He drank a few more local
warm beers, thanked us, said it was nice to see me, put his helmet on, and rode off. I
hoped he made it. The German doctor looked at me and before he could say anything I
told him the deputy he was talking about was my brother. End of conversation.
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Drinking the local brew…..
A shady spot….
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This woman was just too far gone for us to help her. This is the bush in Angola
so there’s no ambulance or clinic or hospital to help her.
Curtis Malone, according to the information I received, was retired from the
department shortly after the trial with job related psychological conditions. He gets a
lifelong pension for ‘putting me away’.
In July 2004 I ran across a note stuck between some very old newspaper pages. It
was a note I had written to my attorney Burton Marks about a conversation I had with my
old training partner Lewis Cornelius that took place when I was out on bail but after my
conviction.
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I had remembered I met at Lew’s house in Los Angeles but he wanted to talk to
me in his car so we went to his car that was parked in his driveway. Lew told me when
he came to work he had heard about the shooting and headed to the report writing rooms
to find me but found Malone instead.
According to Lew, the conversation was about how some burglar got the drop on
me but I dropped him instead. And with this Malone removed the .22 from the plastic
evidence bag and held it for Lew to take. Lew declined, telling Malone someone may
want to print it later on and to make sure he told homicide that he touched it. Malone
agreed, according to Lew.
This note was a follow-up for Mr. Marks to get Lewis Cornelius’ statements that
would show a gross contradiction in Malone’s testimony about handling the .22. For
some reason it may have been over-looked so it was never acted upon.
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Chapter 33
Follow-up in 2004
In July 2004 I had mailed out about 200 letters to those persons I found on a
website that claimed to find anyone, anywhere. I plugged into it and spent the afternoon
putting in names of anyone I could think of I was associated with at Firestone, those in
Homicide, Internal Affairs, whoever or wherever.
The program claimed that anyone can be found, cause if they ever ordered a
pizza, or ordered from a mail order catalog, dropped their name in for one of the trucks or
cars in a mall giveaway or just about anywhere people will put down their name and
address and phone number on a piece of paper, it gets captured and entered into one great
big name search program.
I found Hal Manskar, Woody Polidore, Bud Wenke, Curtis Malone, Bill Sieber,
Charlie Stowell, Gary Komers, Stu Hansell, and on and on and wrote each and everyone
of them to apologize for my stupid post shooting actions and to get their input as to their
feelings, why they did what they did, anything.
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Hal Manskar responded in a letter. He did not know who was receiving it as it
went to a mailbox in California addressed to someone else I got to set up the PO box.
Hal wrote in his ‘unsigned’ letter that he wanted to know how much was it worth
to us to have him give us information since he wasn’t going to do anything for his ego.
He did leave his email address so I emailed him. He emailed back wanting me to
give him a phone number he could call in the evening so we could talk. I did.
About 8:05 PM on August 2, 2004 he called. I recognized his voice even after 35
years. He told me he worked vice for 25 years and retired as a deputy. Never wanted a
promotion or a transfer because he liked where he was, and of course, he could legally
drink on duty.
He added he had a bout with cancer and beat it and was just ‘trying to get along’.
He thought Carl Spreen, his old partner, was dead. Carl possibly had a drinking problem
and transferred to Wayside Honor Rancho, a jail facility for sentenced inmates north of
Los Angeles.
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Hal thought I did 7 years in prison (he did not care nor did he have a clue about
my whereabouts). He added that he just did not want to get involved again and just
wanted to forget that it happened. I think guilt may do that to a person. His words were
something to the effect that when he walked out of the courtroom the day he changed his
testimony and admitted to lying and filing false statements he “..never wanted to look
back”.
I asked him why he changed his testimony about not hearing the ‘clicks’ that he
put in his 1969 report and reminded him that I told him he did not need to do so. Before
he answered me he was quick to say that “….me changing my story had nothing to do
with you being convicted. Malone took care of that, it was all Malone’s doing, not mine”
and he said again he just wanted to forget about it. That seems to be a popular theme.
I asked him again why he changed his testimony and Hal replied that he came
home from vacation with his family to find some detectives in front of his home and they
wanted to take him for a polygraph.
He was quite agitated when he said that they didn’t even want him to find a sitter
for his children but just wanted him to change clothes and go with them. (What’s with
those detectives, they always seem to want you to change your clothes. I think it’s for
you to look good in case they arrest you when the cameras seem to appear.)
Hal was 29 when he joined the department and was considered an ‘old man’ as I
believe the age cut off was either 32 or 35 then, and only had a few years on the
department and he wanted to keep his job.
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Apparently when they got downtown he decided that he did not want to share a
jail cell with me so he came ‘clean’.
”Sharing a prison cell with you is not what I wanted to do.” His words.
I was blunt and asked him why he put the 2 clicks back into his report. His reply
was “I was doing what you do at Firestone”.
He went on to say his son is now a deputy and has been for 21 years and he
mentioned that they teach about me at the academy. Exactly what they teach I do not
know nor did Hal. I tried to teach at the academy. I told the department years ago I
would travel at my expense to teach ‘not to do what I did’, but they declined. Apparently
they like their version better.
We chatted about twenty minutes and the conversation seemed about over. I told
him I enjoyed talking to him and that if heard anything from anyone else to please pass
my information on because I wanted to hear from everyone I could before publication.
He said he would.
I did peek at the www.fpk.homestead.com website and saw Hal had entered a
comment about 8/6/04 about how he enjoyed Steve Beeler’s book the Firestone
Syndrome and it brought the station alive in his mind once again.
I had started a website call rshaffer187fpk.com that had info I was looking for
information about and from many deputies. I had quoted Hal in it and weeks later he got
upset saying I was ….stretching the truth----and to remove his name. I got an email
where he asks me if I want to know THE REAL TRUTH about the shooting. It follows:
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Hal has let his anger and imagination get the best of him. He didn’t tell this to
homicide for ‘obvious reasons’. And what were the obvious reasons? I would go to
prison? Duh…
Woody Polidore
Woodrow Polidore wrote me July 28, 2004. He said he remembered me as the
big strong white boy counting the notches on my gun at briefing one time. He said he
saw trouble way back then.
Woody claimed that I hardly ever worked with a black deputy but 90% of my
arrests were black people (that makes sense since that’s was about the racial makeup
then), and I was too aggressive and would make an arrest at any cost.
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He went on to state that he would roll to my calls just to make sure I wasn’t doing
anything stupid and that he wanted to tacitly warn me about my behavior. Why oh why
didn’t he?
He wanted to know if I had joined a small police department somewhere or if I
was still in jail and named a few other deputies who were ‘over aggressive’. I wondered
how he would think I COULD join another department? The only convicted murderer I
know of who became ‘the sheriff’ was in San Francisco many years ago. The citizens of
San Francisco actually voted in an ex-con murderer as their sheriff!
He didn’t sign his letter for some reason, just like Hal. Maybe they think if they
don’t sign their letter that it just doesn’t exist.
695
Polredd was his name in Steve Beeler’s book The Firestone Syndrome.
696
I wrote Woody back and mentioned that my training officer for 6 months was
very black, and that I had worked with at least 3 other black deputies that he also knew.
And I did scold him for not slapping me up-side my head and telling me he had
something personal and critical to tell me. Woody Polidore and Ted McCrary were my
deputy idols. I would have listened. But no one ever said anything about my conduct, no
one. Woody knows Lewis Cornelius and although Cornelius did not respond to my
letters I told Woody to tell Lew I would be naming him in finding the .22 revolver.
August 12, 2004
I called Woody this morning after he left me his number as we were playing
phone tag. It was a nice chat. I told him how I remembered how he got maced in the
booking while acting undercover as a Black Panther.
He told me that apparently a few other deputies had called him about getting my
letter and they weren’t going to respond and didn’t think he should either. Looks like he
disagreed with them.
He went on to say he went from Firestone to Intelligence after he shot the two
daylight burglars I wrote about earlier, killing one and the other went to San Quentin,
then to the training academy and then to West Hollywood station. While at West
Hollywood he came across some crystallized dynamite in a small gym-type bag and
basically took care of it because……’that’s how I would have done it at Firestone’. He
was working station detectives but one of his brass got so mad at Woody he threatened to
put him back in uniform so Woody quit and went to the Public Defenders Office in Los
Angeles and then Riverside County eventually retiring.
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He gave me the email addresses of Bill Sieber and Russ Owens, who was one of
my sergeants, one who wanted Curtis Malone fired and an address of a deputy so
apparently he’s has no sweat about me knowing how to contact them. He mentioned
Steve Streaker and I vaguely picture the guy and something about someone putting a
hand up some girls dress???
I asked him about my old training partner Lewis Cornelius and he said Lew has
been sick lately. Lew had sickle cell anemia and was sick back in the 60’s. I believe
Lew was one of the guys who called Woody because Woody was kind of vague about
Lew’s whereabouts.
I heard Lew quit the department and went to the DA’s Office as an investigator
where he retired.
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Paul D Koerschgen, LAPD
699
He said he wasn’t sure if he wanted to visit his accidental shooting in 1974, as it
brings back bad memories. He gave me his email address so I could tell him more about
my project, which I did, in length. I received his letter about 8/1/2004 so he must have
held it for a while. As of August 29, 2004 I have not received an email reply.
It’s funny he refers to his shooting as ‘accidental’ since it was ‘six shots, six hits’,
but apparently it could have been. He was never charged with any type of homicide so
his shooting situation could have been just that, one big accident. I mean, our military
has shelled the shit out of its own soldiers ‘by accident’.
Rey Verdugo, retired Sgt. Homicide
I received Rey’s letter August 12, 2004. Rey has retired as a sergeant and was
assigned to homicide for over 20 years and now works as an advisor in TV series, such as
CSI and the movie “Heat”. He states Bill Sieber retired as a lieutenant and was assigned
to homicide, and as of today is an advisor in Kosovo, Europe. Rey left his cell number so
I called him.
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He said he would write what he could and mail it to me. Rey was probably my
biggest supporter that my shooting was justified but the report writing hit a ‘grey’ area.
Rey was the deputy who captured the first burglary suspect at Vering Inc, the night
before I shot Molette. Rey’s letter:
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Sgt. Paul Whiteley
Paul Whiteley sent an email 8/30/2004 at 14:36 hours. In it he stated he felt the
‘kid’, Molette got what he deserved. His mother said she had cautioned him about
carrying a gun. He said he and Guenther were called in when Malone started talking but
that Wilson and Landry jumped the call and made the opinion that I had murdered
Molette. He said I was very well liked at the station and that even my captain tried to
stop the murder charges. Even though he worked homicide another 6 years after my
conviction he never talked to Wilson or Landry. He said he thought Landry was dead.
Paul Whiteley retired after 34 years in 1990.
Dario ‘Dan’ Bejarano
Dario emailed me 8/31/2004 stating he remembered being the handling unit for
the Batt’s Liquor Store burglary but that Sieber and I arrived first so he and his partner
Billy Kirtley, Unit 14, covered the perimeter.
Dario is now an attorney with the Riverside Public Defender’s Office. He went
on to say that Sieber told him to write the ‘first’ report and told him what to put in it and
since he was a ‘trainee’ he did what he was told. He also said when he testified at the
prelim hearing the DA was very rough on him. He stayed at Firestone for 4 more years
and got passed over for a promotion so he quit and became an attorney. He was a good
deputy. His email:
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I don’t think he liked Bill Sieber.
703
Curtis W. Malone
At about 8:40 PM on August 31, 2004 I received a phone call from him,
he now goes by Bill Malone rather than Curtis Malone. I did not think he would ever call
me.
I had contacted a private investigator in Oxnard California earlier to find out if the
Curtis and Nancy Malone who are living in Port Hueneme California and who own
property in Nevada were possibly my old partner and his most recent wife. Private
investigators today are certainly much better equipped with internet tools than years ago.
I had sent a letter to this address but got no response. In fact, I sent three. I think
when I called he must have thought I really found him so he should call me and put this
whole thing to rest.
