The Valley of the Shadow of Death

by Kermit Alexander

  The subject of Capote’s book was a quadruple homicide that took place in Holcomb, in western Kansas, in 1959. Two intruders entered the large farmhouse of Herbert Clutter in the early morning hours of November 15 and with a shotgun executed Clutter, his wife, and their son and daughter. Three of the victims were shot while tied up in their beds. Mr. Clutter had his throat slit before being shot. For months no motive could be found. The Clutters seemed to have no enemies and all that was taken from the house was a small radio, some binoculars, and forty dollars in cash. The case was finally solved through a jailhouse informant who revealed that one of the assailants, Dick Hickock, believed that there was a safe within the house containing $10,000. The house contained no safe and the family was senselessly slaughtered.

  * * *

  In late September 1984, I was dressed in a dark three-piece suit as I drove my Jaguar sedan to a business meeting. It was nine in the morning. I was in Marina del Rey, an affluent seaside community in Los Angeles County.

  Since the murders I had given up the UCLA broadcasting job, put on hold my volunteer work, stopped speaking at local schools about the dangers of gangs and the virtues of education. I just didn’t have it in me. At the time, I was ill-equipped to inspire and motivate. Instead I worked a mindless advertising job. My heart wasn’t in it, nor my head, but it gave me a paycheck and something to do.

  It was another blistering morning. I stopped and bought a cup of coffee and a morning paper. I wanted to see if there was anything new in the case. Otherwise, I hoped that reading the paper might help take my mind off things.

  Back in the car I began drinking the large coffee and opened up the paper. I knew I had to quit the caffeine habit. My doctor said it was bad for my blood pressure. But those days, hardly sleeping, without a pot of coffee I couldn’t function. I also wasn’t very concerned with my health at that time. My blood pressure was probably through the roof anyway.

  As I read the paper, I began with the world news. A Soviet diplomat, S. Tsarpkin, a key architect of the 1963 Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, had died. In another Cold War story, an Afghan rebel leader claimed that the Soviets planned a major new offensive, intending to “finish Afghanistan” in a campaign of “genocide and oppression.” In the Middle East, the six-nation Gulf Cooperation Council said military security measures were the top priority in ensuring no disruption of oil flow through the Persian Gulf during the Iran-Iraq War.

  Nationally, Reagan was confident in his reelection bid and was stumping for Republican congressional candidates, holding out the promise of even lower taxes in a second term. Reagan reacted with “anger and sorrow” at the latest suicide bombing against Americans in Beirut, Lebanon, declaring, “we can’t just withdraw in the face of this kind of terrorism.” Vice President George H. W. Bush was heckled by nuclear freeze advocates, who chanted “Vote for Peace.” Bush responded that Reagan had secured peace without backing down, and the protestors were “out of step with the country.” As Democratic candidate Walter Mondale spoke on the campaign trail, he was heckled at USC by the Trojan College Republicans, who chanted “four more years” and “peace through strength.” The Sierra Club announced it was endorsing Mondale.

  In Florida, the murderer of an elderly civil rights worker “enjoyed” a last meal of a dozen oysters, with hot sauce and crackers, as well as half a cantaloupe and grapefruit, before dying in the electric chair. In Chicago, a symposium shed new light on a condition known as anhedonia, “the inability to experience pleasure,” in which sufferers are socially isolated, operating on automatic pilot and simply going through the motions with no joy.

  In California, San Diego’s mayor, Roger Hedgecock, along with three political backers, was indicted on fourteen counts of perjury and one count of conspiracy regarding illegal campaign contributions. Joselito Cinco, a man charged with killing two San Diego police officers, faced the death penalty. Cinco pled not guilty and broke into tears when the judge refused to grant bail.

