Destination: Morgue!: L.A. Tales Read online

  Public awareness was up now. Awareness meant accountability. Reformer’s zeal was in now. That zap of zeal elected him. He grew up in the Life. It was BIG and circumscribed. He watched the expansion. The dimensions dazzled him.

  The Life. The Office. One force synonymous.

  A thousand prosecutors. Nine hundred support staff. Two hundred and eighty cops. Thirty-nine regional offices. Thirty-nine specialty divisions. The whole downtown octopus.

  Expansion—concurrent with rising crime stats. The Life meets the Life in proximity propitious.

  You side with justice. You see the Other Life revealed. You touch the dirt. You feel it. The slip into slime fuels you ambiguously. It’s delirious dispensation. It’s the perverse perk of peeking into purgatory. It reinstills resolve. It’s a salutary salary deincentive. Defense lawyers outearn you. The Life lets you laugh and not care.

  You help victims. You punish wrongdoers. You poke through their shit. The Life taxed you and tweaked you, vexed you and vamped you, nudged you and nailed you nonplussed.

  Cooley knew why.

  It was the truth biz. You had to love it.

  OLSON-SOLIAH PISSED BACKWARDS. He shitcanned Rampart.

  Halloween day—she pleads guilty. She stays free on bail. The judge sets sentencing for 12/7. Possible term: 20 to life. Possible 5-year parole.

  She pleads guilty. She splits the courtroom. She sees reporters outside. She says she’s not guilty. She blames 9/11. I can’t get a fair trial. Antiterrorist fervor, oh yuck!

  Outrageous.

  Unacceptable.

  Cooley’s DDAs responded. Michael Latin fumed. Eleanor Hunter said, “She’s either lying in court or lying outside court to save face.”

  The judge called a hearing. It occurred 11/6. The judge lectured Olson-Soliah. “A guilty plea is not a waystation on the way to a press conference.”

  Olson-Soliah whined up 9/11. The judge asked her straight: “Do you wish your plea to stand?” Olson-Soliah paused. Olson-Soliah said, “Yes.”

  Cut to 11/15. Olson-Soliah proffers a sealed motion. It’s unsealed and read. Olson-Soliah boomerangs. She wants to retract her plea.

  “After deeper reflection, I realized I cannot plead guilty when I know I am not.

  “Cowardice prevented me from doing what I should: throw caution aside and move to trial.”

  The judge set a hearing for 11/28. The judge postponed it to 12/3. The judge rejected the motion. His Honor Larry Paul Fidler, succinct: “She pled guilty because she is guilty.”

  Boom—sentencing on 1/18. DDA Latin, succinct: “It’s time to face the music.”

  L.A. music. Johnny Justice and the Karma Kings—’70s rock. Potential upstate music—the Carmichael job.

  Olson-Soliah dodged bullets. Cooley dodged some and caught some. Cooley shut off Rampart.

  He held a press gig. Chief Parks and Sheriff Baca stood by. He announced his filing declinations. He’d signed 15. He might sign 30 more. He stressed Rampart’s limits. Perez and his unit stood culpable. Trials and sentencing concluded/appeals in progress. Case closed beyond that.

  There’s no “endemic” LAPD corruption. Don’t indulge witch hunts.

  He stressed his Integrity Division. He detailed some new protocols. We roll out. We move on cop-misconduct charges. We probe. We prosecute valid beefs. Look for us—all officer-involved shootings/all custody deaths.

  Fifty Rampart-related cases—dumped by New Year’s. No new filings predicted. It just wasn’t there.

  Rampart—adios, motherfucker.

  He got some praise. He took some hits. He tapped some long-term exhaustion. The conspiracy press fricasseed him.

  Cooley the Cop Collusive. Colluder Cooley Culls Contacts. Cop Curtain Curtails Probe. Will Wicked Whitewash Wither Righteous Reformer’s Prestige?

  You can’t control public perception. Shit—it just wasn’t there.

  Some defense lawyers responded. The corrosive chorus continued. It was “one huge look the other way.”

  No, we looked. We ran a Roto-Rooter ream stick through Rampart. It just wasn’t—

  Fuck it. It’s fall in L.A.—some sunshine, some rain. Olson-Soliah dips to her destiny. The Cold Case Squad is setting up. Prospects prickle priapic. Ouch—prime those killers for some pain.

  AUTHORITY MEETS JUSTICE. He grew up with the dream. Silver Lake—catch the view now to then.

  The hills near downtown. Close to Chavez Ravine. Authority spawns injustice. Power dudes evict poor Chicanos. Power dudes build Dodger Stadium.