I asked him what happened to make him turn against me in the two weeks after
we appeared in Norwalk Superior Court. He told me it was evident, that I committed
cold blooded murder. He stated that what else could it be when he hears, “How old are
you asshole”, then a shot, but now he also adds I called the suspect a ‘mother-fucker’ and
other profanities. I was quite off guard because this is all ‘new’ information. I am
surprised with all of the testimony he never said that before since he was so sure of the
sequence of events. I asked him why he never testified to this and he said he ‘couldn’t
remember’ the reason.
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I told him how it seems I saved the careers of many deputies who retired with
good pensions because I would not tell homicide the complete and whole truth years ago
and that may have gotten them fired or even arrested. I also said I was writing this and
would like his written version again so I couldn’t be accused of not telling the truth. He
refused.
I started to ask him questions about other things that happened especially when he
testified that the .22 was passed around by me to the other deputies when in fact it was
not. He started saying how he saw the plastic bag in my right rear pocket protruding out
not only at the shooting scene but back in the station. I didn’t ask him a thing about that,
just the gun being passed around. He said he couldn’t remember those small details after
all this time.
I think I told him that he probably went through a very stressful time and I was
sorry for that because I did fire the shot that killed Molette. He agreed but not, in my
opinion, wholeheartedly.
He wouldn’t tell me what he was doing these days, but that he just wanted to drop
it and end it. I asked him if he knew about the civil trial and he was quick to respond that
he wasn’t notified, and I told him if I had my way we would have had another trial and
everything would have come out, everything.
He then became belligerent and said something like ‘I said all I am going to say,
so let’s just drop it Bob.’ His voice sounds different, almost intelligent.
I told him he was wrong about the sequence of events but that it was impossible
for us to argue about changing the other person’s opinion of how it happened. He has his
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pension I have my felony conviction. Neither of us will give. So that was it. Somehow
many months after we parted ways and a few weeks after he invites me to his home in the
valley for drinks I become a cold-blooded killer.
I did ask him why didn’t Hal say the same thing? He had no answer. He just
wanted to drop things. I think I told him that was easy for him to say cause I was the one
who went to prison. I think we ended the conversation there. He may have a better or
different recollection of this conversation. Maybe he taped it?
I had been told for over 30 years that Curtis Malone was retired on a medical
disability shortly after my conviction but that apparently is incorrect. Steve Beeler told
me in September 2004 that in 1986 Malone married his current wife Nancy, a lieutenant,
whom he met while a deputy working in custody. That meant he was still a deputy at
least 16 years later, and possibly retired years after that. He goes by Bill now and that
seems to be the name he remembered. Others say this is not so. Some actually say he
was called Robert???
Some deputies who have emailed me say this is her 4th marriage and possibly
Malone’s 3rd. So all these years I have been hoping that he was suffering from acute
depression, guilt, etc and would have become addictive to the valium he was taking
during my trial maybe aren’t correct. So I am not writing about a medically retired exdeputy anymore, I am possibly now attacking a retired deputy-sheriff with a long
standing career in law enforcement.
I wrote to the current LA County district attorney advising them of Malone’s new
change of events and told him I still think Malone is a liar. The reply was the case was
too long ago and they have no trial transcripts to compare what he said 35 years ago to
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day. I wrote back that I would loan them my prelim transcripts, which would make him a
liar---again—in my opinion.
707
Michael Doolittle
I worked with Mike in a traffic car in Carson. He was the 3rd man in our rotating
man unit along with Bill Sieber, and later on Harry Estep.
I called Mike 9/11/2004 around 5PM at his home in Southern California. He was
surprised and glad to hear from me. He had some interesting comments and said he
would help me in any way he could.
Mike said he was retired in 1977 on a ‘political medical’ retirement. He said that
any deputy that had any major surgery a year prior to 1977 was automatically given a
medical retirement as the department had to ‘get rid’ of 200 deputies to make way for the
hiring of minorities, around 200 of them. So, without any fanfare he simply retired and
has had little contact with fellow deputies since then. He was glad I called.
He told me that in 1969 after my arrest he was at the Wayside Honor Rancho, (a
facility for sentenced county prisoners), for a posse ride with reserve deputies and that
Sheriff Peter Pitchess was also present.
According to Mike he was sitting with the sheriff having a few drinks and when
Pitchess found out Mike worked Firestone my case was brought up by Mike and that
Pitchess put down his drink, got a very stern look on his face and said to Mike, ‘You are
not to have any contact with Shaffer or even talk to him or discuss this case or you will
find yourself in the same condition. And that’s an order’. These are Mike’s words.
Pitchess then left the table they were sitting.
708
Black Panther David Hilliard
David lives in the Oakland California area and in 1994 wrote an autobiography.
He is also a public speaker. I email him in 2004 but have never received a reply.
Ex-wife Marilynn Ann
I had seen Marilynn a few times since my release, the last time was in 1980 I
believe, in Anaheim at her father’s birthday. Marilynn married black singer Bobby Bell,
but divorced him years later. She has two beautiful daughters.
Ex DDA Ralph Mayer, Ex-DDA
Mario Fukuto, Ex-Attorney Robert
London
709
I found their last address’s from the California Bar Association records and wrote
them in 2004 but never received a reply.
I am including some other legal papers for inspection and I highly suggest you
continue reading my time in prison. I was going to put this in a chronological order but
decided against it.
Other Documents
710
This is from 1968.
The Los Angeles County Counsel did not want to represent me in the civil lawsuit
but decided to change their minds. Here are a few documents from the civil hearing.
You can read more about this in the section on my prison time.
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
I tried for sometime to get copies of my arrest reports, supplemental reports,
copies of any recordings, whatever from Sheriff Leroy Baca in 2004 and 2005 but
apparently there is some ‘Pitchess’ provision that those records cannot be had unless a
superior court judge orders the release.
I mailed, faxed and emailed to over 2000 Los Angeles attorneys to help me only
getting a few responses that it could be done for about $10,000, which I just do not have.
Baca’s typical response:
720
Below is Paul Koerschgen’s sentencing information. R. Mayer was the DDA. $500 fine,
3 years probation, possession of a stolen weapon, etc.
721
Hard to read but Paul is to be a good boy for 3 years, stay employed, pay his fine, etc.
Count 2 was for him trying to erase the serial number from the gun he used to ‘plant’.
722
Al Campbell
I wrote that Al came to visit me at the prison once accompanied with Ed Roszyk.
I am not sure of the time frame but Al, after his on-duty injury retirement, did open a
western style bar or cocktail place in Anaheim near Disneyland. He named it ‘The
Wounded Knee’ after his gunshot injuries.
I saw Al twice after I was paroled. One time when I was in Anaheim I stopped by
to see him and have a drink. We had a great visit talking old times and I remember
asking him if many of the deputies hated me for what happened. He said many of them
hated themselves for doing nothing, saying little, and that his opinion was that a lot of
deputies, including sergeants, especially Sgt. Bud Wenke, still had no guts to stand up on
their own and tell the department ‘to go fuck themselves’.
He could not believe that not one single deputy, to his knowledge, ever tried to
give Malone a piece of their mind or a piece of their fist. He kept reminding me that it
was me who pulled the trigger but it was Malone who told the most lies and implicated a
lot of innocent deputies with his ‘they all held the .22’ testimony’,
He said he in particular had a hatred for Bill Sieber, who he thought that next to
Curtis Malone was ‘King-Rat’. He couldn’t believe that Sieber testified how he did but
felt someone else was pulling Sieber’s strings because he was on a ‘career path’ to bigger
and better things.
723
I believe the last time I saw Al was when I was at a high school reunion at the
Marriott in Orange County. I was sitting at the bar talking to school-mate and now a cop,
Bob Schroeder when I heard this very loud commotion going on in the dining area. It
was Al and he was very drunk as were his two friends. He came up and hugged me and
dragged me out of the reunion to go to a bar close by for a few drinks. We talked about
an hour and brought me back to the reunion and drove off (somehow) with his friends.
I heard from someone that Al Campbell died of a heart attack in about 1999. Al
was, in my opinion, a damn good deputy.
Ed ‘The Polish Prince’ Roszyk
Ed got fired by the sheriff’s department in the early 70’s. I never found out why
but could guess. One of his old partners, Grant Johnson, claimed in the Fpk.homestead
website that Ed had three pages of departmental violations against him and that he
bragged around the station about the number of violations, showing the letter to anyone
who cared to listen.
Although he was fired, and should have been way before that, Ed was one of the
smart deputy’s who got canned. He invested in old fixer-upper homes in the Manhattan
Beach, Redondo Beach areas. When I last saw him in about 1980 he was living in a
million dollar home he was selling.
724
He bragged on the fpk.homestead website on how many millions he had and those
poor saps who retired are probably living in some small retirement community in Nevada
or Arizona barely getting by on their pensions.
He has since moved to Colorado, still invests in real estate and has a few
construction businesses. In a phone conversation with him in 2004 he said he couldn’t
remember me at first, but thought he did. He did say he remembered Curtis Malone and
when he worked with him one night, Malone actually wet his pants when they had to
arrest a violent drunk driver. He reminded me that Lou Wallace was his roommate when
Lou was gunned down, and the best thing that could have ever happened to Ed was
getting fired by the department. According to Ed he was rich. Very rich.
Harold (Hal) Manskar
At approximately 8:05 pm 8/2/04 I received a phone call from Hal Manskar. I
was anticipating his call and when the phone rang my heart was beating wildly. Hal sent
a letter to my box in California that emphasized he wanted money for information, it was
unsigned but he left his email. I emailed him so we could arrange a call.
725
He told me he worked Vice for 25 years and then retired - as a deputy, had a few
bouts with cancer and was just trying to get along. He thought Carl Spreen had died a
few years back and did not know much about anyone else. He thought I did 7 years in
prison so it goes to show you how little he cared or knew or had such a guilt complex he
erased me from his mind. I think it was the latter.
He also said that he did not want to get involved in this again and just wanted to
forget what happened. His words were that when he left the courtroom in 1970 he never
wanted to look back.
I asked him why he changed his testimony about not hearing the ‘clicks’ that he
put in his report in 1968. He was quick to state that him changing his story and testimony
had nothing to do with me being convicted, but that Malone and Malone alone was the
cause of that, and he just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. A popular
theme.
I asked him why he changed his story. He told me that he came home from
vacation to find some detectives at his house and they wanted to take him for a
polygraph.
Hal was 29 when he went on the dept, an old man since the cut off then I believe
was either 30 or 35 years old. He had only been on a few years or less when this all
happened.
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He had his kids with him and the detectives hardly gave him time to change
clothes or find someone to watch his kids but when he got downtown he decided he did
not want to go to prison with me so he came ‘clean’.
He said “Sharing a prison cell with you was not what I wanted to do.”
I reminded him that in 1968 while writing his report he first told me he did not
hear any ‘clicks’ but later changed that he did, and asked why he did that.
His reply was, “I was doing what you do at Firestone”.
He also said his son joined the department 21 years ago and that his son told him
they teach about me at the academy. I tried to be able to go to the academy and teach
what not to do, at my expense, but they probably like their ‘murder’ version better.
I asked him to call me if he could think about anyone else or any circumstances
since my memory was not too clear on some things and since I was writing about this I
wanted to make sure everyone had their chance to respond before anything was published
if it ever was. I wonder if he will share my phone number with others and if I will get the
hate calls Steve Beeler did when he wrote his book?
His letter indicates he received an email from someone but later on he did tell me
he received a letter from me but he did not use my self-addressed stamped envelope.
I remember putting one of his quotes, that I was busily writing down while we
talked, on a website that I had posted once. He emailed me months later that I was
‘stretching the truth’ and that he wanted his name removed from my website and the
quote I used. He didn’t say it was a lie, just the truth stretched, whatever that means. I
727
conferred with an attorney who didn’t seem to think what I did was illegal but out of pity
for Hal I removed it. In his email he also asked me if I remembered “the real truth about
the shooting?”
Apparently Hal Manskar’s real truth about the shooting was I had asked him if he
wanted to shoot the burglar too while the burglar was bleeding to death on the storeroom
floor, but that he declined.