  In sports, ex-Dodger Steve Garvey was leading the San Diego Padres as they closed in on their first National League West title with just a week to go in the season. In the American League the Angels were a game and a half out of first after defeating Kansas City bullpen ace Dan Quisenberry on a Bobby Grich eleventh-inning single. In college football, UCLA starting quarterback Steve Bono, suffering from a sprained ankle, was unlikely for the upcoming game against number-one-ranked Nebraska at the Rose Bowl, said head coach Terry Donahue. In the NFL, former Raider QB Dan Pastorini, along with the NFL Players Association, was suing the Raiders for payment of a $1 million arbitration award.

  Locally, the weather was finally supposed to cool, after a month of sticky sweltering heat, as a “low-pressure trough from Alaska was expected to take the edge off.”

  Coverage of our case was fading fast. Weeks ago front-page news, then buried deep within other local stories, now it was either nothing, or more of the same: “No concrete motives,” “Nothing’s new,” “Little progress made.” The other news felt distant and meaningless. Political or sports-related stories that would have captured me weeks ago now seemed irrelevant, boring, or maddening. I couldn’t focus or care about sports, even UCLA. The Cold War and Middle East had no effect on my life, and murderers eating oysters and crying over bail seemed absurd and insulting. The only thing that made any sense was that story about the mental condition.

  But where was news of our case? They had better not forget about us, I seethed. I threw the paper down onto the passenger seat in disgust. Everyone else was moving on. That’s how these things went. I knew it. I got it. Four more murders, black people, South Central, statistics. And back to our regular programming: elections, wars, politicians, corruption and convictions, pennant races and injured QBs, and now for the weather.

  As I dwelled on the stalled investigation, I felt my anger rise. No options, no hope. When I began my search for the killers it had a certain sick thrill of the new. Now it foundered as well. Nothing I could do. Nothing the police could do. Impotence, gnawing. I barely resisted an impulse to fling the half-filled coffee cup against the windshield. Instead I squeezed the steering wheel and jammed the accelerator.

  As I sped through an intersection I noticed another car turn the corner and speed up behind me. It was a patrol car. Next came the flashing lights.

  I had just blown through a stop sign.

  I pulled to a sudden stop. Red and blue lights lit up my rearview mirror.

  As the officer approached the driver’s side of the car, I reached for my wallet and pulled out my license.

  As the officer took the license, he barely glanced at it, instead staring past me and onto the passenger’s seat.

  “Exit the vehicle,” he said. “Keep your hands visible.”

  Underslept, overcaffeinated, and with a hair-trigger temper, I had no patience for this. As I got out of the car and he started to search me in a disrespectful manner, I let him know I wouldn’t take it.

  “Look,” he said, pointing at the pile of discarded newspapers on the front passenger seat. “I have to take you in.”

  From beneath the stack of papers, the butt of a handgun protruded.

  As the officer removed the gun and searched the rest of the car, I explained to him who I was and that I needed the weapon for protection.

  The officer then took me to the Pacific Station, where I was questioned. Following the interview, the desk sergeant made some calls, hung up the phone, and said, “The mayor wants to see you.”

  14

  I’M AFRAID HE’LL TURN INTO ONE

  BUILT IN 1928 in the style of an ancient ziggurat, City Hall intentionally conjured the image of Los Angeles as a modern Babylon—a fantasy city where anything was possible. Echoing this theme, Mayor Bradley had declared that City Hall “must be a beacon to people’s aspirations.” When no structure in downtown topped twelve floors, the thirty-two-story City Hall towered over the cityscape and remained L.A.’s tallest building for decades. A symbol of the city�
�s draw and mystique, as well as its newly won status as the state’s epicenter, City Hall’s construction utilized raw materials from all fifty-eight of California’s counties and water from all twenty-one of its historic missions. An image of the iconic tower has been on the LAPD badges since 1940. The mayor’s office is located in room 300.

  Mayor Bradley, now halfway through his third term, and still riding the Olympic high, greeted me in his outer office, then led me inside to his private chambers and offered me a seat. I had known Bradley since his days walking a beat in South Central when I was a young man living in the Jordan Downs housing projects. We had remained friends over the years and worked together on various projects involving sports and the community.

