by John Buntin
Parker’s initial response to the crisis—attack the department’s critics and claim that the police department was the real victim—had been clumsy. One of the reasons for Parker’s ambivalent response may well have been his own sense of personal responsibility. The commanding officer at Central Division whom investigators would later fault for the violence was Lt. Harry Fremont. Deputy Chief Harold Sullivan, who at the time headed the LAPD’s patrol bureau, had resisted putting Fremont into Central Division, warning that he “was a good detective but a drunk.” Sullivan even went so far as to put his reservations in writing. Parker ignored the warning. Yet in the aftermath of the beating, it was Sullivan who got transferred. Fortunately for Parker, Sullivan never breathed a word of what had happened.
Soon after his ill-received first appearance before the county grand jury, Parker changed tack. By the end of March, the newspapers were reporting that Internal Affairs was assisting the grand jury in its probe. Parker was also hinting broadly that the department might discipline officers even before the grand jury completed its investigation. Although he continued to speak out powerfully—even provocatively—in defense of the force, Parker now had a new goal: to show that no one could investigate the police department as thoroughly as the police department itself. In short, Sergeant Friday was on the job. He delivered on these promises. In the spring of 1952, the grand jury indicted eight officers on charges of “assault with force likely to do great bodily harm.” Ultimately four officers were given prison sentences, a fifth officer was fined, and three officers were acquitted.
Parker went further. He ordered the transfer of fifty-four police officers with connections to Bloody Christmas, including two deputy chiefs, two inspectors, four captains, five lieutenants, and six sergeants. Another thirty-three officers were suspended, many based on evidence inadmissible in court. As it became clear that the police department was conducting a massive purge, what pressure there was to oust Parker and reform Section 202 abated. The chief still handled criticism poorly. When in their final report the grand jury faulted Parker for conditions in the jail, he couldn’t resist issuing a furious retort, prompting columnist Florabel Muir and the editorial board of the Examiner to chide the chief for failing to acknowledge the department’s foot-dragging in the matter. But the criticism now seemed a minor one. The opportunity to remove the chief from office for malfeasance, in accordance with civil service protections, was closing. Parker was determined that it would never open again.
DRAGNET wasn’t the only television program that went on the air in 1952 and profoundly influenced the Los Angeles Police Department’s self-image. In April 1952, just months after the first airing of Dragnet, another show appeared that was arguably equally influential—even though it aired on KNBH, the local NBC station, for only a few months—The Thin Blue Line. The title referred to a famous incident during the 1854 Crimean War when the British Army’s 93rd Highland tegiment—drawn up only two lines deep rather than the customary four—routed a Russian cavalry force of 2,500 men. The producer—and star—was none other than Chief William H. Parker.
The purpose of The Thin Blue Line was unabashedly propagandistic—to counter “current attempts to undermine public confidence in the Police Department” and “instill greater confidence in the police service.” Although Parker recognized the need “to bring to the audience the type of information in which they are interested,” the show he had in mind was no Dragnet. Rather, The Thin Blue Line featured a panel of experts (almost always including Chief Parker himself) and a moderator, supplied by the studio. Even in 1952, this seemed a bit dull. After only five months, KNBH (which had always seen the program as public service programming, not compelling entertainment) pulled the plug on the broadcast. Nonetheless, The Thin Blue Line was enormously important—not as a television show, but as a metaphor. The notion that the police was all that stood between society and the void, between order and chaos, between “Americanism” and communism, was thrilling—but also treacherous. In this worldview, civilians were corrupt, weak. (“The American people are like children as far as gambling is concerned—they must be kept away from this temptation,” Parker told the Herald-Express in October, when asked to comment on a ballot initiative that would bring Nevada-style legalized gambling to California.) Organized crime furthered this corruption and, by doing so, threatened the nation’s very survival.
“Soviet Russia believes that the United States contains within itself the seeds of its own destruction, to wit: avarice, greed, and corruption,” declared Parker in one often-quoted speech. “Russia believes we are rewriting the history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, another nation that became great and collapsed from its internal weakness.”
Parker believed that a great conflict had commenced with Soviet Russia. War was already under way in Korea. To prevail in this conflict, the United States would need the virtues of Sparta, not the indulgences of the Sunset Strip. In short, Mickey Cohen and his ilk weren’t just criminals. They were the unwitting agents of international communism. Police officers were thus on the front lines of protecting civilization itself.
In this vital role, Parker wanted only the very best. The 4,100-officer department was, virtually everyone agreed, terribly short staffed. Both the International Association of Chiefs of Police and the International City Managers Association believed that a ratio of three officers per thousand residents was the absolute minimum for a force capable of securing an urban area. The city of Los Angeles and its two million residents had just two police officers per thousand residents. To meet IACP standards, Los Angeles would need a minimum of two thousand new police officers. Yet the department couldn’t even fill existing vacancies.