He also commented that he didn’t say anything….’ For obvious reasons’. For
obvious reasons that if he testified to that I would go to prison??? Duh! Of course,
Malone, in the alley hearing everything with his super-human hearing, never heard this,
neither did Carl Spreen, neither did I. My how the truth comes out after 35 years.
Paul D. Koerschgen, Los Angeles Police
Officer
Paul’s letter was dated July 20, 2004. He said he wasn’t sure if he wanted to visit
his accidental shooting in 1974, as it brings back bad memories. He gave me his email
address so I could tell him more about my project, which I did, in length. I received his
letter about 8/1/2004 so he must have held it for a while. I have never heard back from
him.
It’s funny to me that he refers to his shooting as ‘accidental’ since the newspaper
reported his fired six times and hit the suspect six times, but it could have been. He was
728
never charged with any type of homicide so it could have been determined to be one big
accident.
I wrote the Los Angeles Superior Court for a copy of Mr. Koerschgen’s
sentencing transcripts and after three months of waiting received them. They were very
interesting to say the least.
On June 3, 1976 Mr. Koerschgen appeared before Judge David Fitts for
sentencing in the case of A-306317. His prosecuting attorney was none other than my
old nemesis Ralph Mayer. The charges were 12090 PC, which is altering a serial number
on a firearm, and 487.3 and 485 PC, grand theft of a firearm, a .25 caliber pistol. The
exact same type I had in my pants pocket when my locker was searched.
It appears from the court records that Paul was convicted of all three counts, to
run concurrent with each other. He was FINED $500 and received probation of three (3)
years!
There are some very interesting remarks in his transcripts. Mr. Koerschgen was
carrying the .25 CZ pistol as a ‘throwaway’. It had no clip in it but it had one round in
the chamber but the pistol was designed in such a way that it would not fire the
chambered round unless a clip was in. Mr. Koerschgen came across the .25 when a
suspect in a burglary case dropped it in his presence some months prior, and instead of
turning it in he kept it and tried to alter or file down the serial number possibly to prevent
someone else later on finding out who the true owner was.
729
As the newspaper article indicated, he and his partner Officer Coppi did stop
Baldwin near Central Avenue and Avalon Blvd because it was a ‘heavy in narcotics use’
area and Baldwin ‘looked nervous’. During the stop and search he was asked for his
drivers license and Baldwin said it was in his car and when Baldwin went to his car he
put his knee on the front seat as if he diving into the automobile, and believing Baldwin
was going for a gun Koerschgen shouted to Coppi Baldwin was going for a gun and fired
five shots into Baldwin, not six as reported by the media.
Officer Koerschgen entered the car and realized Baldwin did not have a
gun so he ‘panicked’ because he was afraid he would loose his job (sound familiar?) so
he tossed the .25 caliber CZ next to Baldwin and then asked Coppi to pick it up and take
control of it.
Next the transcripts get very interesting. Koerschgen notices he has one live
round in his revolver and five spent casings. He unloads the cylinder because he was
using ‘unauthorized magnum rounds’, and replaces them with five spent .38 casings and
one live .38 round to hide the fact he used magnum! Does that sound familiar?
He states he only carried the .25 about ten times, did not know if it would fire but
did know it would eject a shell and tried to erase the serial number but stopped because
he ‘must have been scared.’
Apparently this .25 would not fire at all and his attorney was trying to have the
charge of altering a serial number of a firearm thrown out as he believed that a firearm
730
that would not fire did not meet the criteria of a ‘firearm’ for prosecution purposes. He
lost.
Apparently there was a grand jury investigation and a court trial, and out of all of
this Paul Koerschgen apparently only gets fined $500 and 3 years probation, unless I
missed something. Even though our actions are very similar mine are the premeditated
actions of a 1st degree murderer (changing magnum rounds to regular .38 rounds,
carrying a throwaway) and his are of an officer who was scared of loosing his job. But I
fired once and he fires apparently five times. Same DDA Mayer but very different
sentencing results. And I did not try to alter the serial number of the .22, which I would
have thought showed ‘state of mind’ for premeditation.
731
Time In The ‘Big House’, Stir,
The Pen, The Joint, Prison
This is as accurate as I can get. I did not change names in many cases and I
sincerely hope that any convict who reads about himself here lead a good, productive life
after being paroled. I am sorry if you are offended by this.
All of a sudden I could hear a loud bell ringing snapping me out of my nightmare
dream and I realized it was 6:30 am the next morning. I had been standing by my cell
window all night long in a daze. I quickly grabbed a bar of soap and washed my face and
hands and got to the cell door just as the guard was coming by for count. This was
supposed to be my day for psychological counseling, testing, physical, shots, blood and
urine samples and a dental examination.
732
I stood at the cell door peering out the small window and watched the inmates on
the crowded main floor, that was nick-named ‘skid-row’. The beds were so close it was
near impossible to walk between them. It was obvious the prison system was bulging at
the seams with more felons arriving than leaving the system.
I noticed about fifty inmates trying to use 2 small bathrooms on the main floor
and wondered how someone like myself who has always been used to personal privacy
would feel under these conditions. If you had to take a crap the whole world was
watching.
After washing up they returned to their bunks to await orders from the ‘day
officer’ to excuse them for breakfast. One floor would be called at a time in an
alternating schedule. I noticed most of the inmates on skid-row were looking up at me.
My face flushed when I realized they were waiting for me to exit my cell and the knots
tightened up in my stomach and all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry. I had a pucker factor of
‘10’, of course ‘10’ being the worst.
As I turned away from the window a few bars of soap crashed against my cell
door. Some already knew who I was and I wondered just how bad it could get. I really
wasn’t sentenced to ‘5 years to life’ by Judge Kolts, I was sentenced to ‘death’ by another
convict. ‘Why couldn’t Kolts see through the bullshit and order a new trial’, I thought.
I knew I was already dead just waiting for the casket but it was either starve and
although I was VERY afraid I was not going to show them any cowardice, remember, I
worked Firestone and that’s how a Firestone deputy would act. What macho bullshit! I
just figured if a fight did start at least I could hold em off til enough guards arrived.
733
When the floor officer called ‘2nd tier’, my tier, I stepped out trying to be as calm
and invisible as possible but anyone who has been the focus of lots of negative attention
knows you just can’t do that. No black holes to jump into, and a 6’7” you are anything
but invisible. I walked down the tier to the 14 steps leading down and stepped into the
chow line. The pressures were so great I wanted to walk up to the day officer and tell
him to put me into protective custody but I was too concerned how it would appear to the
other inmates, like I was a coward, or worse yet, that I was a guilty coward. And if you
ever been ‘hard-eyed’ with hate in your life, multiply that by 1000 as it was the look of
the day for me. I was focused my eyes on the man’s neck in front of me. That was the
best I could do to stay out of harms way.
I entered the double doors to the inmate cafeteria and walked into the serving line
and picked up a metal tray and an eating spoon. I would hold my tray out to the servers
and they would ignore it for as long as they could before the line came to a stop and
before it brought a look from the kitchen guard, with a cold, hateful stare my food would
be plopped on the tray. The guards did notice but thankfully said nothing.
Every server plopped what he was serving on top of the previous portion. When I
got to the end of the serving line I had a huge mound of food and my heart was racing so
fast I thought I couldn’t take another step or else I would stumble and drop my food tray.
I wondered what any of my ‘deputy friends’ would have done if they were in here and I
wasn’t? How would they act? Would Bill Sieber or Hal Manskar crack under these
conditions?
Each table holds four occupants and you cannot pick the table you want to sit at.
You have to take the next spot at the next available table regardless of who is sitting at it.
734
It could have been Huey Newton or three Black Panthers for that matter and I would find
them my table mates. As I approached the next available seat everyone in the mess hall
was starring at me. I wondered when the riot would start, the riot on my body.
The rotation took me to an empty table and I quickly sat down and started eating
as fast as I could looking down at my mound of mess. I was from a family of eight
siblings so I could eat very fast.
I glanced up and saw two white guys and a black guy approaching my table, and
all of a sudden another white inmate jumped in front of the black one. I wondered what
that was all about.
I never looked at the other three directly in the face. I just hoped that none of
them ‘railroaded’ into prison on the testimony of a cop who may have ‘bent’ the rules a
bit to secure a conviction.
“Relax man, we’re not going to bite you.” One said. “Hell, where I come from
you’d be given a medal for what you did.”
When I heard his voice I figured this table mate was from the south and maybe a
southern white racist, and I didn’t need any southern white racists as a conversation
partner at this time, but I decided to look him in the eyes and find out what he meant by
that, because it wasn’t like I killed a civil rights worker or bomber a black church.
I looked at the guy, who was in his early fifties maybe, had gray hair and a small
build. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t believe in murder, and what I said was
meant to mean that I don’t think you murdered that black either. What I meant was . . .
and this is a clumsy way to put it, ---well… if you worked for one of my departments
735
down home way, well., they wouldn’t have sold you down the river for it either.
Everyone makes a mistake. In fact, most of us white guys don’t take you for a murderer,
although most of the blacks do.”
I was in a quandary over his words, but I still wasn’t ready to make any prison
‘friends’. I’d heard too much about the white vs black shit.
“I’m Jeremiah Roberson”, and he put out his hand. I shook it lightly and
cautiously and he introduced me to the other two, Cyril Hanes and John Marsh.
Jeremiah Roberson was a familiar name, in fact, I just read a book in the county
jai1 about a Jeremiah Roberson, a Korean Medal of Honor recipient, but obviously this
could not the same guy sharing a table with me in California state prison. Could he?
The other two then did a little talking, each telling me if I needed anything they
would try to help me as they said that each man has to forget what he was on the outside
and to help those now in.
‘Help one another?’ I thought. My 2nd day here and this guy is talking about
helping one another? I don’t think so. White inmates kill white inmates too. Maybe this
is one big set up? I was still a bit paranoid and didn’t commit myself to anything. I
wanted to feel comfortable with these guys but I also knew that false security might get
me into trouble. I thanked them and got up, and went back to my cell.
As I exited the dining hall there was a commotion on skid-row near the
bathrooms. Two inmates appeared to be in a pushing match over something and a fight
in the dorm could mean a mass riot in a few minutes if not stopped. A few guards started
736
towards the commotion while another got on the phone and notified someone of the
trouble.
This was my first lesson in prison fights. They are not what they may appear to
be. On patrol my old training officer Lewis Cornelius used to tell me, ‘don’t look at the
barking down, look down the alley where the dog is facing’, meaning pay attention
elsewhere.
Just as I was about to turn the other direction I caught a glimpse of a swinging
dark skinned arm and a fist glanced off my right temple knocking my glasses off. I
stepped to the side and as the momentum of my assailant took him past me as he swung
very hard, enough to put me out with a single sucker punch if it would have landed
squarely, I chopped him on the back of his neck and then grabbed his shirt collar and
violently jerked him backwards and he fell flat on his back with a loud thump.
The next thing I knew I had four guards gang tackling me to the floor and they
were rough. I tried to submit but their adrenalin was pumping and they cuffed me and
carried me off to the ‘hole’. The other two who started the pushing match were also
taken to the ‘hole’, in their own cells and I realized they were the diversion so this black
inmate could sucker punch me. This was a lesson I would never forget.
I spent a few hours there until on of the lieutenants came to get me after they got
the straight information as to what happened. He wasn’t happy with me but I told him
what did he expect me to do? Get attacked and just stand there?
737
He wasn’t sure what to do with me but I told him I needed to go back to the same
dorm in general population. I did not want it to appear that I got special treatment. He
said ok.
I was returned to the dorm and to my cell but I was to be locked in for a few days
and would be served my meals there. I brushed my teeth and tried to make my bed look
like the example in the picture on the wall and sat down on the toilet. The guards would
bring my meal on a tray with a few magazines til my punishment was over.