  He grew up Catholic. Chief Parker went to his church. Parker was a reformer. Cooley knew it then. Parker kiboshed LAPD corruption. Parker was a lush. Wags called him “Whiskey Bill.” Parker got drunk. Parker defamed Negroes. Parker pulled asshole stunts. Cooley did not know it then.

  Cooley’s dad was a Fed. Dad admired J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover collected pornography and dirty surveillance pix. Dad did not know it then. Likewise Cooley.

  Silver Lake was half-ass diverse. White squares ruled. Homosexuals and Mexicans goosed the body count. Silver Lake was hilly. Wags called it the “Swish Alps.” Nobody called J. Edgar “Gay” Edgar.

  A good kids’ place. Dig the hills and terrace views. Grow up illusioned. Disillusion right. Stretch out the process.

  Cooley did it. He scored in school. He played kid sports. He sold the L.A. Herald. The Herald ran crime extras. Cooley hawked copies. Crime—the young lawyer’s primer.

  The Finch-Tregoff case. Caryl Chessman and the green room. The hot seat and J. Miller Leavy.

  The Herald flogged the Spade Cooley snuff. Spade was a country fiddler. Spade and Steve were no kin. Spade was a hophead. Spade whacked his wife. She wanted to join a sex cult. Spade got mighty pissed.

  Kids kidded Cooley. Spade had slit-eyes. Chinamen were Cooleys. Where’s your rickshaw, Steve?

  Crime scratched his skin. A prick—no big flesh wound. His life was full. School, four siblings, church. ’60s tsuris bored him. His world was secure. The world at large should be. Dad was a Fed. There was a stable path. It brought joy and fulfillment.

  He took it.

  He graduated Loyola High. He entered Cal State L.A. Cal State ran no-frills. Cal State had a low rebellion quotient. He nursed a political urge. He ran for student body veep and got elected. The prexy got drafted. Cooley made prez.

  He was the Man—some squaresville youth version. He was a groovy youth figurehead. He confronted some radicals. He helped quash some half-baked revolt. The law scraped his skin. This flesh wound hurt. He applied to USC Law School. He got in. Let’s train for the truth biz.

  We’ll learn theory and statutes. We’ll learn to think legalistically. Let’s learn to lasso the truth.

  He studied. He gorged on test cases. He choked up minutiae. Law school—the Life writ small.

  He honed his truth skills. It juked his appetite. He drooled for more adventure. It was ’72. He doubled his workload. He joined the LAPD Reserves.

  LAPD—the Life writ bigggg.

  He took academy classes. He logged 264 hours. He augmented his law-school skills. He was young, dumb, and full of cum. Give me jeopardy and peril. Give me a black-and-white. Give me a badge and a gun.

  They did. He got Newton Division—ruff, tuff, and non-Caucasian. He worked 3 to 6 shifts a month. He worked Saturday nites. He saw a gunshot victim bleed out on a pool table. The cat took one in the aorta. The cat’s eyes pulsed and flatlined.

  Newton kicked the youth out of him. He got in fights. He broke up fights. He rolled code 3. He read law texts. He popped his street cherry. He inhaled legal gobbledygook. He saw horror up close. He got used to it. The SLA pulled their shit. It was calamitous nonsense. He got no pinch-me portents of distant destiny.

  He rigged a plan. He culled contingencies. Plan 1: Pass the bar. Plan 1-A: Become a Deputy D.A. Plan 2: Fail the bar. Join the Feds or go full-time LAPD.

  Good plans. Lashed to his life sense and wrapped in his roots. He was 26. He was disillusioned. His ideals stood int
act. He was book-schooled and street-smart and tricked out to try the truth biz.

  He aced the bar exam. The D.A. needed prosecutors. Plans 1 and 1-A played out plenty good.

  COOLEY WORKED. The ’70s sizzled. The decade featured big hair and self-forfeit. Self-absorption reigned. L.A. was stoned. Criminals rapped sadness. Don’t lock me up/help me adjust/I need rehabilitation.

  It hindered truth detection. It made Cooley think. It made him weigh mitigation. It buttressed the truth as absolute standard. It undermined the truth as knowable up front.

  It honed his shit sniffer. It taught him to gauge forfeit per person. It expanded his cop context. He moved past suspects and victims and fast patrol encounters. He whipped past his own white-ass world and Negrofied Newton. He read case law. He took specific fact patterns. He abstracted them. He revised them to fit breaking cases. He met diverse suspects and victims. He added witnesses and families in duress. He studied. He interviewed. He talked to cops cop-to-cop and cop-to-cop lawyer. He prepped for court. He plea-bargained. He litigated. He weighed his native rectitude against a growing compassion.