  During and after my NFL playing days I was involved in charitable events, including golf tournaments, fund-raisers, and motivational speaking tours of middle and high schools.

  In 1970, after seven seasons with the San Francisco 49ers, I came home, when I was traded to the Rams. For my family it was a dream come true. For me, it was the greatest moment in my career. From then on, every time I took the field for a home game I knew that Madee and company were cheering in the stands.

  But coming home was also depressing. The old neighborhood was in bad shape, run-down, with kids cutting school, hitting the streets, joining gangs. Trying to provide an alternative, I sponsored a Pop Warner youth football team, hoping that football, like it did for me, could help steer kids away from trouble.

  Pop Warner leagues went back to the thirties, named after coach and innovator Glenn Scobey “Pop” Warner. While the leagues are designed to teach kids how to play football, the goals are greater. By playing in Pop Warner, kids are taught the values of teamwork, how to overcome challenges and work together. Warner saw this firsthand at the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania at the beginning of the twentieth century, where displaced Plains Indians, including the legendary Jim Thorpe, thrived under his leadership.

  For me, having grown up in South Central, I wanted to give the kids a meaningful way to spend their time, an opportunity to make positive attachments, and a chance to be a star on the field, not the streets.

  One of my sisters and her husband ran the team. I provided the funding. My friends from the Rams, Rosey Grier and Deacon Jones, also helped me raise money. We even took the Wildcats to a Rams game to inspire them as to what they could be.

  Likewise, Mayor Bradley, as a young police officer, organized youth baseball and football leagues to provide positive options for at-risk kids. The mayor and I were convinced that sports provided a way to channel both rage and talent, that sports stressed discipline and focus, that playing the games was satisfying and built a sense of pride and self-worth. Currently, Bradley saw to it that portions of the Olympic surplus went to fund youth athletic programs.

  Additionally, the mayor and I had discussed my off-season work as a San Francisco probation officer during the 1960s. We both felt that I could use my influence to help turn lives around. Just get them to listen, just get them to think about their lives. The hardest thing to do was to get the criminals to take any responsibility. It was never their fault, it was the drugs, it was the police, it was the radical movement—in the late 1960s every gangster was revolutionary. They all called me “brother,” and went on about “power to the people.” “Man,” I’d say, “you aren’t in my family, and you sure as hell don’t have any power.” They didn’t listen. No matter what, it was always something other than them that caused the crime. With these guys it was always “SOD,” we would laugh around the probation office: “Some Other Dude.” I always believed that once someone could actually take time out, look at their life, and own it, then great change could occur.

  Any little moment has within it life-changing potential. This view was born of a personal interaction between Bradley and me when I was just a boy. When Bradley was a beat cop and I was about twelve, he had called me out regarding my recent theft from a corner store, asking me whether I wanted to amount to something or start down the path to ruin. As a young man, Bradley himself was caught for the same offense and received a whooping from his mother that he never forgot. Bradley never told my mother what I did, for which I was forever thankful. I always remembered Bradley’s words. The event marked another turning point in my life, like my father dressing me down and asking if I wanted to be a star athlete, or just another killer.

  Since the murders, Mayor Bradley had personally offered my family his condolences and held press conferences outlining the police response to the tragedy. But with little progress after nearly a month, he shared my frustrations. He knew I could blow at any moment.

  As a police officer, a city councilman, and now as mayor, Tom Bradley had developed a reputation for knowing what happened within his city. And word of my midnight rambles had reached him. Well aware of my personality and my current sense of desperation, he feared I could kill someone, or get myself killed. Either result would be a public relations disaster for the city, highlighting the failure to solve the case and control violent crime.