After a few days a guard walked by and handed me a ducat, or prison pass, and
told me anytime I had to go anywhere I was to make sure I had a pass o my person. I still
hadn’t done my testing so my first pass took me to a testing room, and although I was
five minutes late I was the first one to arrive. I suppose that being on time in the joint
wasn’t going to mean very much to the people here, and by being early, I was noticeably
standing by myself in the hallway in a strange part of the institution.
The door was opened from the inside and I walked in, taking a chair in the back
corner with my back up against the wall. A sharply dressed convict waited until the room
filled and them started a indoctrination on prison life. He said he was a three-time check
forger, and was giving us the average time we would have to serve based on our
respective sentence. His figures were based on correctional statistics.
Then I started in on two days of straight testing on math, English, IQ, logic and
psychological tests, the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Index and the Draw a Person
(DAP), which was a sketch that was supposed to determine your psychological makeup,
These tests would be a permanent part of your prison jacket.
738
Before leaving the county jail there was a book circulating called the ‘Brain
Watchers’, which was all about psychological testing and the techniques on how to beat
the system and the trick questions. The book described the best answers, but I wondered
how I would have been classified if I answered them truthfully, maybe finding something
about myself that the staff here should know. The only problem was that inmates were
checking the test answers and scores, not free people, so who knows who may have
found about this confidential information?. And even if I wanted to be honest since I
read the book how much influence would it have on me?
The last piece of paper given was a ‘cop-out’sheet, where I was suppose to give
my version of what happened in my crime. I could see myself filling this thing out and
handing it to another convict who was sure to read it in his spare time. I hadn’t yet seen a
staff psychologist in all this testing, only inmates,
While I was writing ‘fuck-you’ on the cop-out sheet I heard three blacks in front
of me talking about the ‘pig’ who just came in on a murder beef. They commented on
the mother-fucker should be ‘offed’ as soon as possible. Here I was sitting right behind
them and as of yet no one in my dorm was scheduled for testing along with me, so for a
while I was safe. It’s an odd feeling to get somewhat relaxed then hear something like
that and the pucker factor tightens up again. For these few days I went back and forth for
testing until it was completed. Afterwards I was assigned a job working in the receiving
area as a typist and print-man. Me, a fucking print man! You would think the Captain
would find me a lower exposed position, like reading a magazine in my cell all day. No,
he puts me where all the new felons are arriving so I can use my technical skills to
work…fingerprinting.
739
One afternoon I left the locked area of the receiving section to go deliver copies
of the incoming prisoners to the captain’s clerk and then return, The door to the booking
area to the main corridor is kept locked and is only opened when someone knocks loud
and long. This was another why? for me. Why in the hell was I strolling along the main
corridor where every grease slicked brother was trying to look very cool.
I made my delivery and returned to the door and knocked, getting no response. I
figured the officer on the inside probably thought I was one of the constantly pacing
convicts who knocked on the door just to cause a nuisance.
So it was a wait and see situation and I knew he would eventually have to let
someone out soon, so I leaned against the wall to wait. About five blacks were coming
down the corridor towards me, just strolling. Being not quite yet at ease in my new
environment I knocked once again, still keeping my back to the wall.
As they got close, I heard one of them tell the others I was the pig from Los
Angeles (anywhere else but L.A. and I could have gotten by) and their expressions turned
from cool to very hostile. As they were encircling me and calling me the usual dirty
mother fucking, dog dick licking, maggot fucking pig bastard comments, I was trying to
think who I was going to grab first and try to pound on while the others beat the shit out
me and stomped me to death while waiting for a door to be opened. . I looked down the
hall and whatever convict pedestrian traffic there was before was now gone, with only a
few guys now serving as look-outs in case one of the guards appeared. I was fucked.
My heart is pounding and the adrenalin is starting to flow. My eyes are focusing,
my hands are becoming fists and I figured when they got within kicking range I would
start. I watched as one in the center of the group reached into his zipper area and pulled a
740
wrapped object from his pants, that I had to figure to be a prison made knife. He was my
first target since he posed the worst threat. Knuckles a feet I could take until the guards
arrived but steel in my ribs I don’t think I could.
As he came at me I kicked out fast and hard with a high roundhouse, the one my
aikido master made me practice a thousand times, striking him on the side of his neck and
he eyes went up into his head and he was out cold. A few others then started punching at
me and then I felt a sharp pain in my back near my shoulder. Shit! One of these fuckers
actually stabbed me but then I could hear the lock being opened on the door and my
assailants began to make a fast retreat down the hall picking up their buddy. As soon as
the door opened I made a fast entrance almost pushing the officer over. I was shaking but
I sat down at my typewriter station as natural as possible and the guy behind me quietly
remarked that I was bleeding. Someone walked up and draped a tower over my shoulder
and told me to go to the bathroom and straighten up before the ‘bulls’ saw it as it would
be ‘hole’ time again if discovered. The inmates obviously knew something had
happened.
I left the area going back to my room like I was going to shower. Since my dorm
was a work crew dorm I could come and go as I pleased without and problems from the
guards. I went to my room and took off my shirt and flushed it down the toilet. I didn’t
want any evidence of a fight lying around. I managed to wash the small puncture wound
and put on a clean shirt, kind of feeling good about the outcome of the hassle. I was still
alive and got a few blows in, but I knew the word would get around about the scuffle.
And if no one was rounded up for a trip to the ‘hole’ for fighting, the word would also get
around that I was not crying foul because of the attack. If I were sane I would have
741
volunteered for protective custody about now. The worst thing I could so was to ‘rat’ on
my attackers. I understood that I was going to have to take my lumps and bruises as best I
could. Being an ex-cop and scared were bad enough hang-ups but a snitch I wasn’t going
to be if I could help it. I kept my mouth shut when I was a deputy (and it got me into
prison) but it couldn’t do me any harm in keeping my mouth shut and a great deal if I
opened it, although the temptation was there.
In prison there is a small problem when you flush something down the toilet. It
doesn’t go to the ocean. Prisons are self-contained cities and when built they expect
contraband to be flushed down the toilet so it ends up in a ‘capture’ facility and
everything that is not a turd gets retrieved. Guns, knives, dope, clothes, whatever.
So a day or two later the Captain calls me into his office and there is a shirt on his
desk with a small tear in the back. He asks me if I know anything at all about the shirt
and I tell him that I don’t. He asked me if I was really sure about that answer and I said
yes and he told me to go back to work.
The next week went by fast. I was working In the booking area with ex-Texas
Chief Wayman Dial and ex-DDA Jack Kirschke and some other friendly convicts, and
still getting the sloppy food and hate stares during meals.. I seemed to be growing used to
it.
One afternoon one of the guards asked me to go out into the yard to find an
inmate who was supposed to be testing but when I tried to tell him the outside yard was
somewhere I wasn’t to go he sort of just pushed him in the direction. I ventured out onto
the yard, and there were handball games going on and weightlifting but I watched from a
from a distance. I no sooner got out there then I recognized the stupidity of what I was
742
doing here, as a few dozen Mexicans started getting up from their benches and walking in
my direction. I could hear the word that ‘this fool’ was out on the yard.
Having such keen powers of observation I was able to spot my difficulty, in fact
my asshole was getting tight. As I was going back in a group of blacks were forming in
the small hallway that lead to the main corridor. All I had to do was walk this ten foot
hallway, that was without gun coverage or visual coverage from the guards and I would
be a bit safer..
As I walked up to the steps I could feel the presence of a heavy atmosphere, and
‘this fool’ was going to get what his stupidity deserved for going where he shouldn’t
have. I heard ‘he should be killed’ and saw there was no place for me to go, unless I
bulled my way right through them. A big black guy sort of stepped in front of me and
things settled down, and he actually lead me through this black sea of enemies. This guy
just gently pushed the others out of the way and I followed him to the safety of the
corridor. I heard a ‘now we’re even’ and he went the other way, and he kind of looked
like the guy who tried to stab me in the corridor a few days before. I never saw him
again.
In June 1970, I was waiting for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s bus to come in,
and when it did I always had that bad feeling when it came. It usually visited here
Monday and Thursday. I always felt that I would meet someone I didn’t want to, and it
was on Mondays and Thursday’s that I questioned why the Captain assigned me a job in
the fucking booking area.
743
I noticed a familiar name on the list of new arrivals. It wasn’t the actual name of
the person being booked but an alias he used - Molette. I first thought the guy used it
because he read it in the papers or phone book, since it was an unusual name, I thought..
When the actual booking sheet came in with the inmates, I saw the address of this
Molette, and it was the same as Roderick Molette’s. It was his brother, who was sent to
prison on robbery and burglary charges. It seems crime runs in the family.
Jack Kirschke was kind of the inmate boss in the receiving area and I decided to
tell Jack Kirschke about this Molette standing next to me, not being hostile at all like I
would have been if I found the guy who killed my brother, but telling those who would
listen that I was the …. ‘Clark Kent’ bastard who shot my brother’ (Clark Kent was a
nickname I would picked up because some thought I looked like the TV Superman).
In a flash there were five prison guards in the area and I was promptly escorted to
my cell by two officers and ordered to remain there for four days until this Mollette was
transferred to the California Medical Facility at Vacaville, a fancy name for a prison that
held some criminally insane like Charles Manson.
And after all of that I was given a new job, working in the photography darkroom
and out of the main stream of incoming prisoners. Now I had to make up the number
boards and prison ID cards in a separate darkened room with a very cool inmate.
I also found out that no one really quite understood what this Mollette was saying.
He failed to tell anyone I was a deputy-sheriff, and the mother-fucker who killed his
brother. When he said ‘brother’, most of the guys figured that stood for ‘brother’ as in
‘black brother’ and not the relation brother. The only guy who understood what Molette
744
was saying was a white inmate who was a Firestone station trustee, ( a trustee was a
sentenced misdemeanor prisoner who washed cars at the station, cleaned up the place or
shined shoes) while I was a deputy there and he was now in prison on burglary charges.
I did not recognize him but he recognized me, and he told me he wouldn’t snitch me off
cause I was ‘cool’. Cool? I was in the fucking joint and he thought that was ‘cool’.
In July 1970 I was given what is referred to as a Notice of Legal Status (attached)
and also a chance to talk to the prison counselors about my case, which I wanted very
much to do. My legal status briefly explains who sentenced me, for how long, was a
weapon used, and when I can get out. But many inmates told me that help from a
counselor was a figment of my imagination, because the war to freedom is difficult when
those who can help you lack personal warmth and interest. I didn’t believe that I would
get such treatment, since I was innocent of murder and hoped this counselor would
believe me.
My counselor was a woman named Mrs. Schneider. I couldn’t figure out why any
woman would want to sit in a prison counselor’s office and view files and talk with men
all day long about their crimes and lives, but just figured this was more of a man’s
position in a man’s prison.
When I received my pass to go see her I was instructed to bring whatever
statements and materials I had to rebutt the statements made by Deputy DA Ralph Mayer
in his 1203.3 PC report to my probation officer, Mr. Sefferin, whom I thought was a
weak minded jelly-fish.
I took in an armful of materials, and when I entered her office there was another
person there, whom Mrs. Schneider said was a beginning counselor. I was getting used to
745
audiences with these kinds of meetings, because I think the people came to listen to the
cop tell us why he murdered a burglar. I always felt that I should freak out at one of these
meetings and foam at the mouth and scream ‘It felt so good to pull the trigger’ and then
start to masturbate. That would probably have gotten me less time in prison but make a
lasting impression on them.
I brought out notes, trail letters, transcripts, etc. I was really getting into it when
Mrs Schneider told me it was time for her coffee break and that I had to leave. We were
finished. From that moment on, I realized that there would be absolutely no one in the
system who would take an interest to me get out. My notes and materials were useless. I
was convicted of murder and that was that. I was a dead man.
I was also told I had to see the staff psychologist, figuring it was about my test
results, as my IQ results were reported as 150! That had to be a mistake. And anyway, I
wanted to find out how I was classified mentally.
In his office was the stereotypical sofa, a desk with some abstract objects on it,
and a wheel spinning on a cabinet behind the desk. The psychologist was wearing a
purple paisley flowered sports coat and red slacks, and wasn’t sure if his mother still
dressed him for work or not or if he was going golfing after our session.
