by John Buntin
Half an hour later, the looting resumed. Rioters no longer felt they had to wait for the cover of night to act. By 9 a.m. looters were emptying the commercial sections of Watts along 103rd Street and north on Central Avenue. Chief Parker spoke with Mayor Yorty soon thereafter. Both men agreed that it was time to call in the Guard. Yet oddly, Mayor Yorty then left Los Angeles for a previously scheduled speaking arrangement in San Francisco.
At 9:45 a.m., Parker convened an emergency staff meeting to discuss the situation. A liaison for the National Guard was present. In the course of the meeting, Chief Parker indicated that he expected the department would need one thousand Guardsmen to restore order. Yet not until 10:50 a.m. did Parker call Governor Brown’s executive secretary to formally request the Guard. But Governor Brown was still in Greece. The person who did have the authority to call out the Guard was Lieutenant Governor Anderson, and Anderson was unreachable, in transit to Berkeley.
Speed was of the essence. By midmorning, police estimates put the size of the mob rampaging through the commercial section of Watts at three thousand. Ambulance drivers and firefighters were refusing to enter the area without armed escorts, escorts the undermanned LAPD could not provide. At that very moment, the 850-man strong Third Brigade of the National Guard was marshaling twelve miles away in Long Beach, in preparation for a weekend of training exercises at Camp Roberts near Santa Barbara. The brigade was fully armed and could have deployed to Watts in an hour’s time. If the Third Brigade proceeded on to Santa Barbara instead, they would be two and a half hours away from the city.
At 11 a.m., Governor Brown’s executive secretary finally reached Lieutenant Governor Anderson in Berkeley and relayed Chief Parker’s request for the Guard. Still Anderson hesitated. He did not trust Bill Parker. Instead of acting on the chief’s request or contacting National Guard officers in Los Angeles for an independent assessment of the situation, Anderson decided that he would return to Los Angeles to see the situation for himself. A National Guard plane was dispatched to Oakland to pick him up. From there he flew to Sacramento for a further round of consultations with state Guard officials. At 1:35 p.m., he left for Los Angeles. By the time he arrived at 3:30, rioters were turning their attention to burning the buildings they had emptied out. Sniper fire kept away the fire trucks. By now, the police had ceded the neighborhood to the mob. Photographs show officers watching while looters stroll out of stores carrying new appliances.
But Parker’s police weren’t worried about public relations. The looting had drifted north, to Broadway. By late afternoon, it was clear that the rioting threatened the downtown area if not the city as a whole.
That’s when Chief Parker left for the weekend.
The LAPD had a policy. Every weekend on a rotating basis, one of the deputy chiefs took over as the duty chief, with primary responsibility for running the department. That weekend, duty chief responsibility fell to deputy chief Harold Sullivan, who commanded the traffic division. With uncontained rioting threatening the central city, this might have seemed like a bad weekend to shift responsibility for running the department to one of the deputy chiefs. But Bill Parker was by then a sick man. The job had aged him—ravaged him really. And on the afternoon of Friday, August 13, as a large swath of his city was going up in flames, Chief Parker felt bad. When Sullivan went to Parker and asked the chief what he wanted to do about the weekend, he replied, “You take care of things.” Then Bill Parker went home.
The LAPD was now Harold Sullivan’s to command.
Sullivan was a traffic guy. He thought in terms of freeways, and he understood how they bifurcated the city in terms of race and class. Two were particularly important. The first was the Harbor Freeway. Built during the 1950s to connect downtown Los Angeles to the port at San Pedro, the Harbor Freeway sliced through the westernmost edge of the African American neighborhoods of Watts. To the west of the Harbor Freeway was the more affluent (and whiter) neighborhood of Crenshaw, as well as (farther north) the cynosure of Los Angeles’s gilded youth, the exclusive University of Southern California. To the east was the ghetto. As a result, living west of the 110 soon became a highly desirable goal—and a sign of success—for African American Angelenos.
