Norco '80

by Peter Houlahan

  It did not help Clark that just one county over was San Bernardino County sheriff Frank Bland, a rough-and-tumble, old-school cop’s cop who had fought on Iwo Jima and came up through the ranks as a patrolman, detective, and then captain. It had been Bland who drove his personal department vehicle up Baldy Notch Road to bring down the body of Jim Evans. Bland had a fiercely loyal following among his deputies. Clark was not disliked by his deputies, but his biggest supporters were those among his own staff. “He was a man with absolute moral values, and he applied logic to all of his decisions,” said Cois Byrd, who worked under Clark and would succeed him as sheriff.

  Whatever equity Ben Clark had built up with his deputies over years of improved discipline and training seemed to evaporate in the days after Norco. What had been mostly insider squabbling became very public when the Riverside Press-Enterprise ran a four-part exposé titled “Staying Alive” on consecutive days the week of July 13, 1980. Ostensibly, the series was an exploration of lessons learned from the Norco incident and what could be done to address any deficiencies. But the opening lines of the front-page article in the Sunday edition clearly announced what it was really going to be about:

  Riverside sheriff’s deputies are angry. And they’re scared. A fellow officer, James B. Evans, was shot to death during a robbery and chase that led into the San Gabriel Mountains. The deputies don’t think their department is doing enough to prevent it from happening again.

  Before the first installment of the series was over, the reading public was aware of just how pissed the deputies were at Ben Clark and the RSO. “Clark is dragging his feet on some changes and refuses to make others,” Sheriffs’ Association president Robert Russell was quoted in what was essentially a declaration of open revolt on behalf of the deputies. “He wants tempers to cool in hopes we will all forget the demands.” The article added that “Police officials from other departments are also critical of Clark” and that they “agree with the deputies’ contention that Clark’s department lags seriously behind other police agencies in the areas of training and equipment.”

  Clark contested the accusations head-on. “Riverside’s deputies are as well-trained and equipped as any police officers in the state.” He did not run his administration by crisis, he said. “We will take our time and make the changes we honestly feel we need.” While indicative of the sober and calculated management style that had made him popular in the past, he now sounded more like a man who did not see what the big deal was all about. What the deputies saw as evidence of a trend, Clark considered an anomaly not likely to be repeated. “In thirty years in law enforcement, I have never seen anything like the Norco incident.”

  It was not exactly what the public wanted to hear, especially after the paper took more than a dozen column inches to detail exactly how badly law enforcement had gotten their asses kicked that day. For a savvy politician who had won four major county elections in a row, the sheriff demonstrated a tin ear when it came to his remarks. When told the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Office had concluded that the absence of CLEMARS was the reason Jim Evans drove straight into the ambush, Clark bristled. “No one will ever be able to convince me that if Evans’s car radio had CLEMARS he would be alive today.” As if to punctuate how alone Clark was in that belief, the Press-Enterprise ran a companion article titled “Evans’ Unit Was Not Equipped for Crucial Warning,” which contradicted Clark and included the heartbreaking final radio transmissions by Evans.

  Not only did the series announce the rift within the Riverside Sheriff’s Department, it revealed the animosity that existed between Clark and Riverside police chief Victor Jones, who ran his department from the building directly across the street: “Jones complains Clark is too often willing to fill gaps in his own force by relying on help from neighboring, smaller, better equipped police departments.” After essentially calling the RSO a bunch of parasitic freeloaders, Jones went on to blame Clark for everything that went wrong that day. “I think had they [Riverside deputies] been afforded the best training and equipment available, the outcome would have been different.” It was a particularly harsh indictment considering the “outcome” was the death of a deputy.

  When the “Staying Alive” series turned its attention to guns, Clark conceded, “The bad guys simply had the better weapons.” However, he dismissed the idea that high-powered rifles would have done his men any good.