He directed me to sit down and I did. He started off by telling me I was far from
being crazy, insane or psychotic. But, he was interested in knowing what happened in my
case. What were the particulars of the shooting, was the man black, did I lie, etc.
“Is this conversation confidential?”, I asked.
“Certainly not. What gave you that idea?”
746
I looked at him oddly and asked, “If you’re my psych, why shouldn’t it be? How
do you expect the truth?”
“My only reasons for having you here is I want to know who you used such a
high powered caliber bullet to shoot this man. You see, I am doing a study on violence
and the use of firearms associated with different kinds of violence. Your case seems quite
unique in that you were a policeman.”
“You’re a psychologist doing a study on the inmates here who use firearms when
they commit their crimes, and if cops can carry guns what’s so unique about a policeman
shooting a man with a gun of any caliber?” , I asked.
“Oh, but that’s the beauty of it all. You used a large caliber weapon of some sort,
let’s see here, my reports indicate it was a .357 magnum gun. Seems a bit of an over-kill,
don’t you think? You don’t need that to wound someone, do you?” he asked.
I replied, “Tell me something. Are you related to Ralph Mayer or James Kolts or
Al Landry or Willie Wilson? You all parrot the same thing. What I think you need to do
I to get out once in a while in the real world and quit watching Dragnet and tune into
some real cop shows. And maybe you’re the one who needs a psych evaluation, not me.
Good day.” And I walked out.
I got up and left his office thinking how I would have to write Mr. Marks and tell
him this bullshit that was going on. It must have been a delusion or mine to expect ANY
help, so I must be crazy. But if I could get help from anyone, it would be the Catholic
priest, and that was another brutal mistake.
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A few days later I visited with the priest and after telling him some of the details
he interrupts me with, “What do you mean the sheriff’s department teaches you to shoot
to kill?” he bellowed. “Do you mean that they train you to take a life, a precious life put
on this earth by God himself?”
“Father, you don’t understand police work. I have a spiritual problem that has
bothered me for quite some time. It wasn’t my intentions when I entered the last room to
shoot this man, but it wasn’t a conscious choice in the matter.”
“Well, I should think they would teach you how to shoot to wound. The thought
of taking a precious life . .” he drifted off.
“Wait!” I replied, “how can a person differentiate under stressful conditions
whether or not a bullet fired with the intention to even wound a man won’t eventually kill
him?”
He looked at me like I was nuts and said, “I won’t have such nonsense. The
sheriff’s department teaching you how to kill is making killers out of too many young
men.”
I got mad. ”I can see that I’m wasting my time and that any spiritual help from
you is out of the question. Did you compare notes with the counselors and psychologist
before I got here?”
I left, more frustrated and chagrined than when I arrived. This whole place is a
lunatic asylum. Priest, counselor, doctor, no one wants to help and listen, so my best
policy was just to keep my mouth shut.
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(In an inquiry regarding my ‘Psychological Classification’, Dr William Barkley at
the California Men’s Colony in San Luis Obispo told me exactly how I was classified:
Passive Aggressive Personality, and he added, “somebody somewhere had used that old
outdated term ‘passive-aggressive personality’, because people who have committed
crimes are unfortunately dumped under that label.” And he also stated, “I can’t find
anything wrong with you and think you are quite well adjusted.)
After figuring that nothing short of a release from a judge would help me, I tried
to settle down and just start doing my time, day by day. I began to meet some of those
guys I worked with and because I was a cop, or so they thought because I never admitted
it, they began to tell me their stories on how they got thrown into prison, probably
thinking I had a solution to their incarceration.
Almost every man in prison has to rationalize his presence there, either by the cop
lying, it was unconstitutional, they promised me county jail, or whatever. Because of this
most prisoners will contend they are innocent, and if they went through what I did I
would have to agree with them, but still convicted.
I contended my innocence to murder, which is suppose to have some kind of
premeditation, unless you’re convicted in California, where 2nd degree is a catch all for
something the prosecutor can’t figure out. But the ones who yell the loudest were the
ones in on sex crimes. In the pecking order of criminal respectability, sex criminals and
sexual offenders in on psychiatric treatment are usually on the lowest of the list, but many
times it is impossible to determine sexual pleasures from crimes. To get an erection at
seventy and screw some sixteen year old should be a feat or human strength, not statutory
rape. I learned that the easy thing for me was to accept the man as he is, and make up
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your own mind if you want his association. His past is just that— past. We are all
convicted felons, we all wear blue pants and shirts and state made shoes. It you don’t like
him after you get to know him, you just cut him loose. Deep down, each one of us
probably has something in our past that COULD have landed us in prison. Whether the
actions were considered criminal are not important. But I knew if another convict thought
my actions were criminal and didn’t want my association, no sweat, and probably the less
social exposure I had, the less I was to become involved in prison bullshit.
Don was an older guy in my dorm who said he just ‘kissed’ his step daughter’s
vagina in a night of drunken madness, and plead guilty to statutory rape, which carried a
1 to 50 year sentence, but Don was in on 90 day psychiatric testing. That meant his best
case was going back to court and be released by the judge. Worst case he would be
sentenced to do his 1 to 50 year term.
I’m sure that lots of dirty old men think about marrying a woman who has a
young daughter so he can screw the beautiful daughter, but Don said no, it was all a
mistake. And four months after their ‘affair’, she tells her pastor, and since this
apparently wasn’t a confidential confession the pastor calls the police who arrest Don.
Don’s public defender made a ‘deal’ with the district attorney and had him cop a
plea to the stat rape because oral copulation had a life top. And because he only kissed
her ‘down there’ once, the district attorney accepted his guilty plea, and the judge, who
was left out of the plea arrangement, sent Don to prison, after the public defender told
Don he would only get a year in the county jail. That was Don’s story.!
I told Don that under those circumstances he got had, but those weren’t the
circumstances. He did only kiss her ‘down there’ once, but that was on the first date.
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After he got by the first date he screwed the hell out of her for four months, every night,
it was fuck, suck and cum. Anal, oral and vaginal. He taught he well for an old guy. He
got turned in because when she dated the boys in high school she was the aggressor for
sex and scared most of them off. She couldn’t figure why no one wanted to eat her out
on the first date so she went to the pastor. Don never told me that but when you work
where all the records are and you’re an ex-cop, people (officials) have a tendency to tell
you more because they trust me..
I knew of local Firestone girls around 15 years old who would screw the local
baseball team for 25 cents each after the Saturday game. So when you know one of them
screwed her, you know they all did. But they were all about the same sexually deviant
age.
Probably what turned me off to Don the most was he used to go around spouting
Genesis, chapter 19, verses 30 to 38, about Lot fucking his daughters trying to carry on
the tribes of Ammons and Moabites. And if you think about it I doubt Lot would have
gotten away with it today. No judge is going to worry about some old man wanting to
keep his seed going because god told him to do so, or something like that. And it seemed
you could almost tell the sex offenders from the rest on the size of the cross they wore
around their neck. The worse the crime the larger the cross.
Another dorm-mate I had the honor of meeting was Mo, a guy with seven
children who is working two jobs and taking bennies to keep awake. After being stopped
by LAPD on a traffic charge, he falls out of his truck on his face (he had been drinking
too) and the pills, two rolls of bennies, come rolling out of his pocket.
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Now forty bennies is not a big bust those days, (I knew deputies who had more in
their locker) and a guy with seven kids and two jobs could expect an easy sentence, so
Mo pleads guilty to simple possession. But simple possession in his case doesn’t mean
easy time. Back then there was a law about prior drug arrests, and Mo had one eight years
prior. And this meant he had to do at least five years before being paroled! The drug
laws were pretty draconian even in the early 70’s.
If Mo had a keg of bennies (50,000) I’d say ‘to jail’, but forty of them, and not
giving the name of the person he bought them from, sent him up. Why, I could remember
times when I would destroy small amounts of dope (not heroin) and kick a guy in the ass
and let him go. The DA’s won’t waste time on small cases and anyway, the brass think a
small amount is a ‘plant’ just to book some guy who had a big mouth. It was for some
deputies at Firestone but not me.
I remember a deputy who busted a guy with two shopping bags of reds, two
shopping bags full! And a ‘red’ (a downer) is about the size of a time release cold
capsule). That was thousands of them. But somehow only one bag got into the evidence
locker, and this deputy started making the most drug arrests in the station, with good
amounts too. I didn’t know he only booked one shopping bag as evidence but his partner
had to have known. (And anybody who tells you that cops don’t use bennies or reds for
‘good’ purposes although they were obtained in this fashion, is a misinformed jerk)
I over heard a few deputies talking in the locker room that they were pissed
because he wouldn’t share any of the loot. Apparently the deputy in question would add
more pills to someone’s illegal stash to boost up the possibility of a felony conviction
instead of a misdemeanor. One of the deputies wanted some reds so he could empty the
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drug out and replace it with rat poison and then drop them in the appropriate places about
town. Surprize!
But there are drawbacks to planting drugs on guys, like when the federal narcotic
boys fell in 1969 over planting heroin in a telephone booth to get some guy they wanted
real bad. The only thing they didn’t know was some other agents, working on the same
dude, were taking pictures of the whole thing. Now, I NEVER planted dope on a guy just
to take him to jail, but a lot of guys do that to deter crime and get a suspected hype off the
streets. And one less hype usually meant about fifty less burglaries.
Malone pulled that trick on me when he ‘found’ four reds on a Mexican national
we arrested for grand theft auto. The suspect was passed out in a stolen 59 Chevy like he
was overdosed, and since I didn’t search him and Malone did, I figured the reds were a
good bust.
At the preliminary hearing in municipal court the grand theft auto charge was
dismissed because the auto theft deputy didn’t make it to court to present testimony of
bring official charges, so the Mexican was held on the drug charges.
Malone told me in the hallway of the Huntington Park court that it was a good
thing he planted the guy else he’d be walking right now. I didn’t get too upset, only
almost strangled him with his own tie. Malone was trying to say “ , , I thought that’s the
way you did things at Firestone?”
I went to the DA’s office to find out what court the superior court hearing would
be in, and I told Malone to ignore the subpoena when it came so he wouldn’t appear in
court as a witness and without a witness the Mexican would be turned loose. Auto theft
753
can worry about refilling charges on the grand theft auto but I wasn’t going to put some
poor slob away on false evidence. I sound like an angel, don’t I?
I tried to get this into court at my trial but Judge Kolts wouldn’t allow it, he said
Malone wasn’t on trial, I was.
Anyway, Mo was able to talk himself into a short county jail term and eventually
want home to his seven kids and wife. He must have given up his source.
The two guys I worked with in the photo lab were probably the nicest I ever knew
in prison. One was an ex-engineer still on paid salary he said, in for shooting his wife and
her lover. The other one was a suave counterfeiter who got caught forging vehicle
ownerships. This guy had wall to wall carpeting in his cell., a knit bed-spread and custom
cardboard air vents!
On Saturdays when no one was working we would sit in our air-conditioned work
cubicle and eat strawberry sundaes and get our material ready for the next week. We were
pretty much on our own, and possessed the only pair of legal 12” scissors by a convict in
that joint. We were trusted. Really trusted.
I was enjoying working in the photo lab and was into a routine and developing
good relationships with many of the other convicts, meaning I kept my mouth shut and to
myself. They knew who I was but they were accepting me and asked me to play on their
softball team. But this wasn’t real prison.
I requested from the sergeant who ran the receiving and photo lab detail to keep
me on the permanent work crew, so I could be close to Los Angeles, and because I was
familiar with this place and it was getting safer for me in a fashion. I had a good routine,
754
a nice cell and friendly cell neighbors who were convicted of felonies but were not
CONVICTS. There is a difference.
But, the state had other plans for me and I had to see the ‘Rover Boy’. The Rover
Boy is the man who travels from prison to prison, classifying prisoners as to their
custody: minimum, medium and maximum, and sends them to the other prisons to keep
them in balance. He has the final say if a convict goes to San Quentin, Soledad, Folsom,
wherever.
