“Two door, four door?”
“Two. I’m pretty sure two.”
“Go on.”
“At least I’m remembering more than I did the other day, whenever that was, when I was deep on the morphine.”
“Congratulations. Go on.”
“The car pulls up to the curb, and this black guy gets out. He’s like maybe forty-five, fifty, and he’s got a purple bandana covering his head and forehead and a semi, a nine apparently, and he starts shooting. That fast. I think there’s nowhere to run, so I think about a charge, but he’s too far away and then I go down. Whole thing is maybe two, three seconds at the very most.”
“Color of the car?”
“I couldn’t say, other than it wasn’t light, like white or beige or yellow.”
“Color of the black guy? Dark, light skinned?”
“Dark, but not like African dark.”
“Height? Weight?”
“Like I told you on the phone, nothing special, wasn’t tall, wasn’t short. Wasn’t fat, wasn’t skinny. I know you’re getting tired of hearing this, but it happened so quick. I’d say he was somewhere between five eight and five eleven, say somewhere between one sixty and two hundred. The thing is there was nothing really distinctive about him.”
“Say, Lyons,” said Hart, “you ever think about taking a ‘Describe People’ class? The FBI has them. You could sure use it.”
“Fuck you, Hart.”
Hart laughed.
“Actually, what you gave us does help,” said LaBarbera. “Narrows it down at least a little bit. We can do a lot of eliminating. On the phone you didn’t give me any numbers, but you were out of it. Did he say anything? Anything at all?”
“If he did, I didn’t hear it.”
“Was anyone on the sidewalk near you?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
“You said he had a purple rag on. You recently pissed someone off from Grape Street? Fuck some married women down here?” Hart asked.
“You’re a funny guy.”
“Whaddya mean funny?”
Sal cut them off. “Don’t start with that routine, you two clowns. Jordan Downs, go on.”
“I haven’t even been to Jordan Downs in months. You know I’m loved down there. Maybe the purple bandana was to throw off the scent.”
“That’s what Sal and I were thinking. Shooters don’t advertise anymore.”
“So none of our fine citizens have stepped up. I know there had to be thirty people who saw it. Second and Broadway? Please.”
“We got one plate called in, but it turned out to not even be an actual license plate number,” said LaBarbera, “And what we have got from anonymous tips goes with you that it was an American car, like a Buick or an Olds or Pontiac.”
And, as for suspects,” said Hart, “even your colleagues had a list of like fifteen, twenty suspects.”
“Yeah, Greg told me. But, hell, half of those suspects were husbands of women I kissed in the last ten years. They don’t count. They didn’t have balls to fuck their wives, let alone shoot me.”
“Coulda hired out,” said Hart.
“I don’t see it.”
“So, it’s most likely work related,” LaBarbera said. “We thought maybe the Rollin Sixties. You did that big piece on them a couple years ago. We came down hard on them after it ran. They had to be pissed.”
“But, like you said, that was two years ago. They don’t remember back that far. Plus, Wild Cat was one of the first people to call me in the hospital. I’ve known Cat for a long time, and we’ve always respected each other. Used to write him when he was in Soledad and Corcoran. Sometimes send him twenty-dollar mail orders. Guys inside, they don’t forget that shit. They love you for that.”
“Yeah, we talked to him today. He spoke highly of you. I don’t know if I’d be proud of that, but you probably are.”
“Damn right,” I said. “The Sixties didn’t do this.”
“You’re right about that,” said LaBarbera. “If they did, you’d be dead.”
“Let me ask you guys something,” I said, scooting up a bit on the pillow that had the consistency of hour-old cement. “Do you think I have to worry about whoever did this coming here to finish me off?”
“Finish you off?” said Hart with exaggerated tone. “Who are you, Don Corleone? Sal, how many times you think this guy has seen The Godfather?”
“Fuck you, Hart,” I said, trying to hide a smile.
“Hey, Johnny,” LaBarbera said. “Maybe we should get Luca Brasi to stand in front of the door.”
“Fuck that, Sal,” I said, moving toward relaxed. “That overrated motherfucker is sleeping with the fishes.”