Parker thought the primary problem was low pay and the low social status of police officers. Others thought the problem had more to do with the department’s standards. The notoriously subpar force of the 1920s had became an elite group by the 1950s. Parker seemed to take pride in the fact that less than 7 percent of the men who passed the civil service examination made it to the academy—and that only a fifth of those made it through the thirteen-week course. The Los Angeles Police Department had a reputation as “the West Point of police training,” and Bill Parker liked it that way. His men were smart (with a minimum IQ of 110) and physically imposing (with a minimum height requirement of five feet, nine inches for men). Just as many who wanted the toughest, most challenging military assignments opted for the Marine Corps, so too were proud, aggressive officers drawn to the LAPD. Of course, they had to be. Doing the work of six thousand with just over four thousand placed unusual demands on the force. The LAPD had to be bigger, faster, more efficient, tougher.
One generation earlier, Berkeley police superintendent August Vollmer had dreamt of a professional police force whose members would not just uphold the law, but would also assess neighborhood problems like sociologists and address them like social workers. Parker had no interest in doing social work. “Law enforcement officers are neither equipped nor authorized to deal with broad social problems,” he declared. “[W]e deal with effects, not causes.” Eschatology interested him more than sociology. He wanted men who, like the Spartans at Thermopylae, would hold “the thin blue line until society came to its senses.”
DRAGNET’S success rankled FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. So did Parker’s carping about the FBI’s temerity in investigating his department for potential civil rights violations. But irritation turned to anger when Parker informed “Kit” Carson, the special-agent-in-charge (SAC) of the L.A. office, that he intended to push for a resolution supporting a national clearinghouse for information on organized crime at the upcoming conference of the International Association of Chiefs of Police. Parker also informed Carson that he planned to put his name forward as a candidate for the vice presidency of the IACP, a fact Carson promptly relayed to Hoover, along with the SAC’s personal assessment of Parker as “an opportunist of the first order.” This was too much for Hoover. Parker’s clearinghouse c
ould become a rival to the bureau. Parker himself looked suspiciously like a rival to the director. Hoover’s instructions to his underlings were clear: All SACs should contact their friends in the local law enforcement community to sabotage Parker’s campaign. Parker’s election attempt was soundly defeated.
Hoover was determined to monitor the threat posed by Parker. Instructions went out to the Los Angeles SAC to watch Parker closely. Washington was soon informed that Parker “was often drinking to excess and had the reputation of being obstinate and pugnacious when under the influence of alcohol.” Scrawled Hoover on the bottom of one such memo, “I have no use for this fellow Parker and we should keep our guard up in all dealings with him. H.”
Parker had acquired a dangerous enemy. But the Los Angeles chief of police was too preoccupied with another adversary to notice.
17
The Trojan Horse
“You should always have a positive side to your program and ACCENTUATE it, but likewise you should use SUBTLE FEAR.”
—Cong. Norris Poulson, on how to win public office
BILL PARKER wasn’t willing to tolerate Communists in city government, period. Mayor Fletcher Bowron apparently was. Ironically, the two men’s disagreement on the issue of how deeply authorities should pry into individuals’ Political beliefs would create precisely what both men dreaded most—an opportunity for the underworld to “open” Los Angeles.
The issue was public housing. During (and immediately after) the war, Los Angeles faced an acute housing shortage. In 1949, Congress responded by passing an act authorizing the construction of more than 800,000 public housing units. Mayor Bowron sought a sizable share for Los Angeles. That summer, the city council unanimously approved a contract between the city’s housing authority and the federal government that provided for the construction of 10,000 units. But public sentiment then started to change. As the housing shortage eased, the need for federally subsidized housing seemed less pressing—and more antithetical to the principle of private ownership. In 1950, Los Angeles’s conservative business community, led by the Los Angeles Times and the chamber of commerce, persuaded the city council to overturn rent control. “Socialist housing,” as they described it, was a natural next target.
A narrow majority of the city council fell in line. On December 26, 1951, by a vote of 8-7, the city council passed a resolution that directed the city housing agency to halt construction on the public housing units it had already started building. An exasperated Mayor Bowron refused, noting that work had already begun, millions of dollars had been spent, and that a contract with the federal government had already been signed. Bowron offered to renegotiate the agreement and, if necessary, reduce the number of units; however, he refused to stop work entirely. His conservative opponents responded by announcing an anti-public housing referendum for the summer of 1952.
Bowron had the law on his side. In the spring of 1952, the California Supreme Court ruled that the city council “had no right or power to rescind approval of the project or to cancel or abrogate the agreements.” In late May, the state attorney general announced that in light of the Supreme Court’s ruling, the anti-public housing referendum, Proposition B, would be invalid, void, and have no force or effect. Still, Bowron recognized that he had a Political problem. He attempted to organize a closed-door colloquium with supporters and opponents of public housing alike to reach some consensus on the issue. But the mayor’s attempts at conciliation were dashed by the release of an LAPD report (requested by the conservative chamber of commerce) that depicted public housing as a breeding ground for juvenile delinquents. Furious, Mayor Bowron accused Parker of delivering “one of the most misleading reports ever issued in my administration.”
“There is nothing about a public housing project,” the mayor insisted, “which inherently breeds crime.”
