Tragedy Tomorrow, Comedy Tonight
The latest episode of L.A. Follies, a continuing series.

Mr. Dunphy* is an officer of the Los Angeles Police Department
February 20, 2001 1:15 p.m.

ne 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 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 .)