  The article went on to note that “some of Clark’s deputies are unwilling to wait” for the department to move on the weapons issue and were now carrying semiautomatic rifles they had purchased on their own. “Most of the deputies are now carrying the guns the Sheriff said we can’t have,” an unidentified deputy said. “At shift change, there are a lot of AR-15s and Mini-14s going into the trunks and under the front seats of patrol cars.” “I know that these weapons are against our policy, but I would much rather be tried by twelve jurors than carried by six friends,” deputy Don Chennault wrote in the Sheriff’s Association newsletter. The implication was clear: If the department won’t protect us, we will protect ourselves.

  The most startling revelation in the “Staying Alive” exposé was not how slow Clark and the RSO were to react, but the speed and degree to which the other agencies involved had moved to increase their own firepower. In the two months since the Norco bank robbery, the RPD had ordered a dozen high-powered rifles to go along with a dozen they already kept in the trunks of shift sergeants’ cars. At the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department—which prior to Norco had possessed only the beat-up M16 used by D. J. McCarty—sheriff Frank Bland had “presented that county’s Board of Supervisors with an extensive shopping list.” Bland’s wish list included three dozen automatic weapons as well as $5,500 to buy an M60 machine gun to mount on one of his choppers.

  With his request for the M60, Bland had moved beyond the world of domestic law enforcement to that of military-grade weaponry, far surpassing anything found in the arsenal of any local police force. The M60, widely used in the Vietnam War, is a belt-fed machine gun capable of firing 750 rounds of .308 ammunition per minute. As over-the-top as Bland’s request might have been, the contrast was not good for Ben Clark. While he was forming committees to study the issue, just over the border Frank Bland was making sure that the next asshole who shot at one of his choppers would get obliterated.

  Compared to the impressive firepower his neighboring agencies had on order, the arsenal listed by Riverside chief deputy Sam Lowery in the “Staying Alive” article seemed almost quaint: several .30-.30 lever-action rifles, two bolt-action single-shot sniper rifles, and one AR-15, the whereabouts of which nobody was quite sure.

  Shortly after publication of the article, Sheriff Clark strode into a scheduled budget meeting with the county supervisors and made a surprising announcement. “It is our intention to buy forty Mini-14 rifles so sergeant supervisors are equipped with the weapons.” No one was more surprised than Robert Russell, the president of the Riverside Sheriffs’ Association who had been so critical of Clark in the exposé. Russell, who also sat on the sheriff’s weapons-review committee, said he was “amazed” by the sheriff’s announcement. “Why was a committee set up to discuss this very same issue if the sheriff already knew what he was going to do?” Russell complained.

  When asked about the change of heart, Clark refused further comment. Lowery deflected reporters’ questions as well. “We are not going to talk about it anymore. All this is doing is stirring up trouble. We have enough of an emotional situation on our hands without adding to it.”

  Within months of the Norco bank robbery, Inland Empire law enforcement agencies, which had started the year with a handful of semiautomatic rifles, were now on their way to becoming some of the most heavily armed in the nation. The two sheriff’s departments had gone from a pair of high-powered rifles between them to more than seventy-five and counting. Helicopters, which had been unarmed before Norco, now circled overhead with machine guns at the ready to rain dozens of rounds of ammunition down on hos
tile suspects. After firmly stating in the “Staying Alive” article that the RSO would have no use for a SWAT team, Clark announced he was forming eight of the heavily armed units to be placed throughout the county. An additional dozen Ruger Marksman rifles chambering .308 ammunition were ordered and put at the disposal of the teams.

  Law enforcement officers throughout the Inland Empire knew they were experiencing a sea change in local police weaponry that was not likely to ever be reversed. After one hundred years of policing the Wild West with a six-shooter and a Winchester shotgun, sheriff’s deputies suddenly had access to fifteen-round, high-capacity sidearms and rifles that could punch a hole the size of a fist through a man from half a mile away.

  After the flurry of weapons acquisitions was announced, deputies Andy Delgado and Dave Madden were relaxing in front of the television set at Andy’s house when the evening news showed video of German police guarding an event. On the screen, the federal Bundespolizei stood clad in body armor holding Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns across their chests. “See that,” Andy said, nodding at the television. “That’s the way it’s going. That’s how we’ll all be armed soon.”