  He learned. He lived the Life. He tried for the truth. The truth tricked him and trapped him. There’s knowing the truth. There’s proving the truth. There’s the truth obscured by baffling fact patterns. There’s forfeit fueled by traumatic circumstances. There’s forfeit as furious fuck-up. The truth triumphs, the truth eludes, the truth preys on principles that protect the guilty. Every day/every case/every courtroom deal and judgment—simple truth, two-sided truth, truth misunderstood.

  Misdemeanors, felonies, dope cases, assaults, burglary-robbery. Case law, plea deals, referrals, sentencing, justice. The Life socked it to him. Some trail of truth got him through.

  He met a woman. They courted and married. Two kids followed. His career advanced. The Life and the Office—one force synonymous.

  He toured the County. He wrote a dope-seizure text. He worked regional outposts. He ran Antelope Valley. He nailed a rape-o for a hundred years plus. Bam—the longest single-victim rape sentence ever. Truth-serving and well deserved.

  Steve Cooley in his LAPD uniform in 1975. He served as a reserve officer for the Newton Street Division from 1972 to 1978. (Photo courtesy of Steve Cooley)

  Commendations accrued. Ding me with dinners and ply me with plaques. He litigated. He won in court. He forged friendships with fellow Lifers. D.A.s came and went. He studied Joe Busch, John Van de Kamp, Bob Philibosian, Ira Reiner, and Gil Garcetti. He ran San Fernando Valley. Said office was huge. Its size equivalence stunned. He tried special-circs murders. The Laurie Myles case went down. Cooley was on it.

  It was a three-punk/four-month nightmare. It shocked the Valley. Two murders/three woundings/thirty robberies. They shot Laurie Myles in her car. Her young son watched. They parked outside a church. Her daughter was at Bible-study class.

  LAPD got the punks. Cooley put them away. Two life-without-paroles. One 38-year jolt.

  The truth—sometimes simple. Ask “Gas Chamber” Leavy. The Simpson-Goldman snuffs occurred. Cooley watched the upscut. Gil Garcetti was D.A. Garcetti tried the case downtown. The jury pool favored O.J. O.J. walked. It was an outrage. Cooley caught the upshot.

  The Office lost face. Public support dwindled. The office got shivved in the shorts. Garcetti got reelected. He won by a pubic-hair margin.

  Cooley supported Garcetti’s opponent. Cooley got punished and transferred downtown. He took over Welfare Fraud. It was a demotion and a shaft job.

  He worked downtown. He saw Lifer discontent. He saw cop discontent. He saw public discontent mucho close.

  He worked his shaft gig. He caught anti-Garcetti vibes. Rampart broke. Garcetti fumbled it. Gilded Gil glitched out. He had no system. He had no way to look/learn/listen/collate and cull.

  The Belmont scandal broke. Let’s rebuild Belmont Hi. Let’s rename it a “Learning Center.” Let’s build on some choice downtown land.

  But—

  The land’s faulty. It’s fucking toxic. It’s environmentally fucked. Taxpayer millions—gone already. It’s a city contract. It reeks of collusion. It howls and stirs questions up.

  Where’s the truth? Where’s Gil Garcetti?

  Cooley extrapolated. Cooley ran fact patterns and flowcharts. Cooley countered current controversies in his head. Cooley got this idea. It was quixotic and Jimmy Carter-esque.

  I’ll run for D.A. I’ll defeat the incumbent. I’ll win.

  He gauged the public mood. He sensed truth fiends out there. He sniffed shit in the spiritus mundi.

  O.J. walks. Clinton walks. Rampart rages. Belmont Hi is Jack Webb’s alma mater. Jack ran for class prez. Jack won insurgent. Time trucks then to now. Circa ’38 meets 2000. Insurgency runs in waves. It’s yesterday once more.

  He talked to his family. They said GO. He talked to aides and colleagues. They concurred.

  He started early. He leaked word in spring ’99. He put up a Web site. He hired a consultant. He beat potential candidates timewise. He glommed key-opponent status fast.

  The media scoffed. Cooley hammered Gil Garcetti.

  Garcetti sets up a Trademark Infringement Unit. Garcetti gets campaign cash from Guess? jeans first. A Garcetti backer’s son hits the shitter. Garcetti reduces the beef.

  The Life. Dig the traditions. Challenge your boss. Hold your job concurrent.

  More challengers cliqued up. Cooley quashed their momentum. They came and went. Barry Groveman stayed. Formal announcements/fund-raisers/media brouhaha. ’99 hits 2000.

  March 7—the runoff election. A 50% plurality chills it. If Gil gets 50, Steve’s fucked.

