Myron sometimes did undercover work for the Narcotics Bureau where he would accompany an informant and do drug buys. In one instance, Myron had to smoke some cocaine so the dealers, who were armed, wouldn’t know he wasn’t a cop. This set off a downward spiral where he eventually became hooked. Tim had no idea Myron had developed an addiction to rock cocaine. He was a hyper to begin with, so when his behavior became erratic, Tim assumed it was in keeping with his high-key personality.
One day when Tim and Myron had just left after the shift briefing, a call came over the radio about shots being fired on the west side. Tim and Myron were about a block away from the station, heading east on Compton Boulevard from Willowbrook Avenue. It was around 5:00 p.m., rush hour. Myron was behind the wheel.
“Shots fired” calls were so common in Compton, they didn’t even warrant a Code 3, which meant turning on lights and sirens. Units still rushed over with a sense of urgency, but without the fanfare that signaled to drivers and pedestrians to clear the way.
Back then, the department still had paper police logs, and Tim was in the process of filling in one when the call came in. His head was down. Myron made a sharp U-turn and was speeding through a red light at the intersection. Tim glanced up just as community bus slammed into him, demolishing his side of the police car. The top of the doorframe caved in on his head. Tim’s body was badly banged up and bruised and he ended up with twelve stitches in his face, but he went back to work the next day. Myron, however, complained of chest pains and was off for several weeks.
A short time after that, Myron called a lieutenant, admitting to his coke addiction and requesting help with his problem. He was unceremoniously fired. Back then, there wasn’t much empathy in the department for someone with a drug problem.
Myron wasn’t the only one. Another cop who’d gone to the academy with Tim, a guy named Ted Brown, also got hooked. He, too, was fired.
Tim was then partnered up with a cop named Ed Jackson. They also worked well together.
The two were having hamburgers on the hood of their police car one night in the parking lot of the Jack in the Box on Central Avenue. There was a loud crash at the drive-thru of the Kentucky Fried Chicken next door. As usual, Tim and Ed didn’t get to finish eating. A Black teen, a member of the Carver Park Crips, ran right toward them, a purse in one hand, a revolver in the other.
Tim and Ed saw him. The teen saw them. The kid’s getaway car pulled up. Whoever was inside saw Tim and Ed, too. Tim and Ed began firing at the suspect and the vehicle. The shot-up getaway car took off, sans the passenger. The kid, literally left holding the bag and bleeding from a .45 caliber bullet wound to his arm, ran into a yard across the street. Tim and Ed caught him and took him in.
A great partner and a damn good cop, Ed eventually tired of working for a police department where he could never finish his lunch. He moved on to calmer pastures at the Redondo Beach Police Department and joined Tim’s academy partners Bud Johnson, Rene Fontenot, and Tom Eskridge.
Tim continued to eat his meals interrupted.
He had no plans to leave the wild and crazy ride that was the city of Compton.
***
During all of this, Tim met Joanna Ramirez, a pretty, petite nineteen-year-old Latino girl who worked as a Records Clerk at the Compton P.D. It was the fall of 1982.
Two and a half years later, he and Joanna were married. Three years later, in 1987, the entire department celebrated the birth of their son, Brian. Three years after that, in 1990, they celebrated the birth of daughter, Jamie.
Joanna Brennan, née Ramirez.
The Compton P.D. family also gathered around Tim in support in 1990 when he was struck head-on by a vehicle while he was on the freeway driving to work. The vehicle had catapulted over the center divide and crashed right into him. Tim’s fellow officers drove Joanna to the hospital, and they were there to support him during the three months he went through rehabilitation.
They rallied around him again in 1994, when, during an outing in the desert, Tim was thrown from his truck and it rolled over him. He suffered a massive skull fracture, a severely swollen neck, broken ribs, collarbone, and vertebrae, a torn artery in his chest, and his scalp was pulled from his head. He would also contract pneumonia as a result of the trauma to his body.
His Compton P.D. colleagues drove Joanna five hours to the hospital where he was taken. The department took up a donation and gave her several hundred dollars to cover her hotel stays while Tim was in the hospital. He was in Intensive Care for eleven days and Joanna was by his side the whole time.
“He’s probably not going to live through the night,” the doctor had told her when Tim was first brought in.
Tim lived through many nights. After four months of rehabilitation, he returned to work, back to the Compton P.D., which had stood by him and his wife like family.
Tim and the city were alike in many ways. Rough and tumble. Through all the bumps, bruises, traumas, and near-deaths, they both constantly proved resilient, always determined to push through and be right back at it again.
***
By the eighties, Compton had become more violent than it was in the seventies. Pirus had spread throughout the city from the west side to the north side to the east city limits. They all had rivalries with their Crip counterparts.
The Crips, who vastly outnumbered Pirus, also fought against each other. Pirus, however, maintained alliances among their various sets until the nineties. The names adopted by the sets of both gangs were based on streets in their neighborhoods or parks in their area. Acacia Blocc Crips. Holly Hood Piru. Kelly Park Crips. Lueders Park Piru (to which Death Row Records head Suge Knight had strong ties). There was even a set on the east side known as the Spook Town Crips, in reference to Compton being a then-predominantly Black city.