  DESPITE ORDERING THE NEW WEAPONS, HARD FEELINGS TOWARD SHERIFF Clark persisted among RSO deputies. They openly booed him at a Riverside Sheriffs’ Association meeting. Much of the unhappiness was due to what they saw as a lack of recognition for their service that day. “We put our lives and souls and everything into this,” deputy Rolf Parkes would be quoted in the San Bernardino Sun years later. “After the incident there was no support from the Riverside sheriff’s office for any of us. We were not even thanked . . . They just forgot about us, put us aside.”

  Others felt the department was trying to brush the whole thing under the rug to avoid any further negative publicity related to the incident. When a local citizens group called the Law Enforcement Appreciation Committee held their annual event to honor Riverside officers from various agencies, the CHP recommended patrolmen Joe Haughey and Bill Crowe for their role in the Norco pursuit. The Riverside Sheriff’s Office declined to nominate any of its deputies for their role in the Norco bank robbery.

  All the discord between the deputies and their department came to a head on September 12, 1980, when the membership of the Riverside Sheriffs’ Association returned a vote of “no confidence” in sheriff Ben Clark. “There is a great deal of emotion being exhibited in our department right now,” Clark responded, “and a vote of this kind really is no help to me in administration.”

  AS FAR AS GLYN BOLASKY WAS CONCERNED, THE ONLY PERSON THE DEPARTMENT had let down more than Jim Evans was Glyn Bolasky, and he was not being quiet about it. Andy Delgado might have had his differences with the Norco deputies after the incident, but Bolasky’s complaining did not sit well with him. From the time Andy first saw him in the hospital hours after the shootout, he was convinced Bolasky’s injuries were not nearly severe enough to warrant his leaving the scene while the shootout was still in progress. “Sure, Bolasky did a few good things there; he stood up and shot at those guys,” Andy said. “But after he was wounded, he was worthless. And he took another guy with him,” he added, meaning Chuck Hille.

  Andy was also disgusted with his fellow deputies for being so openly contemptuous of their own sheriff and department. The Darrell Creed code of ethics demanded a level of respect for one’s department and the institution of law enforcement itself. Andy’s faith in all of those might have been eroded, but he remained faithful to the principle.

  By mid-July, Bolasky was back full-time but still restricted to dispatch duty due to injury. The assignment had effectively kept Delgado and Bolasky from crossing paths. But one afternoon while pulling file numbers near the dispatch center, Andy spotted Bolasky talking to a few other deputies in the hallway. According to Andy, he heard Bolasky complaining bitterly about the department and then saw him lift his badge up and pretend to spit on it.

  What the fuck’s wrong with you? Delgado said, approaching Bolasky. We just finished burying a guy and you’re disrespecting the same badge he wore? The two exchanged words. Andy’s anger spiked, and he lunged at Bolasky. In an instant, the two were pushing and threatening to throw punches until the other deputies jumped in and separated them.

  By the end of the day, news of the confrontation between Bolasky and Delgado had spread. The impact among the ranks of the RSO deputies was profound: Not only was Norco tearing apart the relationship between the deputies and their department, but now they were turning on each other.

  JUST ONE MONTH PRIOR TO THE NORCO BANK ROBBERY, AN ALBUM BY ROCK group Pink Floyd finished an astonishing fifteen-week run at the top of the Billboard album chart on its way to becoming the best-selling album of 1980. The Wall was a semi-autobiographical chronicle of a rock star’s downward slide into isolation and alienation, with each traumatic event a metaphorical “brick” pushing him closer to self-destruction.

  For Andy Delgado, Norco had become just another brick in the wall he had built up around himself since childhood. After speaking out at the group counseling session and the fight with Bolasky, Andy felt like a marked man. Now it seemed people were gunning for him, trying to bait him into getting into more trouble.

