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little-noted advantage to working as a Los Angeles
police officer is that a good, hearty laugh is never far off. Two
weeks ago, I chronicled some of the more amusing aspects of
the political tug-of-war over control of the LAPD. Mayor Richard
Riordan had come to a roll call at the Rampart Division station
and, using the assembled cops as a backdrop while speaking to the
cameras, voiced displeasure with the leadership of the department.
Some of us were so naive as to think this may have been a signal
that he would soon move to unseat LAPD chief Bernard Parks, a man
who is, to understate the matter considerably, unpopular with the
troops. But — and this is where the comedy comes in —
no sooner had I sent off the column to NRO HQ than word came that
Riordan had instead given the gate to Gerald Chaleff, the president
of the police commission. To offer some perspective on the mayor's
action, let us compare it to a tragic event in maritime history,
one with which most are familiar through viewing a popular film
of recent years: Pinning the LAPD's troubles on the president of
the police commission is like blaming a galley steward aboard the
Titanic for that business with the iceberg.
Now, maybe Mr. Chaleff deserved to be given his cards, and maybe
he didn't. I can't comment on his abilities as a police commissioner
because no one in my acquaintance seems to know what the police
commission does, exactly, other than hold the occasional meeting
and get their collective knickers in a twist from time to time.
Until Riordan named him to the post in 1997, Chaleff had been a
defense attorney of modest reputation (he once defended Angelo Buono,
the serial killer known as the "Hillside Strangler"), and as such
seemed an odd choice to be given authority over the LAPD. But it
is fair to say that, until his removal stirred up a minor ballyhoo
in the local press, not one cop in a hundred would have recognized
Gerald Chaleff on the street, not even if he had walked up and said,
"Hi, I'm Gerald Chaleff."
The police commission, you see, although the titular head of the
LAPD, doesn't have much of an impact on the cop on the street. Composed
of civilians with no law-enforcement experience — lawyers and
auto dealers and such — it is more of a detached board of directors
than a day-to-day overseer of the department. It is the LAPD chief
— for the last four years, Bernard Parks — who steers
the department. And it is Bernard Parks who has driven department
into the ditch. Or the iceberg, if you will.
The LAPD is currently about 1,000 officers shy of its authorized
strength of just over 10,000. To keep up with ordinary attrition
the department must recruit and train about eighty officers per
month. But, under Parks, department
| “It
is Bernard Parks who has driven the department into a
ditch.” |
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morale
has dropped so precipitously that tenured officers are leaving earlier
and aspiring candidates are looking elsewhere. The LAPD academy
is running at about 25 percent of optimum capacity, taking on classes
of about forty recruits every other month. And many, many of us
who remain are looking over the fence and waiting for the chance
to jump.
That Parks turned out to be such a spectacular flop as chief came
as no surprise to anyone who witnessed his climb to the top. He
had made his views on employee morale abundantly clear long before
Riordan appointed him to the post. In his way of thinking, we get
our morale on pay day, and if we don't like it we can go somewhere
else. He has said as much on any number of occasions, and it doesn't
seem to bother him in the least that hundreds of cops have gone
off to test the free market. To pick up once more with the Titanic
theme, if Parks had been in command of the doomed liner he would
have ordered the helmsman to bring the ship about and ram that silly
little iceberg a second time, just to show it who's the boss. Indeed,
he would have been barking for everyone to pipe down and get back
to bed until the cold and briny was gushing down his very own gullet.
Beyond all reason, the department's senior command staff has remained
loyal to Parks. Captains, commanders, and deputy chiefs are regularly
dispatched to sell the party line. "Don't dwell on the negative,"
they tell us. "Look at all the good things the chief has done."
"What might those be?" we ask.
"Er, um, well . . ."
In their heart of hearts, these command officers know that Parks's
reign has been a disaster, but they have made their Faustian bargain
and now must live with the consequences. Parks will be out soon
enough, and these men and women will be left to explain themselves
to the increasingly fractious lower ranks — whatever might
remain of us — when that day arrives. If the LAPD of today
were France of 1789, they would soon be hearing the rumble of the
tumbrels.
Yet, even as talented officers resign in droves, those in charge
continue to ignore the problem. Taking the Titanic motif
a step further, let us engage in another exercise of the imagination.
(Judging from the mail, last week's exercise went over quite well.)
You are a passenger on the stricken ship. Or, more properly, a former
passenger, as you have just deposited yourself in the chill waters
of the Atlantic. You are bobbing about wondering what might happen
next when along floats one of the ship's officers. Before going
over the side, he has received over the wireless the latest dispatches
from the White Star offices. "Accentuate the positive," he's been
instructed. "Strive for the repeat business."
"Ah, hello," he says. "Pleasant crossing?"
This seems an odd question under the circumstances, but far be it
from you to be disagreeable. "Up to a point," you say. "I had rather
hoped to continue."
The officer gamely endeavors to steer the conversation away from
the recent unpleasantness. "Lovely evening, what? Ideal for stargazing."
You mull this one over for a moment. "Well," you say, "if forced
to offer an opinion on the present situation based solely on conditions
lending themselves to unimpeded study of the heavens, then, yes,
I would have to agree with you. Lovely evening indeed. Seldom does
one see the Pleiades more luminous. However, when one takes into
account all the relevant facts, that is to say, the recent tumult
involving the ship and her abrupt cessation of westward progress
in favor of what appears to be more of a downward course, then I
must say I've had better."
"Yes, well, sorry for the fuss. We should have her patched up jiffy-quick.
She's unsinkable, you know."
"The evidence would suggest otherwise."
"Come, come now. Don't be a Gloomy Gus."
And then, in her death throes, the vessel's stern rises from the
surface to point skyward, exposing her underside for all to see.
The officer, a loyal White Star man to the last, takes this as an
opportunity to point out some of the ship's heretofore unseen marvels.
"Ah, see the mighty propellers," he says proudly.
"Yes," you say, "mighty. Such a pity they shouldn't have remained
immersed and rotating, propelling all concerned — as propellers
ought--on our way to New York."
He comes to realize that you are a tough sell, and floats off to
pester someone else.
And so it is with the LAPD's command staff. "See the spacious new
stations," they tell us, "the shiny new cars."
Yes, some of us work in spacious new stations, some of us drive
shiny new cars. And how more spacious those stations will seem,
how like-new those cars will remain, when none of us is left to
use them.
(*Jack
Dunphy is the author's nom de cyber. The opinions expressed are
his own and almost certainly do not reflect those of the LAPD management
.)
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