They laughed, said their goodbyes, but not before LaBarbera told me he would tell hospital security to keep a guy on the floor just to play it safe.
“Tell you the truth, Mike, I think whoever did this to you wasn’t a pro,” said Hart. “There were nine shell casings we picked up on the sidewalk and curb. Two hits outta nine. Not exactly the Sundance Kid.”
Later that night, in his office, true to his word, Duke Collinsworth wrote a scathing editorial of the LAPD. The story ran in Thursday’s paper.
ARE WE SAFE NEAR PAB
by Duke Collinsworth
The Mayor and the Police Chief like to quote statistics that crime is down. And it is, according to their stats. But, are we safe in Los Angeles? Not really. Can we count on the police to track down our assailants and, as the cliché often used by politicians, goes “Bring them to justice?”
Apparently not. The employees, the family here at the Times tasted this bitter reality this week when one of our own, Michael Lyons, was gunned down under a sunny sky just one block away from our editorial offices, two blocks from City Hall and three blocks from the Police Administration Building, PAB, the LAPD’s new headquarters.
Lyons was shot and seriously wounded as he walked along 2nd Street near Broadway shortly after five pm. We have tracked that intersection and within a 30 second period up to 100 cars pass that corner. Someone saw something. Yet all the LAPD can say is, “We are vigorously pursuing all leads.”
What leads? This happened three short blocks from police headquarters. They like to say the downtown area is safe. Come to Los Angeles. But is it? If a gunman can get away, even for two days, with shooting someone in daylight in downtown Los Angeles two blocks from City Hall, what hope is there for the victims in housing projects in Watts, in alleys of Boyle Heights and in the parks and crowded apartment hallways of Rampart Division?
Mike Lyons has a dangerous beat for a city reporter. He covers street gangs and, I imagine, knowing him, when he is healthy, he will return to this beat he loves. Between 50% and 60% of the homicides in Los Angeles are gang related and Lyons, who personally convinced me we should create a beat solely devoted to gangs, felt we, as the newspaper of record in the West, needed to cover them more thoroughly. I agreed and he was given that beat.
The LAPD needs to cover gangs better, also. They need to protect us. As their car says “To Protect and Serve.” Maybe they should add “And to Find the Shooters.”
How can we be safe in Los Angeles if we are not safe on Broadway and 2nd Street? The LAPD needs to find the shooter and send a message to other shooters. Our citizens need to know if you shoot someone, be it a reporter from the Los Angeles Times on 2nd Street or a grandma on 114th Street in Nickerson Gardens, you will be, in the blowhard words of our politicians, “hunted down.” Get on your jobs, detectives, and find the person who shot my reporter. Let the city, let the country, let the world know, shooters can’t get away in Los Angeles.
CHAPTER 7
The editorial was met with scorn throughout much of the city. It resulted in a rare union: residents from the city’s roughest neighborhoods and the police that patrol their streets. They agreed the Times only cared because it was one of their own who got popped.
That afternoon, LAPD called a press conference in front of the Police Administration
Building. Uniformed LAPD Chief of Police Charlie Miller, flanked by finely attired Captain Tatreau, police brass, and city officials, stepped to the microphones set up near the entrance to the PAB. A SWAT team was out of sight inside the lobby and, in the nearby parking lot, another thirty or so officers were ready for trouble.
“Everyone ready?” Miller asked the TV news crews. And, of course, as is always the case at any police news conference, one station’s cameraman wasn’t quite ready. He squeezed in between his friends at competing stations, adjusted his camera, gave a thumbs-up. Miller began: “We’re here to give you an update into the investigation of the shooting of Los Angeles Times reporter Michael Lyons, who was seriously wounded downtown early Monday evening as he walked out of the Redwood Saloon on 2nd Street.
“Because of the nature of the case, I have assigned two detectives from South Bureau Homicide to work with Robbery-Homicide to lead the investigation, Detective Sal LaBarbera and Detective Johnny Hart, both of whom have worked the gang units and who both know Mike Lyons. As a personal aside, I have met Lyons on several occasions and have always admired his work. This case has garnered special attention from us not because Lyons is a Times reporter, but because of the when and where of this audacious shooting. We cannot let criminals turn our downtown into a free-fire zone.