  Cooley’s a Republican. Garcetti’s a Democrat. L.A. runs Democrat biiiiig. Garcetti paints Cooley as a manic malcontent. Garcetti infers right-wing nut and gun freak. Cooley brings up Lockheed.

  Dig:

  It’s ’96. Garcetti runs for reelection. The D.A.’s Office taps the County supervisors. Let’s pay Lockheed 2.5 million. Let them run our child-support computer system.

  Post hoc, ergo propter hoc:

  Lockheed lobs Garcetti campaign cash. The envelope arrives a month on.

  The clock clicked. Tick, tock to March 7. Cooley picked up endorsements. Garcetti and Cooley culled campaign cash. Garcetti looks like a Latin lover. Cooley’s the “blue collar” call. It’s disingenuously dunned—but it works.

  Cooley hammered Gilded Gil.

  Guess? jeans. Lockheed. The O.J. malaise as subversive subtext. Belmont. The Three Strikes Law—noxious nightmare. Garcetti supports it. Garcetti hurls hypocrisy. Garcetti has a supporter. His grandson stands on strike 3. Garcetti shoots him 16 months. That’s inconsistent. It’s mandatory life per strike 3.

  Garcetti denied Lockheed. Garcetti tried to trim the timeline in his favor. Garcetti spoke through a consultant. The consultant called Cooley “a traditional disgruntled-employee candidate.” Such people “always make a mistake of thinking the public wants to hear their laundry list of exaggerated attacks.”

  Laundry list, shit. No tickee, no washee. I’m no Chinaman, but I’m a Cooley.

  The list lurked and lingered. Cooley complemented it. He sent off salvos of solutions. He launched them lawyerly. They were complex and commonsensical. Mr. Blue Collar blurred into Policy Pete.

  It’s March 7. L.A. County votes. Groveman: 330,429/25%. Garcetti: 504,098/37%. Cooley: 509,750/38%.

  No plurality. We fight to November.

  They did. Cooley had the momentum. Cooley built more momentum. Cooley grew from burly to stately.

  Garcetti’s attacks atrophied. Cooley opposes Three Strikes. Bullshit—I want proportionality. I’m not passive on public scandals—Gil, don’t shit me.

  Cooley got the endorsements. The L.A. Times/the cop unions/ the L.A. Weekly. Ex-D.A.s stumped for Steve. The constituency confounded. Cooley wrapped up the right and lured in the left. Grassroots gravitas grabbed them. The man magnetized.

  Garcetti got desperate. He did ethnic shtick. Amigos y amigas, love me Latin
ate—my blood blends with you. He placed smear ads. They kicked off with “Republican Steve Cooley.” The “Republican” rip rolled no ripples. Cooley rode a nonpartisan roll.

  He debated Garcetti. They fought fifteen times. They jabbed. They inveighed invective. Cooley’s record—deconstructed/distorted /revised. Gun control/Three Strikes/Guess? jeans/Lockheed. Slick versus burly cum stately. You’re soft on crime/no, you are— middle-aged malice and a sandbox-shenanigan show.

  It was overkill. It delayed and postponed. It fucked with the foregone conclusion.

  People loved Steve Cooley. It was genuflectingly genuine. He hit the clear chord of you and me. He did it honestly and naturally and effortlessly.

  He won huge. Pinch me—you’re the D.A.

  THAT WAS NOVEMBER 2000. Cut to now—1/2002.

  Cooley trekked floor 18. He touched wall cracks. He turf-marked. He rehashed recent rebop.

  The Times tainted him. Reformer’s first year—few highs, few lows. Joe Scott prestaged them. Joe released a memo. It ran 31 bullet points. It ran down Year One in detail.

  Cold cases to hate crimes. Belmont to Rampart. Anticorruption to immigrant fraud.

  The Times piece hit first. The memo stats ran piecemeal. The Times got more cluck for the buck.

  The truth was a game. Politics taught him. The truth was a moral must and a shuck.

  The Blake job—unresolved. The Cold Case Squad—looking tuff. That Armenian hit job promised progress. Rick Jackson and Tim Marcia rode it rough.

  Rampart rang on rancorous. The conspiracy nuts won’t give up. The Public Integrity Division blew a case. Conflict of interest—you’re out of the box.

  The truth gets trashed sometimes. You’re the Man now. You take the shots.

  The truth plays schizzy. Learn from it. Light some candles. Light one for Gilded Gil Garcetti.

  Cooley touched wall cracks. Subordinates said hi. They all called him “Boss” and “Steve.”

  He crashed at his orgy desk. There’s the view. Sip coffee and put your feet up.

  The truth liberates. The truth vindicates. The truth kicks in late.

  Sacramento moved on Carmichael. Then to now—26 years plus.