  Now, reclining in his high-backed chair, the mayor spoke in a calm baritone as he attempted to put me at ease. At six feet, four inches tall and dressed in a dark suit, Bradley had a commanding presence. He pushed his fingertips into a pyramid, exhaled, and slowly leaned forward. He empathized with me and my family, he assured me. Bradley too had been very close with his mother, who had just recently passed away. The mayor also lived by the creed that you needed to take control of your own life, and understood my refusal to simply sit passive. But, he stressed, leaning back into his chair, my vigilante act could only bring further tragedy. He concluded his plea by telling me that LAPD chief Daryl Gates was on his way up to the mayor’s office. Gates, Bradley said, would detail for me all of the LAPD’s current efforts and convince me that the police could handle this matter.

  * * *

  Daryl Gates was appointed chief of police in 1978. Gates was a protégé and onetime driver of the iconic chief William Parker. Modeling himself after Parker, who headed the department from 1950 to 1966, Gates believed in a modern, efficient, and professional police force, organized upon a military model and reliant on the most up-to-date technologies. Gates shared Parker’s intolerance for police corruption and brutality, as both thwarted the will to effectively fight crime. But Gates, like Parker, took criticism poorly, was slow to acknowledge errors, and failed to perceive the racial divide splitting the police from the city’s minority citizens.

  Since becoming chief, a central issue facing Gates was the growth of street gangs, particularly in South Central. Believing that U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren’s “due process revolution” emboldened criminals at the expense of the law-abiding, Gates spearheaded numerous “get tough” programs designed to “take back the streets.” Gates’s philosophy was that if you caused others to fear leaving their homes, then you did not deserve to be on the streets, and would thus have a problem with the LAPD. Faced with the new murderous gangs, Gates forged a police force that even the most hardened gangster would fear. This made Gates highly controversial, embraced by law-and-order advocates as a last best hope, condemned by civil libertarians for running an L.A. Gestapo.

  LAPD’s CRASH Unit (Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums) exemplified the Gates way of fighting gangs. CRASH, originally TRASH (Total Resources Against Street Hoodlums), was born out of South Bureau’s 77th Street Division. Relying upon aggressive proactive policing, favored tactics included gang sweeps, heavily armed raids of crack houses, and widespread use of stop-and-frisks. CRASH’s motto, “We intimidate those who intimidate others,” as well as the logo, a skull wearing a cowboy hat, sent the message that L.A.’s streets were the new Wild West. Like Gates himself, CRASH was divisive. Critics questioned its constitutionality, seeing it as just another excuse for the head-cracking LAPD to harass minorities while ignoring underlying social problems. Gates defended it as the only way to protect terrorized citizens stuck in gang war zones.


  As the 1984 Olympics neared, Gates had made a name for himself with his full-force assault on gangs. Leading fifty separate law enforcement agencies, LAPD saw that the summer Games went off without incident. Fearing that gangs would intimidate patrons, as well as potentially ally with foreign terrorists, Gates and his security team relied upon gang sweeps and mass arrests and secured fences and barricades to prevent suspected gang members from nearing the Olympic Village. While generally applauded in the spirit of Olympic euphoria, Gates had his critics. Some criticized his tactics as an “Olympic siege,” turning the streets of Los Angeles “into occupied Belfast.”

  While Bradley and Gates had cooperated in the name of Olympic unity, the preceding years had seen their relationship grow ever colder. They could grit their teeth and exchange wooden handshakes at press conferences, but the bad blood left the two barely speaking. Gates felt the mayor punitively starved LAPD of resources due to a long-held grudge that the department had discriminated against him as an officer in the 1940s. Bradley saw Gates as a loose-tongued cowboy, out of touch with the realities of modern-day Los Angeles and hostile to the concerns of the city’s growing nonwhite population.

  For Gates the situation was complicated. African-American leaders, such as City Councilman Robert Farrell, demanded more active policing for the terrified residents of poor minority districts. Farrell and others also argued that had white people been frequent murder victims, a very different police response would have been seen. This pressured Gates to solve black-on-black crimes and prevent them going forward. Gates said this could be done only through persistent and aggressive strategies. On the other hand, Gates and LAPD were under constant assault by civil rights groups complaining that such tactics in minority neighborhoods constituted racial profiling and put disproportionate numbers of young black men behind bars.