“As for the investigation itself, we are pursuing a number of leads, some of which I cannot get into, much to the apparent chagrin of the Times editorial board. Obviously, they have never run an investigation of this type.
“Nevertheless, I can tell you we are in the process of interviewing people and are going over some of Lyons’s stories in search of clues. We do ask the public for their help. There were many cars and people near the intersection of Second and Broadway at five p.m. Monday, and we need to hear from you. Even if you think you have nothing to tell us, we would still like to talk to you. This can be done over the phone and anonymously if need be. I’ll take a few questions now.”
At the news conference, news radio reporter Howitzer Hal Hansen, with his cavernous voice, overpowered the others and got in the first question. “Chief, can you tell the people of Los Angeles, particularly the people who work downtown in the heart of this great city, that they are safe?”
“Yes, I can, Hal. There are, unfortunately, many shootings in this city, but the numbers are down dramatically. I repeat, dramatically, from five, ten, even twenty years ago. Daytime downtown shootings are extremely rare. It just does not happen often. If it did, this would not be major news. So I want to encourage the people—residents, tourists, and workers alike—not to fear downtown Los Angeles. This was a very unusual incident. You do not have to be fearful of walking downtown.
“I need to emphasize that reporter Michael Lyons dealt with street gangs. That was his beat. He was known for doing some dangerous street reporting. We are definitely looking into the distinct possibility that one of his stories upset some bad guys. We’ve been going over his stories and looking for clues. The average citizen of this city does not go out of their way to deal with gangs as he did, and we believe that may have contributed to this shooting.”
A reporter called out, “Are you calling this a gang-related shooting?”
“No, we are not. Not yet. Well, not unless you consider the Los Angeles Times to be a gang.” Some polite scattered laughter rippled through the crowd. Not much. “But seriously, we are looking into the strong possibility that it was gang related.”
Channel 7 was next. “Chief, I know you say things are safe here. Still, this shooting was only two blocks from city hall, just three blocks from police headquarters.”
“Sounds like you read today’s editorial,” said Miller.
“We all did, Chief. We all did. But, doesn’t this send a message to the gangbangers that they can blast away in daylight three blocks from LAPD headquarters and get away with it? Won’t this spark even more bloodshed? Isn’t this a problem?”
“It is a problem for criminals to shoot two blocks from here and it is a problem for them to shoot a hundred and three blocks from here on Grape Street in Watts. The media are focusing on the Lyons shooting and, believe me, I understand the news angle here. But, last night there was a homicide on Fifty-Fourth Street and Ascot. The Times made it a one-inch brief and, as far as I know, none of the TV stations, including yours, even carried it. But, within two hours, two suspects were in custody. I want to let the public know that we are out there doing our job, in Watts, in Boyle Heights, in Pico-Union, in Hollywood, in Venice, in San Pedro, in the Valley, and right here in downtown.”
Howitzer Hal started in again, “Chief, can you say—”
“Hold on, Hal. The message is not that the gangbangers, if this was indeed gang related, can get away with it. They will not get away with it. Whoever did it will be brought to justice. It might take another day, it might take a month, but we will get the shooter. That’s the real message.”
Though several reporters yelled out questions, Miller cut them off. “We ask the public’s help as we do in all cases. This is not the police versus the criminals. This is the police and the public versus the bad guys. The public is a key ally. We need the public in this case and in all cases. The police with the public’s help, the public with the police’s help. That’s the way we all win. Thank you very much.”
CHAPTER 8
To be merely wounded during a crime and get mentioned in the Los Angeles Times is rare. On many an occasion, Lyons had told an editor about a wounding he had heard on the police scanner or learned from making a cop call. The editor’s reaction was usually, “Let me know if he dies.”
There were basically four ways to get in the paper with just a wound.
If the victim was some type of celebrity, such as a rapper or athlete of middle to major note, he or she would get in. Hollywood movie or television stars do not get shot. They are never around real violence.