The other important freeway was the Santa Monica Freeway (then an unnamed spur of interstate 110), which ran west from downtown Los Angeles to Santa Monica. As a socioeconomic barrrier, “the 10” was even more significant. To the north lay Los Angeles’s most affluent neighborhoods and municipalities—Hancock Park, Beverly Hills, Brentwood. These were the homes of the white elite. South of the 10 was the city of the working class. Sullivan recognized that the freeway was not just a class or racial barrier. It was also a massive concrete wall. The Harbor Freeway was indefensible, punctuated as it was by dozens of over-and underpasses. The Santa Monica Freeway was different. Sullivan quickly calculated that between downtown and Beverly Hills, only a small number of underpasses connected south Los Angeles to the affluent neighborhoods to the north. He dispatched a contingent of reserve traffic officers to those critical underpasses, with firm instructions to seal them off and let no one through. California Highway Patrol officers soon arrived, to reinforce the blockades. The rich northern part of the city was now safe. As for Watts and Central Avenue, until the National Guard arrived, there was nothing authorities felt they could do. They were left to burn.
Soon after arriving in Los Angeles, Lieutenant Governor Anderson spoke to Hale Champion, the state finance director back in Sacramento. Champion was aghast at what was unfolding. Moreover, he had gotten through to Governor Brown in Athens. Brown felt the Guard should be called out at once and that the possibility of a citywide curfew should be seriously considered. He also told Champion that he was flying back to California immediately. Spurred by this piece of news, Anderson finally decided to call out the Guard. At four o’clock, he announced the decision to the press. An hour later, he finally signed the proclamation. By six, 1,300 guardsmen had assembled in the local armories. By seven, they were en route to two local staging areas. Yet not until 10 p.m. would the first Guardsmen actually be deployed.
Remarkably, no one had died during the first two days of rioting in Watts. That changed Friday night. Sometime between six and seven, the first resident of Watts died, an African American caught in the crossfire between police and looters. He would not be the last.
Friday night brought something no American city had ever seen before: a full-scale urban war, one in which firemen and ambulances were fair game. Snipers repeatedly opened fire on the hundred-odd engine companies that were fighting fires in the area. That night, a fireman was crushed and killed by a falling wall. As the shooting intensified, the dying began. At six thirty, twenty-one-year-old Leon Watson was gunned down, standing outside a barbershop. Two hours later, a deputy sheriff was fatally shot with his own gun while struggling with three suspects. The killing came quickly now. One hour later an unarmed Watts resident was killed by police outside a liquor store. Three unarmed companions were wounded. The next civilian died three minutes later. The next, two minutes after that. And so it went. The streets of Watts were washed with blood.
Desperate to restore order, police officers and sheriff’s department deputies joined with more than a thousand Guardsmen, on foot, to sweep the streets. By 3 a.m., some 3,300 Guardsmen had been deployed. Yet still the violence raged. Throughout the night, hundreds of reports of snipers firing on the police were called into the 77th Street station. Not until the following evening, when Lieutenant Governor Anderson imposed an eight o’clock curfew on a forty-six-square-mile area of South Los Angeles and more than 13,000 National Guardsmen had deployed, was order restored. That Sunday, Chief Parker reappeared on the airwaves. His presence was not helpful. An attempt to assert that authorities had regained control—“Now we’re on top and they’re on the bottom”—was misinterpreted by many as an endorsement of white supremacy. Not until Tuesday morning was the curfew lifted. More than a thousand people had been wounded and treated in a
rea hospitals. Thirty-four people had died during the rioting. Nearly four thousand people had been arrested. Six hundred buildings had been damaged by looting and fire, primarily grocery stores, liquor stores, furniture shops, clothing stores, and pawnshops (which seem to have been targeted primarily as repositories for guns). Some 261 buildings were totally destroyed. But as the fires died down, a new conflict flared up. At issue was the question of who was to blame.