I walked into the private chambers the adult authority uses for parole hearings and
met a stocky build man who advised me that my request to stay at the reception center
was denied. He said Los Angeles County homicide and Sheriff Pitchess wanted me
anywhere in Northern California, but not Southern California. The county wanted me
away from my old partners and easy contact with them. He told me I could go to
Vacaville, or Tehachapi (the center for drug addicts in on civil commitment) or the Men’s
Colony at San Luis Obispo.
Apparently the system didn’t do their homework (or maybe they did and wanted
to go to Vacaville or Tehachapi on purpose.) I told him I couldn’t go to Vacaville since
Mollette’s brother was there, and Frank Morales was at CCI the name for Tehachapi, so
San Luis Obispo was their only other somewhat safe alternative. Certainly Quentin and
Folsom were out, I hoped.
This man came absolutely unglued because none of the other men were
documented in my file as ‘keep-aways’. He didn’t know a thing about them, which lead
755
me to think someone worked for corrections wasn’t concerned about my safety and was
maybe doing a favor for Pitchess..
I told him that I had been partially accepted here and wanted to stay. I was very,
very scared to go to another prison where things would be new all over again, and for me
that would be taking a risk. Here, I was being judged as a person, not an ex-cop, but he
said my presence was dividing the dorm and creating hostilities. I told him Jack Kirschke
ex-deputy district attorney was here, and two other cops from other counties.
“Yes, but neither of them killed a black man while on duty.” He said.
So that was it. Since my ‘victim’ was black I was headed northbound soon. I was
sorry I had to leave my new home. That night I found out the convict who was yelling the
most to have me moved was a fat Asian prisoner who was in the state system because the
federal system was too hot for him since an organized crime ‘contract’ was out on him.
Where he was housed now was almost the perfect spot for him. He felt there were already
too many cops on the work crew.
The next day Sgt Sears gave me a large blue envelope entitled “Wrongful Death
Suit”. And as the blood rushed to my head I read Mr. and Mrs. Mollette were suing me
and the county for the death of their son.
Jack Kirschke told me it was really a fight between Los Angeles County and the
Mollett’s because case law had determined years ago that because I was on duty they
were the ones who would have to pay.
I sent the lawsuit paperwork to Burton Marks, and he sent me a copy of the
‘Answer’ to sign and file, but the ‘Answer’ had me listed as a per-per (on my own),
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which meant to me that Burton Marks was preparing to part company with me now that I
was in prison and broke.
While I was talking to the other two ex-deputies (one from Riverside County and
the other from San Bernardino County) that evening about the civil suit, in one of the
other dorms a group of hardcore inmates jumped a guard, tied him to a barber chair and
beat him. They took his keys and tried to make an escape, just to find out that the guard
inside their dorm didn’t carry a key to open the outside door. It has to be opened from the
outside as a security precaution. They had plans to kill the guard but the alarm was
sounded and the prison grounds were filled with out side cops and guards waiting to
storm inside and kick ass. They surrendered.
The next morning one of the officers at the guidance center asked me if I would
like to go to the California Institute for Men, which was only across the street from the
guidance center, and be a worker in the gym. I told him that I would do anything to stay
around here, as it seemed that Larry Herman, ex-LAPD officer convicted for fraud a few
years ago who was doing his time there was getting paroled so his job would be open.
The officer called Herman for me so we could talk, and I would be roomed with
his roommate, an ex-LAPD sergeant who fell on a bribery charge or something. Anyway,
I knew who my roommate would be, and asked Herman to recommend me for his job. I
was in ‘hog heaven’, literally.
When Herman recommended me to the guard who ran his detail someone at his
prison facility wanted to know how we got to talk to each other. Then the guard who
made the call for me was found out and got into trouble for his actions and I didn’t get
757
the job. I was devastated because it would have been perfect for me but I don’t think the
guard who was trying to help me knew of the clout LA County had.
That afternoon I decided to watch TV for the first time in months. The TV room,
usually reserved for viewing only, was also filled with beds because of the overflow.
Actually, Wayman Dial wanted someone to go with him, and although he knew more
convicts than I did, he still felt uneasy in there by himself.
The movie of the day just happened to be a damn movie on an old-time prison and
the corrupt warden. The warden and most of his staff were crooks themselves and beat
the prisoners at every turn, and lock them in solitary confinement and starve them half to
death. What a thing to be watching in the joint.
During the movie there was a news-flash concerning an LAPD shooting when
detectives and officers went to a San Fernando apartment looking for a murder suspect
with an out-of-city warrant. They were actually accompanying some out of city
detectives who were going to serve the warrant, and LAPD was going to assist.
One of the detectives knocked on the door of the suspect’s apartment, and when
the door was opened those outside saw a man trying to get out a window. In typical
stupid police fashion a gun goes off and a wild shootout starts and a couple of men are
killed. After an investigation it seems the apartment was filled with illegal aliens who
were thinking the cops were immigration so everyone headed for a window. So the whole
incident was a can of worms, and here was Mr. Burton Marks, representing an LAPD
sergeant, giving his news release defending his client.
758
By that time I could feel almost every eyeball glued to my back, and although I
wanted to hear more so I could get pissed off at Marks for never setting up a news
conference for me, I felt for my safety and tried to leave without making a spectacle
about it. That wasn’t quite possible as someone threw a shoe past my head.
On Monday, July 27, 1970 I was awakened at 3 am by the graveyard officer and
told to ‘roll it up’, that I was going on the bus to the Men’s Colony. I was apprehensive
about going to the San Luis Obispo prison. I heard it had two sides to it. The east-side
was a maximum facility and the west-side was a minimum work crew facility and I was
getting that returning jittery scared feeling when I first arrived here. New people, new
faces, and getting re-accepted in a real joint that had many more inmates than this place,
and there was always the possibility I would meet someone I arrested.
The supervision here was much tighter and closer than the Sal Luis Obispo eastside that had big yards, riots, and gun towers that didn’t cover every yard. I only hoped
that Marks’ recent letter might mean I was getting out soon. He indicated he had found
some case law that dealt with a police deliberate shooting that was also accidental. (see
his letter)
BURTON MARKS
ARTHUR SHERMAN
ROBERT LONDON
VICTOR SHERMAN MICHAEL D. NASATIR
OF COUNSEL
JACK K. BERMAN EUGENE M.SCHWARTZ
MARKS, SHERMAN AND LONDON
SIXTH FLOOR
PERPETUAL SAVINGS BUILDING
759
9720 WILSHIRE BOULEVARD
BEVERLY HILLS, C4 90212
TELEPHONE (213) 278- 2301
June 18, 1970
(Dict .6/16/70)
SAN FRANCISCO OFFICES
PENTHOUSE -THE FRANCISCAN
1231 MARKET STREET
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 94103 TELEPHONE 415) 626-3344
Mr. Robert Shaffer
No. B27884
P. 0. Box 441
Chino, Calif. 91710
Dear Mr. Shaffer:
I had your probation report which you requested on June 14, 1970, sent to you, but did
not answer your letter. With regard to Mr. Wakefield, I would assume that you must take
a consistent position with that previously taken.
In the meantime, I hope to have your allergy (to incarceration) cured in the very near
future.
I thought you might be interested in the paragraph from a recent Supreme Court case
(California) which seems to bolster up my contentions made regarding the failure to give
manslaughter instructions
BM:dvv
Enc.
I’ll let you know immediately if anything happens.
Very truly yours,
P.S. The San Bernardino Court denied the petition. We are going up to the Supreme
Court.
B.M.
.
760
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I rolled up my bedding and brought it with me to the TV room, also carrying my
beg of toiletries and extra stainless steel razor blades given to me by another inmate I
worked with. The extra blades were as good as gold in here.
The light in the cell left of mine was on so I was going to say good-bye to the
convict in it, a guy I played a lot of checkers with. I had told Bruce good-bye yesterday
762
and thanked him for what he had done for me, but this other guy, an odd-ball in on a
check passing charge, was my checker-partner.
I peeked into his cell and saw he was nude and masturbating masturbating, so I
thought better about saying anything, and just walked down the darkened tier to the TV
room. There were four of us waiting to be shipped out so we watched cartoons for an
hour and then we were told to go out into the main corridor and to sit on the floor. Other
prisoners were being escorted from the other dorms and were taking their place on the
floor. We sat here another hour until breakfast. Hurry up and wait, the usual bullshit.
There were about forty inmates in the hallway, most of them bound for Quentin
and Folsom, with only eight bound for the Men’s Colony-East. And the blacks, lined up
against the opposite wall, started with their bullshit ‘mother-fucker’ routine that I knew I
would have to listen to the next twelve hours. I Just fixed my eyes on the spots on the
floor the maintenance crew missed, and they were becoming very interesting.
A guard took us from the hallway into the Madronne Hall kitchen and we ate
bacon, eggs, cereal and coffee. I could hear others referring to me as ‘ the murdering cop
dog who ought to be dead’. And again during this meal I thought how many other
deputies that I worked with were strong enough to put up with this crap, and wonder how
they would have acted. I could picture Malone crying in a corner somewhere, and Ralph
Mayer, well, he’d probably commit suicide rather than go the big yard. And I prayed
they would someday be sentenced to prison!
After the meal we went back into the main corridor and sat on the floor, with four
guards keeping a close eye on us all of the time. I was determined that I was going to
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stare down anyone who wanted to play the game, and it was know a game of ‘hard-eye’
and ‘sticks and stones’. I wasn’t worried about anyone behind me because my back was
to the wall.
We were called in group of four at a time, searched thoroughly, and then led to
the receiving and release room, passing two locked security gates in the corridor, with an
officer at each gate. There would be no less than three officers at an one time with any
group of four inmates.
Upon entering the R&R area I was told to strip down for a skin search.
Afterwards we were advised to use the toilet as the next relief would be many hours
away.
Then I went to the small receiving room where I was given my first skin-search
the day I arrived, and a guard handed me a set of ‘whites’, white pants, shirt, socks and
shoes. Stenciled across the shirt and pants was CDC BUS in black letters. After the forty
of us were dressed out it was hurry up and wait for the bus. When I was waiting in this
small dark room I figured the blacks I was playing hard-eye games with would make a
move against me, but nothing happened.
At 5:15 am the state transportation bus (called the Gray Goose.) could be heard
pulling up to the loading dock, and once again groups of four were called out to board
that ugly looking bus. When my name was called out I responded with my number,
B27884, and an officer would compare me to the picture he had of me on his index card.
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As I stepped out I was given a half ass pat down since the bus drivers knew we
were thoroughly searched and given sanitary clothes. Then a sergeant walked up and
asked me why I was so docile this morning while handcuffing me, and I told him I was
always docile at 5:15 every morning. He didn’t laugh.
While stepping on the bus I noticed two armed guards outside the fence standing
near a gray sedan that would follow us most of the day north. I picked out a seat in the
front and sat down, trying to push myself into the small seat, and also knowing that no
one would be sitting next to me, I put my legs on the adjoining seat.
After the rest of the prisoners were on the bus, the bus door was locked after the
driven got in. The passenger guard has a small compartment in the rear of the bus that he
enters from the outside, and he keeps visual watch over the prisoners, talking to the driver
over a telephone. The driver is also separated from us by a security gate.
We got under way, only stopping at the check house so they could get their guns
and have another sip of coffee, and have a word with the guards in the gray sedan. I am
sure every highway patrolman and county deputy along the way knew when we were in
their area.
The bus pulled out of the prison yard and headed for the freeway. Near one of the
signal lights were two cars parked alongside the road. There were two men on one side
of the street and two on the other. They all had bags on their heads and were holding
signs. I couldn’t read the signs on the other side of the street but the ones on my side
said, “Ex-cop onboard, kill em” and the other said ‘off the pig”.
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I would have to guess, and it is only a guess, that they were Wilson, Landry,
Poole and Guiterrez. I am so glad we made the green light. The prisoners saw them but
no one said anything.
For some time the driver had the emergency brake on and some of the prisoners
who knew that tried to tell him but he wouldn’t acknowledge the brake was on until ten
miles down the road. You could smell the lining burning.