If a student is wounded on a high school campus, even just grazed in the finger, most likely that will make the paper unless it happens at Manual Arts, Jordan, Fremont, Jefferson, Locke, Washington, Crenshaw, Dorsey, Gardena, Compton, Carson, Roosevelt, Garfield, Centennial, Morningside, Inglewood, or Banning high schools. At those schools, the wound would have to be more than a nick.
If the wounding occurs at a major venue—say the Grove, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Rodeo Drive, Disneyland, Santa Monica Pier, Beverly Center, places like that—it gets major play for sure.
About the only way for a commoner to make it in the paper with just a wound is when that victim is a real hard-luck, against-all-odds success story.
• • •
Debra Sady Griffen was a classic example of the “I’m gonna make it, come hell or high water” story. Two years ago, in three weeks’ time, her parents were killed on Crenshaw near Imperial Highway by a drunk driver; her older sister, Denise, drank herself to a Smirnoff death; and her older brother, Darnell, was shot to death by a seventeen-year-old Nutty Blocc Compton Crip because he had on a maroon t-shirt.
Rather than melt into the city’s sidewalks, Debra Sady, then twenty-two, was fervently determined to make something of her life. She worked hard. Before her night shift as a stock clerk at the Food4Less on Slauson and Western, she attended bus-driving school. Her goal was, after two months on the bus gig, to move out of her apartment on Brynhurst Avenue, a mid-size city’s worth of urban nightmares squished into six narrow blocks.
The day before she was to start driving kids to school for Laidlaw Bus Company, Debra went to her cousin’s house in Lynwood, a suburb on the relatively right side of the Alameda tracks. To her tearful surprise, a dozen family members and friends had gathered to celebrate her graduation and her new job. It was one of the great times of her life. Never had Debra Sady felt prouder, never had she felt more in love with life.
About the time Debra was singing along to Junior Walker and the All Stars’s “What Does It Take (To Win Your Love),” there was a shooting several miles to the west near the Harbor
Freeway.
The Hotel Mary on Vermont near 75th had recently undergone a $680 renovation that included a new mop and bucket, a rug cleaning, a Bissell vacuum cleaner, and painting of the front awnings green, and the front and side walls hot pink, a popular color in these parts. It was called a hotel, but it was just a flophouse where the rooms rent for eighty-five dollars a week, the air never moved, and the hallways reeked like a Figueroa Street whore who hasn’t paid her hot water bill since summer began.
In a second-floor room, a drug deal had gone wrong. A Seven-Four Hoover Criminal had been shot in the shoulder and robbed of his stash, about three hundred dollars in rocks. The wounded twenty-year-old recognized his assailant, a rival from the Rollin Sixties Crips, their decades-long mortal enemies. As his homies drove him to the hospital, he told them who the shooter was. No one waited for the paramedics on the Southside of L.A. In the emergency room of Harbor/UCLA Medical Center on Carson Street in Torrance, police questioned the victim, who told them he had no idea who had shot him and that it wasn’t much of a shooting anyway.
As police interviewed the wounded man, three of his boys from Hoover, a gang admired for their quick payback shootings, were already searching for the shooter. They knew him to be staying with a cousin on Brynhurst Avenue in Hyde Park. Hoovers also had good intel. About fifteen minutes earlier, Debra Sady had gotten her hugs and well-wishes and said her goodbyes and was headed back to her apartment complex on Brynhurst.
In Southwest Los Angeles, in the area west of Crenshaw and both south and north of Slauson Avenue, amidst the fragrant cloud of Woody’s BBQ, is the neighborhood of Hyde Park.
If you took a corner boy from, say, 25th and Diamond in North Philly, he’d drool over the neat two- and three-bedroom Spanish tile-roofed homes with their sweet-smelling red Mister Lincoln rosebushes and Purple Queen bougainvillea that line the streets.
But, that corner boy would be surprised to learn that this neighborhood was the domain of one of the deadliest black street gangs in the United States—The Rollin Sixties Crips, often both affectionately and dreadfully referred to as “Six-Oh.” As in “’Dem niggas from Six-Oh just shot your grandma.”
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