Tim and Bob worked with several Black and white cops who had grown up in Compton. People like John Wilkinson, Jack McConnell, Hourie Taylor (who would play a major role in their careers), Bobbie Knapp, Red Mason, and Betty Marlow.
All of them had great memories of the “Hub City” in the sixties, describing it as “the place to be.” In the sixties, there had been car dealerships up and down Long Beach Boulevard, which used to be the big cruising spot on Saturday nights.
John Wilkinson, “Wilk” - a tall, thin, chain-smoking white guy with sandy brown hair and a thick mustache - had grown up on Tichenor Street and Willowbrook in the heart of the city, and had seen firsthand all the changes Compton had gone through. He was a true one-of-a-kind who loved his beer and his Harley. Wilk was an honest, straightforward guy, but he was extremely set in his ways. He told stories of how Compton used to be and how it had changed as he’d grown up as one of the last white guys in the city. He’d started working at the Compton P.D. in 1972. His mom, who was there when he joined, had been a civilian employee for the department for many years. Wilk spoke of how Compton had changed drastically after the Watts Riots in 1965. By the late seventies, he had saved enough money to buy a house for himself and his parents in Long Beach. Like so many other whites who’d moved out of the city before him, Compton was no longer where Wilk wanted to be.
***
Despite all the stories of the way things used to be, the Compton Tim and Bob were dealing with when they joined the force was the only one they knew and, as such, the only one that mattered.
They individually earned reputations for being daredevils - fearless, willing to dive through the windows of dope houses and chase and fight gangbangers. Neither was the type to give up when it came to pursuing a criminal. Both men liked to win.
It was inevitable they would eventually come together as partners. Each had made their bones on the P.M. shift, learning the ins and outs of gangs, understanding the pulse and rhythm of the city.
Joining forces to dive through more windows and crash more dope houses would turn out to be more business as usual.
All in a night’s work.
5
PARTNERS
T
im and Bob met on the P.M. shift. Tim had been on the job a year longer and was known for being a hard worker. It turned out they were the same age and shared a lot of the same interests, so they hit it off right away. There were three big things they had in common: a love of rock and roll, riding motorcycles, and drinking beer. Those commonalities helped establish their bond.
Tim and Bob love riding their bikes in the desert.
Once they began working together, they quickly realized they could depend on each other in the streets.
Their partnership began in 1985 and, for the most part, would last for fifteen years. They worked the P.M. shift the entire time.
A great deal of their work as patrol officers involved going after gangbangers. They got to know most from having to arrest them over and over. Even though they were two white cops mostly dealing with Blacks and Latinos, they had reputations for being fair and got along well with the gangs. They weren’t cruising the streets creating bogus reasons to make arrests. They didn’t needlessly hassle people just because they could. If someone crossed the line, that person was arrested. The person always knew why it was happening. If that person tried to fight, Tim and Bob fought back. They were firm without being assholes. Gangsters respected the way they did their job. They might not have liked seeing the two men as a constant presence, always popping up wherever they gathered, but they understood the dynamics. If crime, or the potential for it, was happening, Tim and Bob were going to show up.
(The two recently learned from a former employee at the Compton P.D. that the gangbangers would sometimes call the station and ask what nights they were scheduled to be off. Those would be the nights gangs would raise extra hell because Tim and Bob weren’t around to keep watch.)
Because they were known for being fair, some gang members trusted them enough to admit who was committing certain crimes. Some of them even confided what life was like as a gangbanger. Tim and Bob’s reputations and their rapport with the streets would play an important role when they later became gang homicide detectives.
Despite how cool they were considered, they still encountered a share of dangerous gangsters who didn’t care that they were cops. Compton was full of guys like that back then. Because of their aggressive style of policing, Tim and Bob often found themselves face-to-face with some of the deadliest folks imaginable.
There was one instance that was particularly rattling. A Piru who went by the name J.R. - real name Walter Hammonds - escaped while being transported on a county jail bus to appear in court for a murder case where he had killed an Asian gas station owner, robbing and shooting the man just before closing time. En route to the courthouse, J.R. managed to unscrew a floor plate, somehow get out of his handcuffs, and escape through the bottom of the bus.
Suddenly free and feeling bloodthirsty, J.R. headed straight for Compton, where he reconnected with fellow Pirus. He swore he wasn’t going back to jail alive. J.R. was the kind of nightmare none of us ever wanted to meet; that one-percenter who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a cop.
His first attack happened just three blocks from the station while it was still daylight. He opened fire on a car of Crips as they drove down Compton Boulevard. They exchanged gunfire. Tim and Bob were in a briefing at the time. A desk officer burst in, yelling, “There’s gunshot victims outside!”
A car riddled with bullets from a high-powered rifle was out front. The driver was alive, but the two passengers inside were dead of multiple gunshot wounds to the head and torso. Blood was everywhere. The driver said a Black man in the back of a mini-truck had opened fire at them with an AK-47. That man, it was later learned, was J.R.