TO GROUPS like the NAACP, the ACLU, SNCC, and others on the left, responsibility clearly rested with Chief Parker, Sam Yorty, and the Los Angeles power structure. Community organizer Saul Alinksy recommended that both Parker and Cardinal McIntyre—“that unchristian, prehistoric muttonhead”—be removed. As the embers of Watts still burned, Dr. Martin Luther King arrived in Los Angeles, where he criticized the Parker/Yorty administration and described the riots as “a sort of blind and misguided revolt against the nation and authority.”* King’s critical yet conciliatory comments were not welcomed. Governor Brown described King’s visit as “untimely.” African American Angelenos were hardly more welcoming. At a meeting in Westminster, he was heckled by the predominantly black crowd. One member of the crowd stood up and said that the community needed “people like Parker and Yorty down here—not Dr. King. They’re the ones responsible for what’s going on.”
King agreed and promised to do everything he could to get the mayor and the police chief to attend a meeting, adding, “I know you will be courteous to them.” The crowd laughed. Neither Yorty nor Parker had set foot in Watts since the riots.
Still, King tried to follow through on his promise. Mayor Yorty was not receptive. In a closed-door meeting, Yorty excoriated the civil rights leader for daring to mention “lawlessness, killing, looting, and burning in the same context as our police department.” He also rejected the idea of a civilian police review board. King left Los Angeles shaken by white obstinacy and by the rise of a new black militancy.
To Mayor Sam Yorty and Chief Parker, the cause of the riots was clear—and had nothing to do with King’s psychological mumbo jumbo. The quick spread of Molotov cocktails, the inflammatory printed handbills that appeared in Watts on Thursday, the reports of men addressing the crowds with bullhorns, the movements of youths in cars through areas of great destruction—Parker felt like everything pointed to the involvement of the Communist Party, the Black Muslims, or both. Parker did not believe that radicals had started the violence; he did believe that they had moved into a chaotic situation and made it immeasurably worse. His department, with its vaunted intelligence apparatus, had not failed. Instead, they had engaged with a deadly foe. Even as the violence on the street wound down, the LAPD prepared to hit back.
At 2 a.m. on the morning of August 18, just days after the violence had finally subsided, the LAPD launched an all-out attack on what it saw as the epicenter of the violence—the Muslim Temple at 5606 South Broadway, headquarters for the Los Angeles chapter of the Nation of Islam. The ostensible cause of the raid was an early-morning anonymous phone call to Newton Division, claiming that the Black Muslims were stockpiling weapons. As the police were breaking down the door, they came under fire—or so they later claimed. Officers later explained that “pellets” had started “pounding” their cars. So the police opened fire. In all, somewhere between five hundred and a thousand rounds of ammunition slammed into the two-story stucco structure. Eventually, the occupants of the Temple signaled that they were ready to surrender. Fifty-nine Nation of Islam members were arrested. No guns were found. Three weeks later, a judge blamed the incident on the LAPD’s “imagination” and dismissed charges against the nineteen men charged with felony offenses. When African American councilman Billy Mills demanded that Parker come before the council to explain the raid, Parker refused, saying, “I suggest he read the City Charter and find out what his powers and limitations are.”
The following day, the Los Angeles Times noted with evident satisfaction that the “taboo” on white men entering the Temple “had been broken.” The paper further reported that while no guns had been found, the temple was full of seditious literature, including hundreds of leaflets that provocatively read, “Stop Police Brutality.” Police actions only bolstered the Black Muslims’ standing. Soon thereafter, Marquette Frye, the young man whose stop had sparked the Watts riots, joined the Nation of Islam.
THE STREETS of Watts weren’t the only place where the LAPD went on the offensive. During the riots, the ailing chief had at times withdrawn from command decisions. However, he had kept up a busy schedule of television appearances, during which he forcefully criticized the rioters and defended the department. Now that the riots were over, Parker was ferocious in defending his men’s performance and his own legacy. Instead of sulking or hiding, he launched a media blitz.