We traveled Merrill Avenue to the Corona Freeway and then towards Los
Angeles to the Ventura Freeway towards Santa Barbara. As we were traveling through
Santa Barbara, a convict near me was telling some of the other prisoners he was from
Santa Barbara and was pointing out the sights.
“That’s where I got busted in my shootout with the cops, took two bullets too.
Had one of them pigs right in my sights but didn’t shoot and he called for more help. I
had to give up.’
This misguided soul was really saddened by his arrest and conviction and I’m
sure he wanted to go straight when he gets paroled.
“See that place? That’s my first job when I get out. I’ve been to Quentin, Folsom
and Soledad and CMC is a picnic so I’ll be out in no time.”
More sights, “We robbed that gas station,, that one, that-motel and . .”
“They should have killed you.” I said.
“What da say”, he said with a jolt.
“Oh, nothing, just talking to myself.” Goddamn Freudian slip.
766
I could hear a few of the black prisoners talking about me once in a while. They
were of course describing me in the usual ghetto manner….”dog eating son-of-a-bitch
who should be killed, no good pork eating mother-fucker, etc, etc.” But none of them
were really loud or abusive about it, just kind of murmuring to each other, like they didn’t
know which white guy on the bus was the ex-cop.
Somewhere near Santa Maria we stopped at a Standard gas station so the officers
could make a head-call. We had a built in toilet on the bus, but it was in the rear and I
wasn’t going to make the trip while handcuffed after hearing bullshit and death threats for
the last 100 miles. And I had to piss bad.
A half hour later we stopped at another Standard gas station and then to a coffee
shop where one of guards got bag lunches for us, which consisted of a stale roll and two
sandwiches. One passed for bologna and the other was peanut butter and something.
At noon were going through San Luis Obispo, a beautiful city near the beaches,
and three miles north of it we took Highway 1 to the California Men’s Colony. I looked
at the prison as the bus drove up the long drive, and it looked huge and forbidding, This
was the big-house, the joint, stir. The bus drove around to the side through some double
gates, the guards checked in their revolvers, handed over some paperwork, took a head
count, and drove another 100 yards to the main plaza and opened the passenger door.
I could hear a few blacks talking, “Man, that pig’s going to East and he probably
thinks he’s in prison.” A few of them laughed and someone else remarked, “That dog
ought to be going to Quentin. That’s where he belongs, so we can kill the motherfucker.”
767
Another replied, “Don’t worry, the words out, someone will get em here. Our
brothers are looking for him.”
That was very consoling, hearing that. I already have some of the black brothers
waiting for me so they can stick some prison made shank into my guts. And convicts just
don’t stick you once, they stick you a hundred times as fast as they can since these aren’t
finely honed Buck hunting knives they are using but crudely sharpened pieces of steel
wrapped in string or tape for a handle.
Eleven us got off the bus, all white, gave our prison number to the driver and were
told to lean against the education building walls. After the property was unloaded we
were marched to the receiving area and placed in a small holding tank, where we had to
listen to a 30 minute tape on the rules and regulations. And I had to piss.
All I wanted to do was to get to my cell so I could take a piss I was hurting so
bad, and to get away from these fellow travelers so I wouldn’t be fronted off by them.
We had another skin search and the sergeant who was giving me mine asked me, “Are
you going to cause any trouble, big man?
“No, sir.” And I just figured that when my commitment papers were read, marked
with a big M for a murder beef, they must instinctively figure I was a natural killer and a
bad guy. Man is the killer, and it’s proven that committed murderers are some of the best
inmates in the pen.
After the skin search we were marched to the clothing distribution to get shoes
and blues. We went through the plaza, a square grassy area lined with flowers and shrubs,
which had a large control tower in the middle with officers manning closed circuit
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cameras that were placed at the gates of the quads. This prison is square-shaped but there
are four distinct separated yards and prisons within the prison, called quads. They were
called A B C D.
We walked to a small clothing distribution room and. a civilian told us to strip and
throw our whites into a laundry basket, and then we would receive a week’ supply of new
clothing.
“What size, please?’ a feminine voice asked. I couldn’t help but wonder why a
woman would be working here.
“Please step up to the window and give me your size,” sexy said.
But when I looked up all I saw was a guy, a sissy, a fucking queer, a nice looking
queer. I looked around the clothing area and it was full of ‘swishers’ with plucked
eyebrows, tight pants, prison processed hair-do’s and long finger-nails.
I stepped up and gave her (her and she are what ‘they’ are referred to) my sizes,
and she directed me to another window to wait for them, where another black queen was
handing them out.
“Wow”, the guy who got shot in Santa Barbara said, “Am I going to have a ball
here. Hey honey, got an old man?
“You’re late, handsome. I’ve been married for over a year, but I’ve got a friend if
you’re coming to my quad”.
“Don’t know yet, haven’t been assigned.” Mr. Santa Barbara said.
“Hey girls, look at the fish” a sissy yelled out.
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With this, four or five other sissies came to the small counter to watch us as we
changed clothes. Now I know what a woman feels like when men are staring at her.
“I think if I get me an old lady in here, when I get out I won’t know how to act
around my wife”, said a Mexican prisoner.
“Yeah, you’ll always want a head-job instead of a lay, or butt-hole instead of
cunt” said another, and the place was full of laughter.
After getting three pair of pants, three blue shirts, four pair white socks, four pair
white boxer shorts, two army blankets, sheets and a pillow case, I was told to return to
reception and receiving to be assigned a cell and quad.
I was handed a card and it had a big black letter ‘D’ in the right hand upper
corner, meaning I was housed in D-Quad. I only knew that I wasn’t going to A-Quad
because Huey Newton, head of the Black Panthers, was celled there, and I’m sure we
wouldn’t get along very good. A-Quad probably housed the most radical and violent
inmates sent here, of any color.
I felt relieved that I wasn’t going to another quad with someone I came on the bus
with, as their mouth’s were worse than Niagara Falls, non-stop, and no one could point
me out as the ex-cop. This way I could set out on my own, and unless someone knew me
from before, I would always deny I was a deputy-sheriff.
Because the quads aren’t marked I had to ask an officer which one was D quad.
“0h, the twilight zone, it’s over there.”, he pointed.
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To picture the physical layout of the actual prison just consider it a very big box.
In the middle there is a courtyard and in the center of the courtyard is a very tall
observation tower with armed guards. To enter one of the quads you have to pass
through a turnstile gate, which is very narrow. The gate stops automatically and a
prisoner has to show his ID card and a gate pass to the camera before you can enter the
quad. The guard in the observation tower controls the on-off switch to the turnstiles. No
pass, no entry, but the guard does not release the turnstile lock. He calls for one of the
many guards walking the courtyard to go find out why someone is trying to enter another
quad without a pass. Believe it or not there is drug smuggling in prison, weapons too.
I didn’t have the slightest idea of what he meant by ‘twilight zone’ since I had no
prior knowledge of this prison, and as I headed for the turnstiles I heard the guard remark
to his partner, “ He looks all right to me.”
To gain entrance I had to put my card up to the TV camera so the tower guard
could read the card, and he released the gate electronically and let me pass. I was told to
report to the program administrator’s office, and this person was sort of a mini-warden
for the quad.
A couple of inmates, seeing I was new, pointed out his office for me. As I walked
up the asphalt road, I noticed a full size baseball diamond, lots of green grass, a weight
lifting area, shuffle boards, handball courts, tennis court/ basketball court combination
and saw the road was also a small running track, and there was a one-hole golf green.
Not too bad for a prison, I had to admit but it was just ‘appearance’, not reality.
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Just before I got to the program Administrator’s Office I noticed about 6 or 7
inmates of various colors hanging around an open doorway that was the quad bathroom.
A few started to whistle and one said something like, “Hey big mama, need an old man?”
I had heard about this, being hustled by muscle heads who were looking for an old
lady for sex and I had rehearsed this many times at Chino, so I responded aggressively
with, “I got your old lady hanging between my legs mother-fucker, you want a piece of
my ass you’ll have to kill me. I spent 4 years in Tracy before coming here so I ain’t no
fish, understand!?”
I was just praying one of them wouldn’t call my bluff and ask me about Tracy,
it’s referred to as Gladiator School, a prison for youthful offenders, mostly violent ones.
Luckily not one word back so I continued on.
I walked into an outer office past two inmate clerks and reported to the Program
Administrator’s (a politically correct name for our “Boss”) office where I found a well
dressed man at his desk. He welcomed me, closed the door, and told me he had been
expecting me for weeks. He said his name was Snyder. So, he has known for weeks I
was going to come here. I suppose the Rover Boy at Chino was lying?
“You won’t have much trouble in this quad, and you look big enough to take care
of yourself. This place is mostly full of psychotics and old men. There are a lot of nuts
here and some protective cases like yourself. Inmates on PC do easier time in here, and if
you’re attacked it’ll probably be by a nut rather than by being an ex-cop.” He said.
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Geez, that was heartening. I wouldn’t be attacked because I am an ex-cop, but by
some crazy who doesn’t know what he is doing? So I was in a quad full of loonies and
Camarillo (state mental hospital) rejects.
“We had an ex San Diego lieutenant in here and he didn’t have any troubles. His
son is Victor Bono, a movie actor. Maybe he was a councilman, not a cop, I can’t
remember. And, if you recognize anyone you had contacts with on the streets or the
guidance center, and have problems, let us know immediately. We want to watch you
closely so you’ll be a clerk in this office. You start in two hours. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” I said, and I still had to pee.
Mr. Snyder also gave me that ‘what are you doing in prison’ expression, and
assigned me to cell 8104 and handed me a room key the size of two silver dollars. That
meant I was assigned to eight building, 1st floor room 4. Each building held 300
prisoners and there were two buildings in each quad.
I walked out of the office towards Eight building thinking to myself that the last
thing I wanted to do was be around guards and staff cause I wanted no part of this system
here. At Chino it was Ok but here, too many cons and not enough guards. I didn’t even
want to have a prison job. I looked up and stopped when I saw about ten blacks standing
in a group talking. Being paranoid, I crossed the grass instead of walking on the roadway,
and reported to Mr. Adams, the first floor officer.
He took me to my room and had me put my things inside, and then took me to the
‘hot-room’, where toilet supplies, blades, shaving soap, and towels are kept, and gave me
my issue for the week.
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“New supplies are issued when you run out. The evening officer will call ‘hotroom’ around 6 PM. Towels are handed out on Tuesday’s and Fridays’ if we have them.
By the way, what are you in for?”
I could never understand why a man who has access to records had to ask me
anything about my conviction, and it bugged me.
“Second degree murder.”
“They don’t seem to be worried about putting you here.” He replied.
I wasn’t sure I understood that comment. Maybe murderers weren’t put in this
quad?
On the way back to my cell he told me that D-quad was a ‘coming out’ center for
inmates who had been in the hole for many months, usually from Palm Hall at Chino, or
the infamous X and 0 wings at Soledad. They were the notorious men who couldn’t live
with their fellow inmates, and it was a last chance situation for them. If they could adapt
to D then they had a chance of doing their time in a sane and sensible manner.
I told him there were extenuating circumstances in my case, and he replied there
were extenuating circumstances in every case.
When I got into my cell and closed the door I took one big, long piss, feeling my
bladder empty and the pain subsiding. It had been over 14 hours since I had to pee. Then
I made up the bed, mopped out the dirt and dead bed bugs (yes, there are still bed-bugs in
prisons) and stored my toiletries. There was a small desk/shelf attached to the metal wall,
a chair made in Folsom, three smaller built-in shelves, and a set of head-phones for the
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Institution 2 channel radio, with a 12X12 metal mirror screwed into the steel wall with
security type screws and the strangest toilet I ever saw.
The basin and bowl was one complete unit, with the basin emptying into the bowl.
It had push button water delivery, and a small water spout that turned into a water
fountain when I blocked one end of it with my finger. You pushed the ‘on’ button and it
would either fill up the basin or if you blocked the lower hole, a drinking fountain.
Ingenius. Probably designed by a convict.