Angelenos apparently disagreed. In June, city residents voted against public housing—379,050 “no’s” versus 258,777 “yeses.” Most politicians would have gotten the message. Not Mayor Bowron. Instead, in a radio address after the election, Bowron questioned whether the electorate “read and understood the question.” This condescending response allowed the Times to accuse the mayor of “saying that the public was so dumb… it didn’t know what it was voting about.”
Bowron pressed ahead. He now proposed to build 7,000 units. Opponents responded with an explosive charge, claiming that Communists had infiltrated the Los Angeles housing authority. In particular, councilman Ed Davenport alleged that the housing authority’s number two official, Frank Wilkinson, was a member of the Communist Party. The source of the information was the LAPD.
The charge emerged from a lawsuit involving a small parcel of property just north of downtown with striking views of the city, called Chavez Ravine. The city was proposing to evict a small group of private landowners in order to build public housing. Angry landowners responded by filing a lawsuit. During the trial, someone slipped an attorney for the plaintiffs an LAPD file that linked Wilkinson to the Communist Party. The accusation was a startling one. Wilkinson was the son of Dr. A. M. Wilkinson, a prominent civic activist who had worked closely with Mayor Bowron in the 1930s. The younger Wilkinson had taken loyalty oaths disavowing any connections to the Communist Party on numerous occasions. This time, however, he refused to answer questions about the subject.
Bowron had no interest in launching what he saw as a witch hunt into the background of a good friend’s son. Wilkinson was a capable public official. That was enough. Morally, this may have been admirable. Politically, it proved disastrous.
By 1952, Fletcher Bowron had been mayor of Los Angeles for fourteen years. When he first became mayor, he had enjoyed support from both the left and the right. As the years passed, however, Bowron had drifted ever closer to the more conservative business community. But this had not won him their gratitude. Bowron was still his own man, as the dispute over public housing clearly showed. The business establishment wanted someone more pliable. They now resolved to put a wholly dependable ally into the mayor’s office.
In December 1952, Times publisher Norman Chandler and Pacific Mutual Insurance president Asa Call summoned Los Angeles’s business elite to a strategy session on the top floor of the Times building. Among the group invited were lawyers Frank Doherty and James Beebe of O’Melveny & Myers and business leaders Neil Petree, Henry Duque, and Preston Hotchkis. The top item on their agenda was choosing a new mayor. Thirty-four names were up for discussion, but when the group got to the sixteenth, everyone agreed that they had found their man. Congressman Norris Poulson was an accountant, a dyed-in-the-wool conservative who’d done yeoman’s duty in Congress blocking Arizona’s efforts to secure a larger allotment of water from the Colorado River. The day after Christmas, Norman Chandler called Poulson at his home in Washington and informed the congressman that a group of civic leaders wanted to draft him to run for mayor. Chandler invited Poulson to Los Angeles so that Poulson could hear their pitch. A follow-up letter described the details of their offer. In addition to promising to bankroll Poulson’s campaign “generously,” Chandler’s letter noted that the mayor’s salary was likely to be increased and that Poulson as mayor would be “entitled to strut around in a car (Cadillac) and chauffeur supplied by the city.” Although Poulson privately admitted that he “knew very little about the immediate problems of Los Angeles,” except for the public housing issue (which, of course, he opposed), he quickly agreed to sign on for the race. Times reporter Carlton Williams took charge of launching the congressman as a candidate.
Despite Parker’s disagreement with Bowron on public housing and Communists in city government, Parker valued the mayor’s dogged commitment to keeping Los Angeles “closed” to the underworld. Parker knew little about Poulson. So he assigned the intelligence division to investigate him. The LAPD quickly uncovered an unsettling connection to Moscow. Soon after arriving in Los Angeles for his meeting with Chandler and his associates, the intelligence division reported, Poulson h
ad checked into a hotel and met with Joe Aidlin, a young attorney with left-wing credentials who had attracted the attention of the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). Although Aidlin and Poulson had very different political leanings, in 1950 Poulson had sponsored private legislation to prevent the deportation of one of Aidlin’s clients to Russia. He had also stepped in to spare an Aidlin client an appearance before HUAC. The following Christmas, Aidlin had given Poulson a small “liquor refrigerator”—price $157.35—from the Hecht’s department store. Poulson also seems to have realized that accepting this gift made him vulnerable. Soon after agreeing to run for mayor, he sent Aidlin a check for the refrigerator. When he came to Los Angeles to meet with Chandler, he arranged to see Aidlin in order to explain why he was paying for this gift. What Poulson didn’t know was that the LAPD’s intelligence division had bugged Poulson’s hotel room and was listening in.
No sooner had Poulson returned to D.C., than news of the “Red” refrigerator broke. Specifically, Poulson stood accused of protecting a suspected Communist from having to testify before HUAC in exchange for “a valuable electric refrigerator.” Armed with his canceled checks that showed he had paid for the refrigerator (and bolstered by supportive coverage from the Times and the Hearst papers), Poulson rode the scandal out. However, his troubles with the LAPD had only begun. Several weeks later, Poulson was approached by an athletic young man (a plainclothes detective) who asked the candidate what he would do about the police department if elected.