Caught in the crossfire between J.R. and the car of Crips was an innocent woman who had been taking groceries from her car. She was shot to death during the exchange.
J.R.’s crime spree moved next to armed robbery. He had now stolen a car and two South Gate police were behind him in close pursuit. The stolen car stopped and J.R. got out. He turned toward the cops who’d been chasing him and pointed a .45 caliber handgun right at them. He crouched in a dramatic two-handed stance and opened fire. The officers returned fire. No one was hurt, but J.R. - who seemed to have a tremendous amount of luck on his side, at least for a little while - got away once more. The South Gate officers later identified him in a line-up.
By this time, Tim and Bob were on their beat, cruising the streets. Tim was driving. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening. They knew the streets well enough to recognize when things were out of place.
They drove through the 300 block of West Magnolia, an area that was known for dope trafficking. They spotted a little red car with a Black man standing beside it, leaning in, talking to a white woman behind the wheel. It looked like the obvious: she was there to buy rock cocaine. The guys kept going. There was no point in stopping. This type of thing went on all day, every day in Compton. They had just gotten out of their briefing. If they stopped and made the arrest, they would have gotten tied up going back to the station, doing paperwork, etc., before even having a chance to see if something more critical was going on in the area.
It was still light outside. They cruised around for another ten minutes. They saw the little red car again, only this time the Black guy was behind the wheel. The white woman was nowhere around.
The first thought was that she’d been carjacked. Carjackings were a common occurrence, especially to those who were bold enough to venture into dope spots to make a buy. The Black guy glanced at Tim and Bob as he passed in the red car. He had one of those looks that police officers recognize as someone who had done something that was probably illegal. It was called the “Oh, shit!” look. Tim turned and pulled up behind the car. The guy sped off. They took off right behind him, tires squealing, sirens blaring.
Bob radioed for help as they chased the red car. It ducked into a residential neighborhood flying at high speed. Tim and Bob were right on the car’s tail. Adults, kids, dogs, and other furry things scattered as the two cars tore past them doing over eighty miles per hour.
The red car went down the 400 block of West Elm. Suddenly, in the middle of the street, the car stopped. It was only then that the cops saw there were two other people inside along with the driver. A Black male passenger in the front seat bolted from the car, running in a northwest direction. Then the driver bailed from the car and headed left, south of Tim and Bob. A Black female remained in the back seat.
Car chases were a regular thing for Tim and Bob. They even had a routine for how they were handled. If a driver jumped out of a car they were chasing, whoever was riding shotgun would get out and go in pursuit. Whoever was driving would circle the block. That was how they would contain the suspect until backup arrived.
Bob got out and looked over the top of their car at the fleeing suspect. The suspect suddenly stopped and turned toward them, now pointing a .45 caliber handgun. He crouched in that dramatic two-hand shooting position and opened fire.
Tim, caught off-guard, was stuck in a sort of no-man’s land behind the wheel. All he could do was sit and watch as bullets flew their way.
Bob felt them whizzing past his head. He dropped to the ground. Tim jumped out of the car and fired back at the man, who had now taken off running toward the next street over. Bob fired at the man as he jumped a fence. The two quickly checked each other to make sure neither was hit. They were lucky. The suspect had caught them slipping for a second and could have easily taken them out.
Tim sped off around the block, trying to contain him while Bob radioed, “Shots fired!” so they could get more help.
Whenever an officer heard that come across the radio, it was the kind of thing that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and made him hop into action. Every available unit sped to their location, Code 3, lights flashing, sirens blaring. A containment area that covered four square blocks was set up.
Bob took the woman who was inside the car into custody as more backup units arrived. She told him and Tim the man who’d shot at
them was J.R. But J.R. was already gone. Just before Tim had driven around the block to go after him, J.R. - who was clearly having one of the luckiest days ever - hopped into the car of a friend who happened to be driving down the street. They passed Tim as they drove away. J.R.’s friend, a known gang member, was later arrested. He admitted that when they drove past Tim, J.R. had his gun poised, ready to shoot.
“Don’t stop,” J.R. had said, “or I’ll have to kill him.”
He dropped J.R. off a couple blocks away from where J.R. had shot at Tim and Bob.
That meant J.R. was still in the four-block containment area, but the cops were unaware of it at the time. J.R. was hiding behind a house, reloading his .45. Time passed and it became dark. As things grew calmer, search teams with K-9’s were brought in, as well as a police helicopter. News teams showed up interviewing eyewitnesses. In the midst of this, a volley of shots were fired at what sounded like several blocks away.
Officers neared the house where J.R. was hiding. The helicopter lit up the house’s backyard. Suddenly, J.R. jumped out into clear view and began firing at the chopper, then took off running north, firing shots at every officer he encountered along the way. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder.
He kept running, refusing to surrender. One of the officers released a canine into a backyard. The dog caught up with J.R. and attacked him. J.R. hit the dog over the head with the butt of his gun. The dog let go and J.R. jumped over a fence and was now back on the street where Tim and Bob were waiting.
A news reporter was interviewing an older Black man about the shootout when J.R. reappeared. He ran straight toward Tim and Bob.
Once Upon A Time in Compton Page 6