The window of the cell faced the yard and was behind the weight pile and work
out area. The air outside was clean and smog-less, not like the Chino smog filled air. I
shaved and washed up and sat down to wait until 3 PM when I noticed my neighbor
peeking through my door window. He was a goofy looking kid with ears that stuck out
like Mickey Mouse. I opened the door to find out what he wanted. He told me I would do
OK here and not to pay attention to the other inmates. What the hell that meant I couldn’t
say. I knew he couldn’t know who I was.
While we were talking a little old man walked up and got into the conversation,
but his speech was so fucked up all I could say was ‘what’ about four times. I thought he
was getting a bit mad so I just said, ‘yeah, sure’, like I under stood. He was about 5 ft tall
if that with very crooked teeth but a big smile.
The guard, standing close by, interrupted and told me the old man just asked me if
I came down from Vacaville that afternoon and I said yes. Actually, the old man spoke
with such a thick Russian accent that it was hard to understand his English words.
Apparently the guard could.
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I told them I had to go to work and excused myself and walked across the yard to
the office and noticed a black inmate sitting behind one of the desks. When I sat down at
my desk he told me his name was ‘Stella.’ Yep, ‘Stella”. And that’s not short for
Stephen.
While I was sitting there waiting for the shift lieutenant to arrive I had bad
thoughts about this job. I wanted to forget that my past ever existed but doing clerical
work for the ‘Man’ wasn’t the way to help me do my time, and especially at $3.00 a
month and no pay for the first three months. So, I went from a Los Angeles County
Deputy-Sheriff making over $1000 a month in 1969 to $3.00 a month in 1970 as an
inmate. That is not upward mobility or good goal setting techniques so any of you cops
reading this who are even close to working like I did stop and think real hard about what
you are doing or not doing.
The watch lieutenant, Lt. Schoening and the watch sergeant, Sgt Hansen, both of
them very big men walked in and saw me and asked me to follow them to their office
down a short hallway.
Lt. Schoening told me he was sorry to see me here and told me the other clerk’s
real name was Earnest King, and asked me if I’d mind working with a black who was
also a sissy. I told him I didn’t mind.
He also told me that Roger Claybaugh, the clerk who used to work here would be
over to show me the ropes of my job. Roger had to go to high school classes in prison to
get paroled and needed the nights off to study homework
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Sgt Hansen then told me to go out to my desk and see what I could do while
waiting for Claybaugh. When I walked back Roger was talking with Stella and I
introduced myself, shaking his hand. Roger showed me the officer schedule I had to do,
plus about an hour’s typing and filing. After that the job was done for the day but I had to
stick around until 10 PM lock-up in case I was needed for something else. The job also
called for handling inmate requests for counselor appointments and typing incident
reports for the officers on inmates who broke the rules. Then I realized how easy the
assignment would be working under the same roof with those who would give me the
best recommendation for my parole.
Roger told me he was from the L.A. Valley area. He looked like a typical lowrider only he’s white, about 130 lbs and loaded with scars on his arms from too many
needles. He had a silver cap on his front tooth and hence got the nickname ‘Fang’, or
Clay-balls.
I learned later on by reading the inmate files and not asking questions that he was
in for five counts of robbery, which were ‘one-to-life’ beefs. He was also carrying silent
beefs for robbery, kidnapping, attempt murder an LAPD officer, and if he finished high
school he would be paroled after doing twenty-three months. 23 fucking months for five
counts of robbery!
(A silent beef is a charge that either can’t be proven exactly, or else the
constitutional issues involved wouldn’t let the DA introduce it into court, or else Roger
plead guilty to a few charges and admitted other crimes just to clear up the books.)
After he finished showing me my job he left and I was left with Ernie King., aka
‘Stella’. I asked him what he wanted me to call him and he said Ernie would be OK for
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now. He wanted to show me how the lieutenant wanted a certain file done so I rolled my
chair over and as we were talking he bumped my leg with his chair, and after apologizing
grabbed my leg and squeezed it.
I bolted up and looked him right in the eyes. “Do not fucking do that!”
Stella started laughing wildly. I didn’t under stand what was so funny, but then
she started telling me she already had an old man and wasn’t making a pass, and the
bump was unintentional as was the grab. Yeah, sure.
The shift started at 3PM and ended at 10 PM and it was around 5PM so I sort of
mentioned how we should finish the work and go back for dinner lock-up. I didn’t know
how to act about this since it was a first time experience having some fag grab my thigh
but I was sure that I would have to be careful in misinterpreting such actions in the future.
I didn’t want to make an enemy out of anyone since enemies were something I didn’t
need. When you have a ‘life top’ a inmate can have years in getting back at you if you
cross him.
Stella went back to the building but the sergeant wanted me to stay out for count
while we talked. He was a nice guy and told me he would do everything he could to get
me out as soon as possible with whatever the power he could to do so, and would give me
good recommendations. When I asked him about my clerk-partner King he told me quite
a bit about him/her.
Ernest was a drag queen from Los Angeles, convicted for grand theft auto, bunco
and con games, and stated in his probation report he was a partner of Cheryl Crane, Lana
Turner’s daughter. That was wild. He was arrested in a wild melee in Los Angeles by
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LA.PD and the FBI, who thought they were arresting a woman, and when the arresting
officers slacked off a bit King apparently broke a few bones since he was supposed to be
a karate expert. And supposedly when his own crime partner tried to shoot one of the FBI
men, King broke his partner’s arm since he didn’t want to become involved in shooting a
cop. It seems that the FBI tried to shoot to wound this crazy woman and shot one of their
own men instead. But when they took King to the women’ s county jail and found out she
was in fact a he, they beat hell out of him all the way to the LAPD glasshouse jail. So the
story goes.
King’s partner got paroled after doing two years but King had four years in when
I got to the Men’s Colony, because the FBI wanted to know something else about some
gun somewhere and since King refused to cooperate he was doing longer time.
I went to dinner directly from the office with two of the yard officers. They are
assigned to the large dining room along with every other able bodied officer to keep
things under control. It was a nice perk because there was no standing in line and
although the serving treatment wasn’t friendly it was quick an at least put on my tray in a
cordial fashion.
The mess hall is on the 2nd floor of the administration building and is accessed by
outside stairs. Like Chino, one floor per building is released at a time but here that means
about a hundred inmates or more are released per floor. Seating arrangements are the
same, sit where open unless someone ahead of you has left a table and you want to sit
with some buddies. But, you eat and get hell out because if there is any trouble it usually
happens in the mess hall, and when it does forget your food and leave pronto.
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It is a task getting all this food ready and I can say the food was very good at
times. After dinner I went back to the office and King was there with a carton of
cigarettes and a bag of toilet articles. She said I could pay her back when ever I got
money on the books, with no interest charges, which usually ran anywhere from 200% to
500%. And King also told me we also got a bag lunch for working the evening shift and
the lunch would bring a pack of cigarettes on the yard. I didn’t smoke but I would need
the cigarettes for haircut money or for ice cream. It was a nice gesture.
On first impressions for a sissy King didn’t seem to be too bad a person. I was
always told to keep away from them, since they were a strange group. There were those
who only like to copulate other men, and there were those who only liked to get fucked in
the ass. And when they argue they sound like a bunch of whores. “You take it in the ass, .
. . but you suck black dicks,”. “but at least I spit out the cum.”
God, I felt it must be a complicated life in the joint trying to take care of yourself
and getting involved with a sissy and taking care of her too.
When I got back to my cell for lights out I realized the bunk was way too small
for me. It would easily fit anyone under 6’ so I was back in the same boat as the old
county jail, cramped in a bed too small. I put the mattress on the floor to stretch out but
the night officer told me to get back in the bunk. The next morning the cell lights came
on about 6 AM waking me up. I figured I could just sleep in and pass up breakfast but
the inmate with the Russian accent was pounding on my door to go to breakfast.
I decided to get up and go so I got washed up and dressed. As I slid open my cell
door and stepped into the hallway my lights went out. I was not on guard and when I
walked out 2 black inmates were waiting for me and one struck me flush on the jaw
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knocking me out cold and back into my cell. They both went after me but they wanted
me so bad they couldn’t fit through the door opening at the same time and were swinging
wildly and kicking at me to get in as many punches as possible. So the other inmates told
me later.
I think the little Russian inmate went to tell one of the guards and the next thing I
remember was being carried to the hospital by two guards. I received a black eye,
bruised jaw, loose teeth, very tender balls, and a few foot shaped bruises across my chest.
The next time I stepped out of my cell I was going to look real carefully who was
standing nearby. I wouldn’t be cold-cocked like that again, I hoped.
My assailants went to the hole and got a transfer to San Quentin. Apparently they
heard who I was from another black inmate and it was said there was a nice contract
amount to be paid to ‘fuck me up’. The officers spread a rumor that it was a case of
mistaken identity and they were actually after the inmate who used to have my cell.
A few days after the incident I kind of thought that no one had any ideas about me
being an ex-deputy. At least it seemed that way. My quad file card, that three other
inmate clerks had access to, listed my occupation as a sewer contractor, my last part-time
job, and I could bullshit my way through any superficial conversation about it. And since
no one here knew I was a cop that I knew of, the only way for them to really find out was
from me, if I opened my big mouth. But I realized that complacency could be dangerous
so I just thought daily that everyone know who I was to be safe.
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In fact, the afternoon relief sergeant and a good number of the officers didn’t find
out I used to be a cop until after a couple of weeks. They were doing their monthly
qualifying at the state pistol range when there was an in-service discussion regarding the
incarceration of an LA deputy-sheriff somewhere at CMC-East. . When they found out
those who worked D-Quad couldn’t believe their afternoon clerk was an ex-cop in for
murder.
Other than getting knocked out my 2nd day my first few weeks in Nuts Berry
Farm or the Twilight Zone were uneventful. Well, not quite.
I started having fits of insomnia and it seemed my scalp kept itching but I could
see nothing that would cause it. I just could not sleep and then my face felt like it was
sunburned but it wasn’t. One of the guards mentioned like I had put on some weight.
Then one night I woke up and my whole head was burning so I got up to splash
some water on my face and when I looked in the mirror what a shock it was. My face
looked like a basketball. The skin area around my nose and mouth had split open and I
was bleeding from large tears. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I banged on the cell
door for the graveyard guard to come and he told me I had to wait til 7 am sick call. That
was 4 hours away.
I went to sick call and the nurse took one look at me and sent me to the main
hospital where they applied medication to my face and scalp, gave me a shot of antibiotic
and took some blood tests. I had blood poisoning or something like that.
It was determined that the cause of my illness was my stainless steel razor blades.
The ones given to me at Chino by one of the ‘friendly’ inmates I got to know there. They
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were tested and found to be contaminated with shit. And when I shaved with these fecal
infested blades I infected myself. The doctor said it could have been ‘almost fatal’.
Only one person came in to ask me what I was in for and where I came from and
that was Freddy Gonzales, aka Freddie the Freeloader. Freddy used to hang around
bumming coffee from the officers coffee pot. He was an older guy who’d had a prefrontal lobotomy because be was criminally insane. Freddy said the operation was the
best thing to happen to him because now he could hold a conversation with people
without getting mad and trying to kill them.
Freddy’s only problem was he liked to spit, anywhere he was, in the office, chow
line or where ever. He could have been a poster child for major league baseball. And
when he would come in and start asking questions Sgt Hansen would tell him to do his
own number (mind his own business and to get the hell out before Sgt Hansen put his
foot up his ass.)
Freddy would look up and say, “Noo sheet, the captain’s getting mad. I better
scram. See you later beeg man.”
By telling someone to do their ‘own number’ was a polite way of telling them you
didn’t like their intrusion and they were stepping too far into business that didn’t concern
them. And if said loud enough it would bring attention that someone was being a busybody and busy-bodies were close to snitches.
I learned a quick lesson with one of the floor officers in the first few weeks too.
This is state prison but this one guard was just plain chicken-shit.
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As I came into the building after working out with the weights, the 1st floor
officer, Mr. Adams, called me to his desk.
“Shaffer,