  Within weeks of the fight with Bolasky, Andy had a run-in with another deputy, this time in public. Angered over a comment made behind his back, Andy radioed the man for a 1087 meet-up at the Carl’s Jr. parking lot directly across the street from the Security Pacific Bank. Once there, he dressed down the junior deputy. Soon the two were out of their patrol cars screaming accusations and poking fingers in each other’s chests in the middle of a crowded lot. A citizen reported the confrontation and the two men were called in by their superior to explain themselves. In the end, only Andy received a reprimand for having instigated the incident.

  The flare-ups, confrontations, and shouting matches continued. By the first anniversary of Norco, Andy was carrying two handguns while out in the field—one in a shoulder holster, one in his boot. He did not try to disguise the reason for this. “If I can’t count on people in this department to back me up,” Delgado let it be known, “then I’ll do it myself.” He was also spending more time drinking with his buddies, had dropped out of college, and had a failing marriage. “I was not a very pleasant guy,” he would later admit.

  After yet another confrontation, Andy arrived at the RSO one morning to find a letter on his desk from workman’s comp informing him that a claim had been filed on his behalf. The notice instructed him to see a psychiatrist for evaluation. If Andy wasn’t going to get help himself, the department was going to do it for him. Andy stormed into the captain’s office and set his service revolver and badge on the man’s desk. “If this is what you fuckers want,” he yelled, shaking the letter at the captain, “then here you go.”

  The captain, a man Andy did not dislike, tossed his pen on the desk. “Goddamn it, Andy,” he bellowed, pushing the hardware back at Delgado. “Put that fuckin’ shit back on right now, get back to work, and go see that doctor.” The department was not ready to give up on one of their best detectives yet.

  AFTER THE FIGHT WITH DELGADO, IT DID NOT TAKE LONG FOR THE RELATIONSHIP between Bolasky and the RSO to sour even further. Bolasky’s criticism of the department continued and the brass was not happy about it. At the end of July, acting station commander lieutenant Walter Kelly called Bolasky in on a day off to discuss the deputy’s dissatisfaction with the department. The two men argued, and Kelly kicked Bolasky out of the office.

  It was the last straw for Bolasky, who immediately walked across the street to the headquarters of the Riverside Police Department and asked for a job, just as he had been threatening to do for weeks. To Bolasky’s immense surprise, he was led into the office of chief Victor Jones. Bolasky was direct: Can I come over here? he asked. Jones, eager to steal the hero of Norco away from his rival Ben Clark, said he could. Bolasky then walked back across the street and resigned from the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department.

 
; Three weeks later, Glyn Bolasky was a member of the Riverside PD. He felt relieved to be making a fresh start, hopeful that the change in environment would help put Norco behind him. Like any incoming officer, he was assigned a six-month field-training program under the supervision of veteran officer Dennis Doty. Doty immediately spotted problems. Bolasky was jittery, his behavior erratic. He was having issues driving a police vehicle. Most of all, he seemed preoccupied with the Norco shootout, bringing it up constantly. “I like the guy,” Doty confided in fellow officer Mike Watts, “but he just can’t get over Norco.”

  Bolasky knew he was struggling. Even the most routine traffic stops were stressful. On November 5, two months into the training program, Bolasky was involved in a high-speed pursuit in the La Sierra area that ended in the arrest of armed robbers at gunpoint. “From that moment on, I didn’t care about law enforcement as much,” Bolasky said. “Why am I doing this?” he began to ask himself.

  The change in enthusiasm was obvious to all involved. Supervisors, including Doty, wrote unfavorable reviews of Bolasky’s performance. It was about that time that fine strands of copper shrapnel began showing up in Bolasky’s eyes, a testament to the insidious nature of a full metal jacket .223 and its ability to damage the human body on levels both catastrophic and minute. Although the effect on his eyesight was minimal, it spooked the shit out of him, making matters worse. Higher up the administrative chain, a fear was developing that if Bolasky could not get over Norco, he might end up filing a claim against the RPD for lifetime retirement benefits.