Watts was not a failure of the department, the chief insisted. What had happened was a bad Highway Patrol stop on a hot day that gave the Communist Party and its allies the opening they had long hoped for. It did not matter that the men with the bullhorns were later identified as members of local community groups or that the cars moving with suspicious ease through the combat zone almost certainly contained gang members, not Communist Party organizers. The LAPD had not failed. Nor had Chief William Parker. He had not missed black Los Angeles’s anger and alienation. On the contrary, Chief Parker maintained that Watts had proved him right.
As evidence of a large conspiracy failed to turn up, Chief Parker turned to another explanation—one that emphasized black migration, the civil rights movement, and mass psychology. He was not shy about making his case. “A great deal of the courage of these rioters was based on the continuous attacks of civil rights organizations on the police,” declared Parker on CBS Reports later that month.
“They’re attempting to reach these groups … by catering to their emotions,” declared Parker (an emotional man who had no patience for that quality in others). “‘You’re dislocated, you’re abandoned; you’re abused due to color,’” Parker continued, mimicking and mocking the attitudes of civil rights supporters. The civil rights movement had unleashed the virus of civil disobedience—the belief that people “don’t have to obey the law because the law is unjust.” At the same time, a huge surge of black migration had “flooded a community that wasn’t prepared to meet them.” (Parker didn’t hide his own feelings about the matter: “We didn’t want these people to come in,” he told the panel.)* Both factors laid the foundations for the uprising. One thing was for certain: The LAPD was not to blame.
“I think we are almost sadistic in the way we’re trying to punish ourselves over this thing without realizing what we have destroyed is a sense of responsibility for our own actions,” continued Chief Parker. “We have developed a shallow materialist society where everyone is a victim of their environment and are therefore not to be blamed for anything…. If you want to continue to live in that society, good luck to you.”
On August 29, Parker appeared on Meet the Press, the most respected of the Sunday news shows. There he faced off against host Lawrence Spivak and journalists from NBC News, Time, and the Washington Post. The questioning was polite—Parker was introduced as the most respected law enforcement officer in the United States, after J. Edgar Hoover—but pointed. Parker was asked about the causes of the riots, the lack of black officers on the force, and the persistent allegations of police abuse against minorities. His responses were unyielding. The rioting was sparked by a botched arrest by the California Highway Patrol. The LAPD had only a handful of Negro lieutenants because it was hard to find qualified Negroes willing to work in such an underpaid, underappreciated profession. Isolated verbal abuse of minorities was perhaps a problem, but so was the fact that eight hundred of his officers had been physically assaulted in the performance of their duties during the course of the previous year.
The response to these appearances was overwhelmingly positive. Parker claimed that in the weeks following the riots and his media appearances, he received 125,000 telegrams and
letters—“ninety-nine percent of them favorable.” The city council, the American Legion, the Downtown Businessmen’s Association—virtually every major interest group in the city rushed to proclaim its admiration for Los Angeles’s indispensable chief of police.
CALIFORNIA Governor Pat Brown begged to differ. By 1965, Brown was an old foe of Parker’s, having clashed repeatedly with him over wiretaps, capital punishment, and other criminal justice issues. Brown suspected that frustration over discrimination and high unemployment was behind the riots, not Communist agitators or some spreading malaise of lawlessness. On August 19, he appointed an independent commission, the Governor’s Commission on the Los Angeles Riots, headed by former director of Central Intelligence John McCone, to examine the cause and course of the riots. Brown charged the commission with delivering a thorough report as quickly as possible. The commission heard directly from more than seventy-nine witnesses; its staff interviewed hundreds of people, including ninety arrested during the riots. Twenty-six consult ants queried another ten thousand people.
The testimony of many of the African Americans who appeared before the commission and Chief Parker, Police Commission president John Ferraro, and Mayor Yorty was strikingly at odds. Witnesses such as councilman Tom Bradley and state assemblyman Mervyn Dymally expressed some sympathy for the plight of law enforcement officers attempting to patrol a dangerous ghetto. Yet they also insisted that the LAPD was both too slow to enforce the law in black neighborhoods and, when it did act, too often did so disrespectfully—sometimes even brutally. Negroes, testified Assemblyman Dymally, “generally expected the worst from police and got it.”
